the print seemed to have disappeared. Bending over until his face almost touched the metal, he sighted towards
the radiator and
found the mark again, a dull slur in the reflected moonlight.
A ghostly breath stirred the hairs on the
nape of his neck as he
realized how narrowly he might have missed that discovery. If he had come out a few minutes earlier or later, the moon would not
have been striking
the hood at the precise angle required to show it up. Or if he had not already been
keyed to the finest
pitch of vigilance, he might still have thought nothing of it. But now he could
only re member how
affectionately the garage owner had wiped the hood again after showing him the en gine, and he knew with certainty that there
could have been no
such mark on it when he set out. He had not stopped anywhere on the way, to
give any one a chance to
approach the machine before he parked
it there. Therefore the mark had been made since he arrived, while he was enjoying Donna Maria’s hospitality.
With the utmost delicacy he manipulated the fastenings of the hood and opened it up. The
pencil flashlight
that he was seldom without revealed that the mammoth engine was still there,
but with a new feature added that would have
puzzled Signor Bugatti.
A large wad of something that looked like
putty had been
draped over the rear of the engine block and pressed into shape around it. Into this sub stance had been pushed a thin metal cylinder, something like a mechanical pencil, from which two slender wires looped over and lost themselves in the general tangle of electrical
connections.
With surgically steady fingers the Saint
extracted the metal tube,
then gently and separately pulled the wires free from their invisible attachments. Deprived of its detonator, the plastic bomb
again became as
harmless as the putty it so closely re sembled.
“This one almost worked, Al,” he whispered softly. “And if it had, I’d have had only
myself to blame. I underestimated
you. But that won’t hap pen again…”
There were some excellent fingerprints in the plastic material where the
demolition expert had squeezed
it into place, doubtless in all confidence that there would be nothing left of
them to in criminate him.
Taking care not to damage them, Simon
peeled the blob off the engine and put it in the trunk, wedging it securely where it
could not roll around
when he drove.
He cranked up the engine and drove slowly and pensively back to Palermo,
the impatient motor growling
a basso accompaniment to his thoughts.
It was easy enough now to understand every thing that had been puzzling before. Donna Maria’s first absence from the terrace had
given her time to telephone Al Destamio on
Capri and ask for confirmation of the
alleged friendship. Al’s reaction
could be readily imagined. He would al ready
have learned of the failure of the first as sassination attempt; and the revelation that the Saint had had the effrontery to head straight for the Destamio mansion and blarney his way in,
instead of thankfully taking the next plane for some antipodean sanctuary, must have done wondrous things to his adrenalin production. The dinner in vitation must have followed on his orders, to
keep the Saint there long enough for
another hatchet man to be sent there
to arrange a more final and effective termination of the nuisance.
And this deduction made Donna Maria’s bit part somewhat more awesome. Throughout the dinner and crocodile congeniality, she had
been setting him up
like a clay pipe in a shooting gallery. That was why she could afford to give in so
readily on the
question of granting permission for Gina to go out with him the next day: she had been
com placently certain that the
Saint would not be around to
hold her to the promise. Only one in teresting speculation remained—had she known just how violently it had been intended to
insure his non-appearance?
Simon tooled the big car in through the
garage entrance of the
hotel and slipped it into an
the radiator and
found the mark again, a dull slur in the reflected moonlight.
A ghostly breath stirred the hairs on the
nape of his neck as he
realized how narrowly he might have missed that discovery. If he had come out a few minutes earlier or later, the moon would not
have been striking
the hood at the precise angle required to show it up. Or if he had not already been
keyed to the finest
pitch of vigilance, he might still have thought nothing of it. But now he could
only re member how
affectionately the garage owner had wiped the hood again after showing him the en gine, and he knew with certainty that there
could have been no
such mark on it when he set out. He had not stopped anywhere on the way, to
give any one a chance to
approach the machine before he parked
it there. Therefore the mark had been made since he arrived, while he was enjoying Donna Maria’s hospitality.
With the utmost delicacy he manipulated the fastenings of the hood and opened it up. The
pencil flashlight
that he was seldom without revealed that the mammoth engine was still there,
but with a new feature added that would have
puzzled Signor Bugatti.
A large wad of something that looked like
putty had been
draped over the rear of the engine block and pressed into shape around it. Into this sub stance had been pushed a thin metal cylinder, something like a mechanical pencil, from which two slender wires looped over and lost themselves in the general tangle of electrical
connections.
With surgically steady fingers the Saint
extracted the metal tube,
then gently and separately pulled the wires free from their invisible attachments. Deprived of its detonator, the plastic bomb
again became as
harmless as the putty it so closely re sembled.
“This one almost worked, Al,” he whispered softly. “And if it had, I’d have had only
myself to blame. I underestimated
you. But that won’t hap pen again…”
There were some excellent fingerprints in the plastic material where the
demolition expert had squeezed
it into place, doubtless in all confidence that there would be nothing left of
them to in criminate him.
Taking care not to damage them, Simon
peeled the blob off the engine and put it in the trunk, wedging it securely where it
could not roll around
when he drove.
He cranked up the engine and drove slowly and pensively back to Palermo,
the impatient motor growling
a basso accompaniment to his thoughts.
It was easy enough now to understand every thing that had been puzzling before. Donna Maria’s first absence from the terrace had
given her time to telephone Al Destamio on
Capri and ask for confirmation of the
alleged friendship. Al’s reaction
could be readily imagined. He would al ready
have learned of the failure of the first as sassination attempt; and the revelation that the Saint had had the effrontery to head straight for the Destamio mansion and blarney his way in,
instead of thankfully taking the next plane for some antipodean sanctuary, must have done wondrous things to his adrenalin production. The dinner in vitation must have followed on his orders, to
keep the Saint there long enough for
another hatchet man to be sent there
to arrange a more final and effective termination of the nuisance.
And this deduction made Donna Maria’s bit part somewhat more awesome. Throughout the dinner and crocodile congeniality, she had
been setting him up
like a clay pipe in a shooting gallery. That was why she could afford to give in so
readily on the
question of granting permission for Gina to go out with him the next day: she had been
com placently certain that the
Saint would not be around to
hold her to the promise. Only one in teresting speculation remained—had she known just how violently it had been intended to
insure his non-appearance?
Simon tooled the big car in through the
garage entrance of the
hotel and slipped it into an
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