Leslie Charteris - The Saint in Europe

It was a quaintly professorial and almost pedantic speech, even to the Latin quotation at the end, of the type that frequently made Mr Inverest an easy butt for the more ribald type of political heckling, but his handling of it gave it an austere dignity.

Inspector Buono shrugged helplessly.

They went into an office. The Saint’s personal belongings were returned, and a paper was drawn up.

“Your Excellency will have to sign this,” Buono said, with ill-concealed disapproval. “I have to protect myself. And I hope your Excellency knows what he is doing.”

“I accept full responsibility,” Inverest said, taking out his pen.

Simon watched the signature with the feeling of being at an international conference.

“You’re a really big man, sir,” he said, with a sincere respect which came strangely from him. “Not many people would be capable of giving a ready-made devil like me his due, in a situation like this. Certainly not the average small-time cop.”

Buono scowled.

“ Damnant quod non intelligunt ,” Inverest said wryly. “It’s part of my job to be some sort of judge of human nature. Besides, I have access to special information. I checked on your record in Washington by telephone while we were waiting for you to come to. I talked to the man who was in charge of the OSS section you worked for during the last war.”

“Hamilton?”

“He gave you quite a remarkable reference.”

Simon lighted a cigarette. He had almost forgotten the throbbing in his head, and his brain was starting to feel normal again.

“I wish I could be some use to you now,” he said sympathetically. “I liked your daughter a lot... If I’d only had the least idea who she was, I might have been a little on guard. But there wasn’t any reason for me to be suspicious of anyone who came near us. How come she was running around on her own like that, without any kind of protection? Or does that question embarrass Inspector Buono?”

“A special escort was provided for Miss Inverest,” Buono said coldly. “But she gave them the slip. Deliberately, I am told.”

“There was a young fellow detailed by the Embassy to take her around, too,” Inverest said, “and she stood him up. Sue’s always been like that. She hates the VIP treatment. Getting away from Secret Service men and all that sort of thing is just like playing hookey from school to her. She says she just wants to get around on her own and see things like any ordinary girl. I can’t really blame her. I couldn’t be telling her all the time what special danger she might be in.”

“Do you have some idea what the special danger might be right now?” Simon asked.

“Unfortunately, I do. In fact, I know it.”

Inverest took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. That mechanical movement was the first break in his Spartan self-control, the first outward betrayal of the desperate anxiety that must have been eating his insides.

“Does the name Mick Unciello mean anything to you?”

“I read all the crime news,” said the Saint, with a slight smile. “He was the official executioner of the Midwestern crime syndicate. The FBI finally got the goods on him, and he was sentenced to the chair some time ago.”

“His final appeal to the Supreme Court was rejected last week.”

“The Supreme Court can collect a bouquet from me.”

“Now, do you remember the name Tony Unciello?”

“Yes. He was the vice lord in the same syndicate. The FBI didn’t do so well with him, but they were able to get him deported — I think that was in 1948.”

“Mick Unciello, of course, is the younger brother of Tony. And Tony is here in Italy.”

“It begins to figure,” said the Saint quietly.

“Nothing can save Mick Unciello’s life now except the personal intervention of the President,” Inverest said in his dry schoolmasterish voice. “That, of course, is unthinkable. But it may be quite another matter to convince Tony that my influence would not be enough to bring it about.”

“Is this something more than a fast guess on your part?”

“Oh, yes,” said the Secretary wearily. “I’ve already had a telephone call from a person claiming to be Tony Unciello, and I have no reason to doubt its authenticity. He said that unless Mick Unciello is reprieved, Sue would die too — but more slowly.”

Simon Templar drew at his cigarette, holding it with fingers that were almost self-consciously steady. The naturally devil-may-care lines of his strong reckless face might never have known laughter. He faced the set-up in all its naked ugliness. A memory of Sue Inverest’s gay clean-limbed confident youth slid across his mind, and his stomach curled again momentarily.

Then his eyes went to the sleek Inspector.

“But if it’s as open as all that,” he said, “why haven’t you picked up Tony Unciello?”

“It is not so easy,” Buono said stonily. “Unciello has dropped out of sight since several days. You understand, there was nothing against him here, so he is not watched all the time. Now, he cannot be found. We look for him, of course, but it is not a simple matter of going to his apartment. He is hiding.”

“And you haven’t any idea where to look.”

“It is not made easy for us.”

“What Inspector Buono isn’t saying,” Inverest put in, “is that the Unciellos are both members of the Mafia. Tony himself is reputed to be one of the very top men. Perhaps you don’t know what a stranglehold that terroristic secret society has on this country. Nobody knows how many members there are, but at least three-quarters of the population are scared to death of them. If a man of Unciello’s class wants to disappear, there are thousands who would help to hide him, and literally millions who wouldn’t betray him if they knew where he was.”

The Saint took another long drag at his cigarette. He tilted his head back and exhaled the smoke in a trickle of seemingly inexhaustible duration, watching it with rapt lazy-lidded blue eyes.

“Just the same,” he said, “I think I know how to find him.”

It was as if he had hit them with a paralysis ray out of some science-fiction story. Hudson Inverest stiffened where he sat. Inspector Buono made one sharp jerky movement and then froze.

“Do you mean you know more about this man than you’ve told us?” Inverest said.

Simon nodded.

“Funny things happen when you’re knocked out,” he said. “I was hit on the head, and I went down like a wet rag. But I didn’t black out all at once. My eyes must have gone on working for several seconds, like a camera with the shutter left open, before I passed out completely. And then, when I first recovered consciousness, I’d forgotten all about what I saw. Now it’s suddenly all come back — as if the film had been developed. I know I can find Tony Unciello.”

“What did you see?” Buono demanded.

Simon looked him in the eyes.

“I can’t tell you.”

“I do not understand you, Signor!”

“What I saw happens to be something that wouldn’t be any use at all to anyone else. I’m the only man in the world who could use it. So I shall keep it to myself — until I’ve found Tony. I don’t think it’ll take very long.”

“That is absurd!” Buono insisted waspishly. “I insist that you tell us how you propose to do this.”

The Saint turned to Inverest.

“I will tell you, sir, in private, and let you be the judge. But I’m quite sure you’ll agree with me. You see, what I know has some really shocking political complications. If it leaked out, the international repercussions would be bigger than an atom bomb. If you knew what I know, you’d be the first to order me to keep my mouth shut.”