Taken by and large, it was a performance to which Simon Templar raised his hat. It had the tremendous simplicity of true greatness. In a deceitful, hypocritical world, where all the active population was scrambling frantically for all the dough it could get its hands on, and at the same time smugly proclaiming that money could not buy happiness, it burned like a bright candle of sincerity. Not for Wallis Nather were any of those pettifogging affectations. He had his dough; and if he believed that it could not buy happiness, he faced his melancholy destiny with dauntless courage.
Simon was almost apologetic about butting in. Nothing but stern necessity could have forced him to intrude the anticlimax of his presence into such a moment. But since he had to intrude, he saw no reason why the conventions should not be observed.
"Good-evening, Judge," he murmured politely.
He would always maintain that he did everything in his power to soften the blow—that he could not have introduced himself with any softer sympathy. And he could only sigh when he perceived that all his good intentions had misfired.
Nather did three things simultaneously. He dropped the sheaf of bills, spun round in his swivel chair as if it's axle had suddenly got tangled up in a high-speed power belt, and made a tentative pass for a side drawer of the desk. It was the last of these movements which never came to completion. He found himself staring into the levelled menace of a blue steel automatic, gaping into a pair of the most mocking blue eyes that he had ever seen. They were eyes that made something cringe at the back of his brain, eyes with a debonair gaze like the flick of a rapier thrust—eyes that held a greater terror for the Honourable Judge than the steady shape of the automatic.
He sat there, leaning slightly forward in his chair, with his heavy body stiffening and his fleshy nostrils dilating, for a space of ten terrific seconds. The only sound was the thud of his own heart and the suddenly abnormally loud tick of the clock that stood on his desk. And then, with an effort which brought the sweat out in beads on his forehead, he tried to shake off the supernatural fear that was winding its icy grip around his chest.
He started to heave himself forward, but he got no further than that brief convulsive start. With a faint, flippant smile, the Saint whirled the automatic once around his forefinger by the trigger guard and came on into the room. After that one derisive gesture the butt of the gun settled into his hand again, as smoothly and surely as if there were a socket there for it.
"Don't disturb yourself, comrade," purred the Saint. "I know the book of rules says that a host should always rise when receiving a guest, but just for once we'll forget the formalities. Sit down, Your Honour—and keep on making yourself at home."
The judge shifted his frozen gaze from the automatic to the Saint's face. The cadences of that gentle, mocking voice drummed eerily on through his memory. It was a voice that matched the eyes and the debonair stance of the intruder— a voice that for some strange reason reawakened the clammy terror that he had known when he first looked up and met that cavalier blue gaze. The last of the colour drained out of his sallow cheeks, and twin pulses beat violently in his throat.
"What is the meaning of this infernal farce?" he demanded, and did not recognize the raw jaggedness of his own voice.
"If you sit down I'll tell you all about it," murmured the Saint. "If you don't—well, I noticed a slap-up funeral parlour right around the corner, with some jolly-looking coffins at bargain prices. And this is supposed to be a lucky month to die in."
The eyes of the two men clashed in an almost physical encounter, like the blades of two duellists engaging; but the Saint's smile did not change. And presently Judge Nather sank back heavily in his chair, with his face a pasty white and the dew of perspiration on his upper lip.
"Thanks a lot," said the Saint.
He relaxed imperceptibly, loosening the crook of his finger fractionally from the trigger. With unaltered elegance he moved himself sideways to the door and turned the key in the lock with a flick of his wrist. Then he strolled unhurriedly back across the deep-piled rug towards His Honour.
He hitched his left hip up onto the corner of the mahogany desk and settled himself there, with one polished shoe swinging negligently back and forth. One challenging blue eye slid over the fallen heap of bills that lay between himself and his host, and his brows tilted speculatively.
He poked at the nest egg with the nozzle of his gun, scattering the bills across the table in a golden cascade.
"Must be quite a cozy little total, Algernon," he remarked. "Almost enough to make me forget my principles."
"So it's robbery, eh?" grated Nather; and the Saint thought he could detect a note of relief in the words.
He shook his head rather sadly, turning wide innocent eyes on his victim.
"My dear Judge—you wrong me, I merely mentioned that I was struggling against temptation. This really started to be just a sociable interview. I want to know where you were born and why, and what penitentiary you graduated from, and what you think about disarmament, and whether your face was always so repulsive or if somebody trod on it. I wasn't thinking of stealing anything."
His gaze reverted to the sheaf of bills, meditatively, as though the thought was nevertheless penetrating slowly into his mind, against his will; and the judge moistened his dry lips.
"What is all this nonsense?" he croaked.
"Just a little friendly call." Simon poked at the bills again, wistfully. It was clear that the idea which Nather had dragged in was gaining ground. "You and your packet of berries— me and my little effort at housebreaking. On second thoughts," said the Saint, reaching a decision with apparent reluctance, "I am afraid I shall have to borrow these. Just sitting and looking at them like this is getting me all worked up."
Nather stiffened up in his chair, his flabby hands curling up into lumpish fists; but the gun in the Saint's hand never wavered from the even keel that held it centred on the helpless judge like a finger of fate. Nather's small eyes flickered like burning agates as the Saint gathered up the stack of notes with a sweeping gesture and dropped them into his pocket; but he did not try to challenge the threat of the .38 Colt that hovered a scanty yard from his midriff. His impotent wrath exploded in a staccato clip of words that rasped gropingly through the stillness.
"Damn you—I'll see that you don't get away with this!"
"I believe you would," agreed Simon amiably. "I admit that it isn't particularly tactful of me to do things like this to you, especially in this man's city. It's a pity you don't feel sociable. We might have had a lovely evening together, and then if I ever got caught and brought up in your court you'd burst into tears and direct the jury to acquit me—just like you'd have done with Jack Irboll eventually, if he hadn't had such a tragic accident. But I suppose one can't have everything. . . . . Never mind. Tell me how much I've borrowed and I'll give you a receipt."
The pallor was gone from Nather's cheeks, giving place to a savage flush. A globule of perspiration trickled down his cheek and hung quivering at the side of his jaw.
"There were twenty thousand dollars there," he stated hoarsely.
The Saint raised his eyebrows.
"Not so bad," he drawled quietly, "for blood money."
Nather's head snapped up, and a fleeting panic widened the irises of his eyes; but he said nothing. And the Saint smiled again.
"Pardon me. In the excitement of the moment, and all that sort of thing, I forgot to introduce myself. I'm afraid I've had you at a disadvantage. My name is Templar— Simon Templar"—he caught the flash of stark hypnotic fear that blanched the big man's lips, and grinned even more gently. "You may have heard of me. I am the Saint."