Saint on Guard by Leslie Charteris Page B

and strained. “But that isn’t what I was told. I was told it was just business. That Mr Linnet had hired you to try and spoil a business deal that—that this person I was doing it for was interested in. He said I just had to keep you away from Mr Linnet lor a certain time and everything would be all right. I never dreamed it meant any more than that. I still can’t believe it.”
    “Who is this person?” he asked again.
    “How can I tell you? I’d be betraying a trust.”
    “I suppose betraying your country and helping to hide a mur-derer seems much more noble.”
    Her clenched hands beat at her temples.
    “Please don’t—please! I’ve got to think… .”
    “That might be a great beginning.”
    He was as pitiless and implacable as he could be. There was nothing in this that he could afford to be sentimental about. He was deliberately using his voice and personality like a whip.
    She turned her face up to him with the mascara making dark smudges under her eyes, and the same pleading held in her voice.
    “I’m so mixed up. This is somebody who’s been very good to me… . But everything I’ve told you is the truth. I swear it is. You must believe me. You must.”
    He knew that at that time he was as unemotional as a lie detector; and yet unsureness tightened the muscles of his jaw. He took a long inhalation from his cigarette while he assessed the feeling.
    He had his own extra sense of truth that was like the ear of a musician with perfect pitch. He knew also that even that intuition could be deceived, because he himself had more than once deceived some of the most uncooperative critics. But if Barbara Sinclair was doing that, she had to be the most sensational actress that ever walked, on or off a stage. It simply became easier and more rational to believe that he had met at least some of the truth than that he had met the supreme acting of all time.
    His main objectives were unchanged. He had to convict a murderer, track down the stolen iridium that had been diverted into the black market, and uncover, erase, liquidate, or otherwise dispose of the upper case brain that controlled the whole traitor-ous racket. He had to do that no matter who got hurt, including himself.
    But there was the slightest change in his tone of voice as he said: “All right. What about these two creeps?”
    “I don’t know who they are. Honestly. I can’t even think how they got in here.”
    “Let’s find out.”
    He made a rapid search of the two sleepers, and found no burglarious implements. But separate from the bunch of keys on Varetti’s gold trouser chain, he found a single key in one waistcoat pocket. He took it to the front door and tried it. It worked.
    He came back, showed it to the girl, and put it in his own pocket.
    “They had a key,” he said. “So by your own count, they must be pals of your boy friend. Does that help?”
    She didn’t answer.
    “I might ask them some questions,” he said. “How would you like that?”
    “I’d like that,” she said almost intensely.
    He looked at Varetti and Walsh again; but they showed no signs of life whatever, and he regretted a little that he had dealt with them quite so vigorously. But the real motive of his question had been to get her reaction. The two men themselves were obviously dyed-in-the-wool mobsters of an older school, who would endure great persuasion before they opened up their souls and became confidential. And that would take time—quite probably, too much time.
    Simon located a closet full of feminine fripperies, and gave it a quick inspection. A suit of masculine pajamas hanging just inside interested him quite a little—even if Barbara Sinclair had a weakness for masculine modes, they would obviously have been too big for her. But he made no remarks about them. He heaved the two mobsters in, one after the other, and locked the door.
    “They’ll keep for a bit,” he said; and then his eye fell again on the rawhide bag which had damaged his