Perhaps that was the principal reason why Simon Templar's vigilance relaxed at that crucial moment. He had shrewdly summarised Jeffroll as a man who would never be a good actor, and he knew that that drawn anxiety was utterly genuine. He followed the landlord through the lounge and the curtains behind the bar, with his imagination whirling through a fresh burst of frantic effort to encompass this new and unexpected twist, but without the same grim vigilance, although he knew that Voss had come in also and was following behind him. That is, and ever after was, the only excuse he could make for himself; and the mistake have cost him his life.
Jeffroll opened the door of the office, and stood aside for the Saint to go in. Simon went in with a languid stride-Port-more and Weems were there, but the lawyer was surprisingly absent. Then something hard jabbed into his back, and he began to appreciate his error.
"Put up your hands."
It was Jeffroll's voice, behind him, speaking with a half-hysterical menace that held the Saint studiously motionless where a more callous and seasoned intonation might have encouraged him to lazy backchat or even a swift attempt to retrieve the situation. But he was old enough in outlawry to know that the innkeeper's forefinger was as uncertain on the trigger as only the finger of a panic-stricken man can be; and he stood very still.
The weight of his automatic came off his hip pocket; and then he was pushed forward. Only then, when he could turn round and see Jeffroll's face, and keep a wary eye on the man's reactions, did he venture to indulge in any conversational amenities.
"Bless my soul," he remarked mildly. "Do you know, for a moment I thought you were going to kiss me."
Major Portmore reached down under the desk, where he was sitting, and brought up the shot-gun which he had been carrying in the wood that morning.
"Get over against the wall and shut up," he ordered harshly.
Simon got over against the wall.
"Now then," said Jeffroll, over the sights of his revolver, "where is Julia?"
The Saint's mouth hardened as if it had been turned to stone. Then that was the explanation of the landlord's strange whiteness. Ideas drummed through his brain-Hoppy Uniatz asleep, Garthwait who had escaped while he was away, the lawyer's visit. . . . But he scarcely had time to pin down one of those speeding flashes of fact before Jeffroll's voice was shrilling into his ears again.
"Hurry up, damn you! I'm going to count up to ten. If you haven't answered by that time"
"What happens?" asked the Saint, in his quietest voice. "You can hang yourself off that beam without bothering to shoot me-or would you rather have it done legally? And where does it get you, anyhow?"
Portmore nodded.
"That's right," he said impersonally. "I told you shooting was too quick, Jeffroll. Voss-Weems-you tie him up. I'll see if I can make him talk."
Weems got up limply out of his chair and produced a coil of wire. The Saint's arms were twisted behind his back, and the wrists quickly and efficiently bound; then his ankles were similarly treated. Jeffroll's mouth worked as if he was tempted to refuse interference and stick to his original threat, but he said nothing.
Portmore got up and came round the desk. He handed the shot-gun over to Voss and stood in front of the Saint.
"Will you answer that question, or have I got to thrash it out of you?" he demanded.
Simon looked at him steadily. Placed as he was, it required a superhuman effort to hold back the obvious defiance. Only the fact that he could understand and sympathise with the feelings of his inquisitors helped him to check his temper -that, and the knowledge that the same liberties could not be taken with a crazed amateur that could be taken with dispassionate professionals.
"Don't you think it might have been worth while asking me the question in a normal manner, before you were reduced to all this Lyceum stuff?" he replied evenly.
For a second they were taken aback; then Portmore blustered back into the breach.
"All right-if you're going to answer the question, you can answer it now."
"I haven't the vaguest notion where Julia is," said the Saint immediately. "But I expect Garthwait could tell us."
"Because he helped you take her away," chattered Jeffroll.
"You're wrong there," said the Saint, as equably as he could. "I've told you that I had nothing to do with it. Will you tell me when you think she was taken?"
The landlord's white tragic face was in grotesque contrast to the murderousness of his eyes.
"You know that. You let Garthwait out of this office-you only pretended to fight him because you thought we'd be taken in by you. You took her away between you, last night. You took your car out of the garage----"
"You saw that when you came out to drive a lorryload of earth from your tunnel down to the quay and tip it into the harbour," said the Saint.
If he had expected to cause a sensation with that blunt challenge, he was disappointed. Not one of the men showed any more reaction than if he had shown that he knew the hotel had a thatched roof; and Jeffroll babbled on: "You took her away in your car, and then Garthwait telephoned this morning-------"
"This is wasting time," snarled Voss. "Let him do the talking, old man; and if he doesn't talk we'll see what we can do to make him."
"I'm waiting for a chance to talk," retorted the Saint curtly. "I guess there are plenty of explanations to be made, and I don't want to waste time either. I'll put my cards on the table and trade them for yours, if you can stop making damn fools of yourselves for five minutes."
"Get on with it, then," said Portmore. "And don't call me a damn fool again, or I'll hurt you."
Simon looked him in the eyes.
"Hitting a man who can't hit you back would naturally prove you weren't a damn fool, wouldn't it?" he said icily.
"Oh, leave him alone, Portmore," drawled Weems. "Let's hear what he's got to say first."
"Thanks." Simon held the Major's gaze as long as the other would meet it; then he relaxed against the wall. "What I've got to say won't take long. To start with, my name isn't Tombs. It's Templar-Simon Templar. You may have read about me in the newspaper sometime. I'm called the Saint."
This time he did get a reaction; but for about the first time in his life he did not pause to bask in the scapegrace glow which his own notoriety usually gave him.
"I came down here because I heard there was something mysterious going on, and poking my nose into mysterious goings-on is my business. I'd never met Garthwait in my life, never heard of him, till we had that argument in the bar last night and I pushed his face in. I know most of the crooks in this country, but I can't know all of them. I came prowling about last night because I heard noises, and I found Garthwait tied up in here-----"
"And let him out."
"No. I admit it was my fault that he got out, but it was unintentional. I opened the door with a pair of wirecutting pliers, and I left them behind, accidentally, when I went out again. Before that, he'd told me that he was supposed to meet a guy on the Axminster road, and that this guy would give me ten thousand quid to let him loose--from the way he talked he seemed to think I was one of your party. I pushed off to keep the date with this guy------"
"And he gave you ten thousand pounds to let Garthwait go," said Voss flatly.
Simon shook his head.
"He didn't-for one reason, because he was a bit wiser in sin than you fellows, and he recognised me."
"But you'd have done it if he had given you ten thousand pounds."
"I don't know," said the Saint candidly. "It isn't my party anyhow, and I've a pretty open mind; but on the whole I doubt it. Anyway the question doesn't arise. I went out to keep this date because I was hoping to collect some more information on this racket you've got here. On account of the guy on the road recognising me, I didn't get much more than a couple of bullets whizzing past my ear; but I did hear his voice, and I've heard it again this morning. I can't help it if you think this is a tall story, but the guy on the road- Garthwait's pal-was your lawyer friend who just called."