The Saint in Europe (22 page)

Simon Templar.

He held out the pad. The man who had brought it carнried it across to Unciello.

Unciello read it through slowly, and looked up again at the Saint.

“What’s that homo sequendum deal?” he demanded.

“Homo means ‘same,’ as in ‘homosexual,’” Simon exнplained patiently. “Sequendum is the same root as our words ‘sequel’ or ‘consequences.’ It just means ‘the same result.’ Inverest goes for that Latin stuff.”

Unciello’s eyes swiveled up to the girl.

“That’s right,” she said in a low voice. “He does.”

“Guys like you with your education give me a pain,” Unciello said. His cold stare was on the Saint again. “And what’s that about reporting again?”

“I’m not stupid enough to expect you to turn me loose now,” Simon said. “And anyhow, Inverest is going to want another report on Sue-authenticated with our password- from me, before they finally let your brother go.”

The gang chieftain held out the pad towards his errand-boy.

“Have somebody downstairs send it,” he ordered.

He continued to study the Saint emotionlessly, but with deep curiosity.

“You’re a real smart fellow,” he said. “But you’re taking a lot of chances. What’s in it for you?”

Simon raised his eyebrows a fraction.

“Hudson Inverest is a rich man in his own right,” he said. “He’s offered a reward of a hundred thousand dollars to anyone who helps get his daughter back. Didn’t your pal Buono tell you that? Even he looked interested!”

The messenger returned and resumed his position behind the Saint’s chair, but Unciello did not even appear to notice him for several seconds. He remained sunk in an implacable and frightening immobility of meditation. And then at last his saurian eyes flicked up.

“Tell Mario to serve dinner,” he said. “We’ll all eat together. And send word to Buono I want to see him- subito.”

6

They ate in a palatial dining room that was almost overнpoweringly ornate with gilt and frescos, Sue and the Saint on either side of Tony Unciello at the head of a long table. One of the guards stood behind each of the involuntary guests like an attendant footman, but their function was not to serve. They kept their hands in the side pockets of their coats and their eyes on every movement that was made, particularly by the Saint.

The meal, in spite of the lavish surroundings, was only spaghetti, though with an excellent sauce. Apparently that was what Unciello liked, for he tackled a huge plate of it with a practically uninterrupted series of engulfing motions, almost inhaling it in a continuous stream. Sue Inverest could only toy with hers, but the Saint ate with reasonable appetite, although the grotesque silence broken only by the clink of silverware and the voracious slurping of the host would have unnerved most other men.

“Tony doesn’t like small talk at meals,” Simon tried to encourage her, “but don’t let him put you off your feed. You’ve got to keep in good shape to go home.”

Unciello stuffed the last remnants from his plate into his mouth until his cheeks bulged, then washed them down with a draught of Chianti from a Venetian goblet. He wiped his face with the napkin tucked under his chin.

“Now I got it,” he announced; and the Saint looked at him inquiringly.

Unciello said: “I got that homo sequendum business. That’s gotta be the password you fixed up with Inverest. It’s the only phony-sounding thing in your letter. So now I don’t need you any more. I got boys who can copy any handwriting. And with that password, now they can write letters to Inverest and tell him his daughter’s okay.”

“You mean I can go, Tony?” Simon asked hopefully.

“Yeah-to the morgue. You never was going anywhere else, because you know too much about this place. Like I told you. But now I don’t have to keep you around until they let Mick go. I guess you ain’t so smart, after all.”

Simon Templar had no argument. It would have done no good to point out that this was one occasion when he had never figured himself very smart, so far as his own personal survival was concerned. He felt lucky enough to have achieved as much as he had done. Now, if he was not going to live to see the finish, he could still hope that the gamble had not been altogether lost. As for himself, it had to come some day, and this way was as worth while as any.

He smiled at the girl’s comprehending horror, and his eyes were very gay and blue.

“Don’t worry, Sue,” he said. “Don’t think about it, ever. I just hope everything works out all right for you.”

“I’ll take care of her myself; personally,” Unciello said; and only then, for the first time, Simon felt ice in his heart.

The door from the living room opened abruptly, and Inspector Buono came in.

He looked very cool and elegant; and if he had any nervousness, it might only have been found in his eyes. They merely glanced at the girl and Simon, and went quickly back to Unciello.

“Eccomi arrivato,” he said obsequiously. “Cosa desiнdera?”

“Talk English,” Unciello growled. “The Saint wants to know what’s going on. It’s his funeral we’re talking about. I sent for you because you’re just the boy to take charge of it. You got the perfect set-up. You make it look like he was shot resisting arrest. You do it yourself, and maybe get yourself a medal.”

“But-“

“I’m sending a couple of the boys along to watch you.” Unciello, poured another glass of wine, and his broad face was malevolently bland. “I hear some of our people are worried that one of these days you might get too interested in a reward, if it was big enough. Now, if they see you do something like this, so they can feel they’ve got something on you, it’ll give ‘em a lot more confidence.”

“Sissignor,” Buono said whitely.

Then the door behind him burst open again and the room suddenly filled with armed police.

Through their midst stepped a large elderly perspiring man with a superb black handlebar moustache, who surнveyed the scene with somewhat pompous satisfaction.

“Everyone here,” he said, not without a trace of awe, “is under arrest.”

The stooped scholarly figure of the Secretary of State followed him in, and Sue Inverest flung herself into her father’s arms.

Simon Templar prudently reached for the Chianti bottle and refilled his glass.

7

Most of what Sue Inverest did not know had been told her while the official limousine was still on its way to the Embassy.

“But I still don’t know how you got there,” she said, “like-like the posse coming over the hill in the last reel of a western.”

“My dear,” Mr Inverest said mildly, “surely even you learned enough Latin in school to know that homo sequendum means ‘man who must be followed’?”

She gave a shaky half-laugh.

“I might have thought of that, but the Saint was so conнvincing with his translation … And anyway, how did you know who to follow?”

“Whom,” said Mr Inverest.

“You remember that tag about ‘for the public good’?” Simon said. “I told your father he’d like it better in Latin. That’s pro bono publico. I could only hope he’d be fast enough to turn the bono into Buono.”

“Fortunately I’m not quite the imbecile that I’m someнtimes called,” Inverest said. “Once I had that clue, I went straight to the top. That was the Minister of the Interior himself who was in charge of the raid.”

“And you remember,” Simon added, “how I threw in that bit about Buono’s unseemly interest in a reward which he hadn’t reported-for the simple reason that it was never offered. I was banking on that to bother Tony enough so that he’d send for Buono, which would lead the posse straight to the right place.”

The girl cuddled her father’s arm, but her gray eyes were on the Saint.

“I know you’re not really rich, Daddy,” she said. “But he ought to have some reward.”

Simon grinned.

“I’ll settle for the privilege of buying you a real dinner. And then maybe dancing with you till dawn. And then if there’s anything still owing, I’d better leave it on deposit. I’m liable to need it one of these days,” said the Saint.

WATCH FOR THE SIGN OF THE SAINT HE WILL BE BACK!

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