Leslie Charteris - The Saint In Action

It was the square man who first reasserted himself.

"How long has he been here?" he demanded grimly.

The Saint smiled at him.

"My dear Senior Pongo—"

The square man drew himself up.

"My name is not Pongo," he said with dignity. "I am Major Vicente Guillermo Gabriel Perez, of the Third Division of the army of the Spanish Patriots."

"Arriba Espana," murmured the Saint solemnly. "But you won't mind if I call you Pongo, will you? I can't remember all your other names at once. And the point, my dear Senor Pongo, is not exactly how long I've been here but how long you've been here."

There was a moment's startled silence, and then Quintana said coldly: "Will you be good enough to explain?"

Simon gestured slightly with his cigarette.

"You see," he said, "unless you have a very good alibi, Pongo, I shall naturally have to include you with the rest of the menagerie. And that will cost you money."

Major Vicente Guillermo Gabriel Perez's flat vicious eyes stared at him with a rather stupid blankness. The other two men seemed to have been similarly afflicted with a temporary paralysis of incomprehension. But the Saint's paternal geniality held them all together with the unobtrusive dominance of a perfect host. With the same natural charm he tried to relieve them of some of their perplexity.

"We have here," he explained, "Comrade Ladek Urivetzky, once of Warsaw and subsequently of various other places. A bloke with quite a reputation in certain circles, if I remember rightly. I think the last time I heard of him was in connection with the celebrated City and Continental Bank case, when he got away with about fifty thousand quid after depositing a bundle of Danish premium bonds for security. All the boys at Scotland Yard were looking for him all over the place, and I expect they were still looking for him until they heard that he'd been mopped up in Oviedo. Now it seems that he isn't dead at all. He's right here in London, playing happy families with the representative of the Spanish Rebels and" — Simon bowed faintly in the direction of the square man — "Major Vicente Guillermo Gabriel Pongo, of the Third Division of the army of the Spanish Whatnots. So I have a feeling that Chief Inspector Teal would be interested to know why two such illustrious gentlemen are entertaining a notorious criminal."

There was another short strained stillness before Quintana broke it with a brittle laugh.

"If you think that we are here to be bluffed by a common burglar—"

"Not common," Simon protested mildly. "Whatever else I may be I've never been called that. Ask Comrade Urivetzky. But in any case there are worse crimes in this country than burglary."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean — murder."

Major Perez kept still, watching him with evil intentness.

"What murder?"

"Pongo," said the Saint kindly, "I may have a face like an innocent little child, which is more than you have, but appearances are deceptive. I was not born yesterday. I've been listening in this room for some time, and I'd done a good deal of thinking before that, and I think I know nearly as much about this racket of yours as is worth knowing."

"What racket?"

The Saint sighed.

"All right," he said. "Let's have it in words of one syllable. A good many things have been done in Spain to get funds for your precious revolution, and since nearly all the official Spanish dough is in Madrid a good many of your tricks have had to sail pretty close to the wind. Well, your contribution was to think up this idea of pledging forged bonds around the place to get money to pay the Germans and Italians for their guns and airplanes and tanks and bombs and poison gas and other contributions to the cause of civilization. Somebody thought of hiring Comrade Urivetzky to do the forging, and you were all set."

He leaned back against the mantelpiece and blew a smoke ring at a particularly hideous ormolu clock.

"The next thing was to get stooges to pledge the bonds, because if any of them were spotted you didn't want all your credit to be shot to hell at once. Among others you collected Comrade Ingleston. You met him on one of his trips to Spain — he spoke Spanish very well, and he had plenty of friends among your crowd, Sevilla being a red-hot monarchist and Fascist stronghold, unless it's changed since I was last there. You made him a proposition, and he took it on. Unfortunately he wasn't such an idealist as you may have thought, and when he began to find himself with pocketfuls of bearer bonds he heard the call of easy money. He started to go short on his returns. You got suspicious and started to keep tabs on him, and before long there wasn't much doubt left about it. Ingleston was playing you for suckers, and something had to be done about it. Pongo did it."

There was no doubt now that he was holding his audience. They were drinking up every word with a thirsty concentration that would have made some men hesitate to go on; but the Saint knew what he was doing.

"Last night," he proceeded with easy confidence, "Pongo was waiting for Ingleston in the street when he came home. He hailed him like a brother and was invited upstairs. While Ingleston was pouring out a drink Pongo jumped on him from behind with a hammer. Then after Ingleston was dead he had a look round for the last consignment of forged bonds. He was unlucky there, of course, because I'd already got them."

"That is very interesting," Quintana said deliberately.

"You've no idea how interesting it is," answered the Saint earnestly. "Suppose you just look at it all at once. Here's Ladek Urivetzky, a well-known forger and a wanted man, taking shelter here and being like a brother with the pair of you. Here's Ingleston murdered by a major of the Third Division of the army of the Spanish Patriots, also among those present. Well, boys, I'm well known to be a broad-minded bloke, and I can't say that any of it worries me much. Forgers and Fascists are more or less in the same class to me; and Ingleston seems to have been the kind of guy that anyone might bump off in an absent-minded moment. I don't feel a bit virtuous about either side, so I haven't got any sermons for you. But what I don't like is you boys thinking you can make yourselves at home and raise hell in this town without my permission. London is the greatest city in the world, and our policemen are wonderful, so I'm told," said the Saint proudly, "and I don't like to have them bothered. So if you want to have your fun I'm afraid you've got to pay for it."

"Pay for it?" repeated Major Perez as if the phrase was strange to him.

The Saint nodded.

"If you want to go on amusing yourselves you have to pay your entertainment tax," he said. "That's what I meant when we started talking. If you're well in this with the others you'll have to be assessed along with them."

They went on watching him with their mouths partly open and their eyes dark with pitiless malignance; but the Saint's trick of carrying the battle right back into the enemy's camp held them frozen into inactivity by its sheer unblushing impudence.

"And how much," asked Quintana with an effort of irony that somehow lacked the clear ring of unshaken self-assurance, "would this assessment be?"

"It would be about forty thousand pounds," said the Saint calmly. "That will be a donation of twenty thousand pounds for the International Red Cross, which seems a very suitable cause for you to contribute to, and twenty thousand pounds for me for collecting it. If I heard you correctly you've got that much cash in your safe, so you wouldn't even have the bother of writing a cheque. It makes everything so beautifully simple."

Quintana's ironic smile tightened.

"I think it would be simpler to hand you over to the police," he said.

"Imbecile!" Urivetzky spoke, breaking his own long silence. "What could you tell the police—"