Free The Saint in Europe by Leslie Charteris Page B

things like that that the Saint was most at home. The fact that he could be steered straight to his target by a man who could really recognize the financier when he saw him, in spite of his disguise, was a miracle too good to miss. Action, swift and spontaneous and masterly, was more in the Saint’s line than a contemplation of the brutal ironies of Fate; and the prospect of it took his mind resiliently away from gloom. He followed the old man along the tram at a leisured distance. At each pause where the old man stopped to peer into a compartment the Saint stopped also and lounged against the side, patient as a stalking tiger. Some time later he pushed into another carriage and found himself in the dining car, for it was an early train with provision for the breakfasts of late-rising travellers. The old man was standнing over a table half-way down; and one glance was enough to show that he had found his quarry.
    Simon sank unnoticed into the adjoining booth. In a panel mirror on the opposite side he could see the man who must have been Bruce Voyson-a thin dowdily dressed man with the almost white hair and tinted glasses which the old German had described. The glasses seemed to hide most of the sallow face, so that the line of the thin straight mouth was the only expressive feature to be seen.
    The old German was speaking.
    “Mr Voyson, I’m asking you a question und I vant an answer. Is it true dot your company is smashed?”
    Voyson hesitated for a moment, as if he was not quite sure whether he had heard the question correctly. And then, as he seemed to make up his mind, his gloved fingers twisted together on the table in front of him.
    “Absolute nonsense,” he said shortly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    The old man swallowed.
    “Then vhy is it, Mr Voyson, dot der paper here says dot it is all smashed, und everyone vants to know where you are?”
    “What paper is that?” demanded Voyson; but there was a harsh twitch in his voice.
    The old man dropped it on the table.
    “Dot’s der paper. If you don’t understand Cherman I translate it for you. It says: ‘Von of der biggest swindle in history vas yesterday in Maxton, Ohio, exposed-’”
    Voyson bit the corner of his mouth, then swung around.
    “Well, what about it?”
    “But, Mr Voyson, you cannot speak of it like dot. You cannot realize vat it means. If it is true dot der money is all gone … You don’t understand. All my life I vork and vork und I safe money, und I put it all in your company. It cannot be true dot all my money is gone-dot all my life I have vork for nothing-“
    “Suppose it is gone?” snapped Voyson. “There are plenty of others in the same boat.” He sighed. “It’s all in the luck of the game.”
    The old man swayed and steadied himself heavily.
    “Luck?” he said hoarsely. “You talk to me of luck? When I am ruined, und it says here dot it vas all a swindle -dot you are nodding but a criminal-“
    Voyson’s fist hit the table.
    “Now you listen to me,” he rasped. “We’re not in Amerнica now-either of us. If you’ve got any complaints you can take me back to Ohio first, and then go ahead and prove I swindled you. That’ll be soon enough for you to start shooting off your mouth about criminals. Now what d’you think you’re going to do about it? Think it over. And get the hell out of here while you do your thinking, or I’ll call the guard and have you thrown off the train!”
    The Saint’s muscles hardened, and relaxed slowly. His dark head settled back almost peacefully on the upholstery behind him; but the wraith of a smile on his lips had the grim glitter of polished steel. A steward hovered over him, and he ordered a sandwich which he did not want without turning his head.
    Minutes later, or it might have been hours, he saw his travelling acquaintance going past him. The old man looked neither to right nor left. His faded eyes stared sightlessly ahead, glazed with a terrible stony