The Saint Closes the Case by Leslie Charteris Page B

thin lips, like the desperate determination of a beast at bay. Simon took
no count of that.
    “Do you understand, you septic
excrescence?” said the Saint gently.
    And there was hatred in the Saint’s heart, a
hatred that was his very own, that no one else could have understood; but there was
another kind of devilry in the Saint’s eyes and in the purring gentleness of
his voice, a kind of devilry that no one could have helped
understanding, that the man in front of him understood with
terror, an outward and visible and ma lignant hatred; and it was plainly
centred upon the fat man; and the fat man recoiled slowly, step by step,
as the Saint advanced, until hecame up against the table and could not
move backwards any farther.
    “I hope you don’t think I’m bluffing,
dear little fat one,” the Saint went on, in the same velvety voice.
“Because that would be foolish of you. You’ve done, or had a hand in
doing, something which I object to very much. I object to it in a gen eral way,
and always have; but this time I object to it even more, in a personal
way, because this time it involves someone who means more to me
than your gross mind will ever under stand. Do you follow the argument, you
miserable wart?”
    The man was trying to edge away backwards
round the ta ble, but he could not break away, for the Saint moved side ways
simultaneously. And he could not break away from the Saint’s eyes—those clear
blue eyes that were ordinarily so full of laughter and bubbling mischief that
were then so bleak and pitiless.
    And the Saint went on speaking.
    “I’m not concerned with the fact that
you’re merely the agent of Dr. Rayt Marius—ah, that makes you jump! I know
a little more than you thought I did, don’t I? … But we’re
not concerned with that, either. … If you insist on
mixing with people like that, you must be prepared to take the conse quences.
And if you think the game’s worth the candle, you must also be prepared
for an accident with the candle. That’s fair, isn’t it? … So that
the point we’re going to disagree about is that you’ve had a share in annoying
me—and I object very much to being annoyed… . No, you don’t, sonny
boy!” There was a gun in the fat man’s hand, and then there was not a gun in the fat man’s hand; for the Saint moved forwards and to one
side with a swift, stealthy, cat-like movement, and this time the fat man
could not help screaming as he dropped the gun.
    “Ach! You would my wrist
break—— ”
    “Cheerfully, beloved,” said Simon.
“And your neck later on. But first …”
    Tightening instead of slackening that grip on
the fat man’s wrist, the Saint bent him backwards over the table,
holding him easily with fingers of incredible strength; and the man saw the blade of the knife flash
before his eyes.
    “Once upon a time, when I was in
Papua,” said the Saint, in that dispassionately conversational way
which was indescribably more terrifying than any loud-voiced anger, “a
man came out of the jungle into the town where I was. He was a prospector,
and a pig-headed prospector, and he had insisted on prospecting a
piece of country that all the old hands had warned him against.
And the natives had caught him at the time of the full moon. They’re always
very pleased to catch white men at that time, because they can be
used in the scheme of festivities and entertainment. They have primitive forms
of amusement—very. And one of their ways of amusing themselves with this
man had been to cut off his eyelids. Before I start doing the same
thing to you, will you consider for a mo ment the effect that
that operation will probably have on your beauty sleep?”
    “God!” babbled the man shrilly.
“You cannot—— ”
    The man tried to struggle, but he was held
with a hand of iron. For a little while he could move his head, but then the Saint swung
on to the table on top of him and clamped the head between his
knees.
    “Don’t talk so loud,” said