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whose cook married a gas-fitter who "
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"Spare us your humour," pleaded Bitfle wearily. "It doesn't amuse me."
"But it amuses me! as the actress said on an auspicious occasion," said the
Saint, and would have continued in that vein if Bloem and Maggs had not
arrived at that moment.
Both looked much the worse for wear, and their heads bore abundant tokens of
the cold water which had been liberally used in resuscitating them. In
addition, Bloem's forehead was disfigured by a bruise which was rapidly taking
to itself all the brighter hues of the rainbow, and the way he glared at the
Saint was not friendly.
"The compliments of the season, Mynheer," drawled Simon. "And who's the other
little ray of sunshine, Mr. Chairman?"
"Our captain, Mr. Maggs," Btttle introduced that injured warrior suavely.
"You have not met him before, Templar, but our dear friend Miss Holm knocked
him out an hour or two ago."
"Delighted!" murmured the Saint. "She seems to have made a good job of it,
Maggie or did you always look like that?"
Mr. Maggs lowered.
"My name's Maggs," he blustered.
"But I shall call you Maggie," insisted the Saint. "It's more matey, and it
suits you better. And really I didn't mean to be rude about your face. You've
got a nice kind face, like a cow."
Mr. Maggs turned away with a growl, and stalked over to the girl. Then the
Saint was afraid, and the veins stood out purply on his forehead as he
wrestled with his bonds.
Maggs took the girl's chin in his thick fingers and tilted up her face,
leering down at her.
"You might've killed me," he said "hitting me like that. But I'll make you
apologize later, and I like my apologies sweet."
"Sit down, Maggs," snapped Bittle.
Maggs still persisted.
"Give us a kiss to be getting on with, like a good girl."
"Sit down Maggs!"
Bittle was on his feet, and there was death in his hand. Grumbling, Mr. Maggs
lurched into a. chair and sat staring at Patricia in his ugly way.
Bloem went round to the chair opposite Maggs, but Bittle remained standing at
one end of the table. The Saint sat at the other end.
Bittle paused for a moment, and the men grouped round the walls fidgeted into
stillness. A macabre atmosphere of fiendish cold-bloodedness began to fill the
room. It came from the hate-smouldering eyes of all those silent men, and k
clouded malevolently behind the stocky figure of John Bittle. Bittle was
posing at the end of the table, waiting for the theatrical effect of the
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gathering to tense up to a nerve-tearing pitch, and a sensitive man could have
felt the silence keying up to the point at which unreasoning terror crowds in
like a foul vapour. Seconds throbbed away in that pulsating suspense....
The Saint cleared his throat.
"Rising to address this general meeting at the close of such a successful
year," he prompted, "I feel Go on, Bittle. Declare the dividend, and make sure
all your braces buttons are safe before you bow to the applause."
His gently mocking tones broke down Some of the tension. He looked across at
the girl, and she smiled back.
"I'm not taking any notice," she said in a clear voice. "He's only indulging
his love for melodrama."
"Melodrama," replied Bittle, "is a thing for which I have an instinctive
loathing. Yet, in a situation such as this, it is very hard to avoid
overstepping the bounds of banality. However, I will try to be as precise and
to the point as possible." He fixed his malignant gaze on the Saint. "This
man, Templar, whom you see, has elected to interfere in matters which do not
concern him. By a succession of miracles, he has so far managed to avoid the
various arrangements which we have made for disposing of him; but now, on the
open sea, I hardly think he can escape. He has put us to great inconvenience,
and I don't think anyone here has any cause to bear him any good will. While
he lives, no one here is safe. I believe I am merely the spokesman of everyone
present when I say that he must die."
He looked from face to face, and there was a mutter of assent. He looked at
the Saint again.
"I indorse that verdict," he said.
"Blatherskite and brickdust!" said the Saint disparagingly.
Bittle continued:
"Then there is this man Orace. He is also a man against whom some of you will
bear a personal grudge. In any case, he is in Templar's confidence, and
therefore I say that he too must die,"
"Pure banana oil," jeered the Saint.
"Finally," said Bittle, "there is the girl. I propose to marry her myself,
and Maggs will conduct the service as soon as the sentence has been carried
out upon Templar and Orace." He picked up a revolver from the table and waved
it meaningly. "If there is anyone here Maggs included who objects to that, he
can speak now."
Nobody moved.
"Scat!" remarked the Saint.
"Is that all the protest even our redoubtable Mr. Templar can make?" Bittle
sneered. "I'm disappointed you've talked so much about what you were going to
do to all of us that I was expecting something interesting."
Simon yawned.
"Before I die," he said, "may I tell you my celebrated joke about a man
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called Carn? I wonder if you've heard it before? There was once a physician
called Carn, but nobody cared worth a dam if a man said 'By heck! That bloke
might be a 'tec!' the others would simply say 'Garn!" And yet it happens to be
true. Isn't it odd?"
"Patricia" Bittle rolled the name out with rel-ish "has already told me that
story. If it is any comfort to you, I can assure you that it will only make me
more careful of her health. The same ultimatum which brought you into my power
will, I think, discourage Carn. It will certainly be an awkward dilemma for
him, but I imagine that his humanity will triumph over his sense of duty."
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