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.I could helpyou to get the whole mob, if you want 'em.Listen, Saint, you gotta let metalk!"Simon smiled pleasantly.His face was tolerant and kindly, but Papulos did notsee that.Papulos saw only the cold blue steel in his eyes and a vision ofdeath that had come to Irboll and Voelsang and Ualino.Papulos heard the hardring be-hind the gentle tones of his voice and knew that he had yet toconvince the Saint of his terrible sincerity.The Saint gazed at him through a wreathing screen of smoke; and his left handdid not stir from his coat pocket, where it had rested ever since he had beenin sight.A checkered and perilous career had done much to harden that tendertrustfulness in which Simon Templar's blue eyes had first looked out upon thelight of day.Regretfully, he admitted that the gross disillusionments of lifehad left their mark.It is given to human faith to survive just so much and nomore; and a man who in his time has been scarred to the core by the bittertruth about fairies and Santa Claus cannot be blamed if a certain doubt, acertain cynicism, begins in later life to taint the virgin freshness of hisinnocence.Simon had met Papulos before and had taken his measure.He did notbelieve that Papulos was a man who could be driven by the fear of death tobetray the unwritten code of his kind.What he forgot was the fact that most men live in frightful fear ofdeath frightful fear of that black oblivion which will snatch their lusts andtheir enjoyments from them in a single tortured instant.He forgot that thougha man like Papulos would fight in the battles of gangland like a maniac,though he would stand up brutally unafraid under the hails of hot death thatcome whistling through the open streets, he might become nothing but acringing coward in the threat of cold-blooded unanswerable obliteration.Eventhe stark panic that showed in the Greek's eyes did not convince him."I wouldn't lie to you," Papulos was babbling hoarsely."This is on the level.I got nothin' to gain.You don't have to promise me nothin'.You gotta believeme.""Why?" asked the Saint callously.Papulos swung the car round Columbus Circle and headed blindly to the east.His face was haggard with utter despair."You think this is a stall you don't believe I'm on the level?""Yes," said the Saint, "and no.""What d'ya mean?""Yes, brother," said the Saint explicitly, "I do think it's a stall.No,brother, I don't believe you're on the level.By the way, Pappy, whichcemetery are you heading for? It'd save a lot of expense if we did the jobright on the premises.You can take your own choice, of course, but I'vealways thought the Gates of Heaven Cemetery, Valhalla, N.Y., was the bestaddress of its kind I ever heard."Papulos looked into the implacable blue eyes and felt closer to death than hehad ever been.Page 47ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html"You gotta listen," he said, almost in a whisper."I'm shootin' the works.I'll talk first, an' you can decide whether I'm tellin' the truth afterwards.Just gimme a break, Saint.I'm shootin' square with you."Simon shrugged."There's lots of time between here and Valhalla," he pointed out affably."Shoot away."Papulos caught at the breath that would not seem to fill the void in hislungs.The sweat was running down his sides like a trickle of icicles, and hismouth had stiffened so that he had to labour over the formation of eachindividual word."This is straight," he said."Puttin' the snatch on that kid was an accident.That ain't the racket any more it's too risky, an' there ain't any need forit.Protection's the racket, see? You say to a guy like Inselheim: 'You pay usso much dough, or it'll be too bad about your kid, see?' Well, Insel-heimstuck in his toes over the last payment.He said he wouldn't pay any more; sowe put the arm on the kid.You didn't do him no good, takin' her back.""You don't tell me," said the Saint lightly; but his voice was grim andwatchful.Papulos babbled on.He had spent long enough getting a hearing; now that hehad it, the words came in a flood like a breaking dam.In a matter of mereminutes, it might be too late."You didn't do no good.Inselheim got his daughter back, but he's still gottapay.We won't be snatching her again.Next time, she gets the works.We phonedhim first thing this morning: 'Pay us that dough, or you won't have nodaugh-ter for the Saint to rescue.' Even a guy like you can't bring a kid backwhen she's dead.""Very interesting," observed the Saint, "not to say blood-thirsty.But I can'tsomehow see that even a story like that, Pappy, is going to keep you out ofthe Gates of Heaven.You'll have to talk much faster than this if we're goingto fall on each other's shoulders and let bygones be bygones."The Greek's hands clenched on the wheel."I'll tell you anything you want to know!" he gabbled wildly."Ask me anythingyou like I'll tell you.Just gimme a break  ""You could only tell me one thing that might be worth a trade for yourunsavoury life, you horrible specimen," said the Saint coldly."And thatis who is the Big Fellow?"Papulos turned, white-faced, staring."You can't ask me to tell you that  ""Really?""It ain't possible! I'd tell you if I could but I can't.There ain't nobody inthe mob could tell you that, except the Big Fellow himself, Ualino didn'tknow.Kuhlmann don't know.There's only one way we talk to him, an' that's bytelephone.An' only one guy has the number."Simon drew the last puff from his cigarette and pitched it through the window."Then it seems just too bad if you aren't the guy, Pappy," he saidsympathetically; and Papulos shrank away into the farthest corner of the seatat the ruthless quietness of his voice."But I can tell you who it is, Saint! I'm coming clean.Wait a minute yougotta let me talk  "His voice rose suddenly into a shrill scream a scream whose sheer crazedterror made the Saint's head whip round with narrowed eyes stung to aknife-edged alertness.In one split second he saw what Papulos had seen.A car had drawn abreast of them on the outside a big, powerful sedan that hadcrept up without either of them no-ticing it, that had manoeuvred intoposition with deadly skill.There were three men in it.The windows were open,and through them protruded the gleaming black barrels of sub-machine-guns.Simon grasped the scene in one vivid flash and flung himself down into thebody of the car.In another instant the staccato stammer of the guns wasrattling in his ears, and the steel was drumming round him like a storm ofPage 48ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmldeath.* * *The window on his right shattered in the blast and spilled fragments of glassover him; but he was unhurt.He was aware that the car was swerving dizzily;and a moment later there was a terrific crashing impact that flung him into abruised heap under the dashboard, with his head singing as if a dozen viciousmosquitoes were imprisoned inside his skull.And after that there was silence.Some seconds passed before other sounds reached him as if they came out of afog.He heard the rumble of invisible traffic and the screeching of brakes,the shrilling of a police whistle and the scream of a woman close by.It tookanother second or two for his battered brain to grasp the fundamental reasonfor that strange impression of stillness: the ear-splitting crackle of themachine guns had stopped.It was as if a tropical squall had struck a smallboat, smashed it in one savage in-stant, and whirled on.The Saint struggled up.The car was listing over to star-board, and he sawthat the front of it was inextricably entangled with a lamppost at the edge ofthe sidewalk.A crowd was already beginning to gather; and the woman who hadscreamed before screamed again when she saw him move [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]