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under his eyes. From floor to ceiling the cupboard was stacked high with it
--great glittering yellow ingots the size of bricks, reflecting the lamplight
in one soaring block of tawny sleekness like the realization of a miser's
dream. The sight of it dazed him. There must have been over a million pounds'
worth of the metal heaped carelessly into that tall rectangular cavity in the
wall. And back and forth across his memory flashed the inane repetition of the
dying young roué in Paris: "He says Binks can make gold..."
The professor's cracked voice broke in on him through a kind of fog.
"Well? Can you see it? Have you found your eyes at last? Eh? Does it begin to
satisfy you?"  
Simon had to fight for the smooth use of his tongue.
"Naturally, that's er very satisfactory, Dr. Quell; but   "
"Very satisfactory! I should think so." The professor snorted. "Half a hundred
weight every hour. Very satisfactory. Faugh! You're a fool that's what you
are. Dammit, if the rest of the Secret Service are as thick-headed as you, I
don't know why the country should bother to have a Secret Service."
The Saint stood very still.
But he felt as if a light bomb had exploded inside him. The mystery was
opening out before his eyes with a suddenness that could only be compared with
an explosion. The detached items of it whirled around like scattered aircraft
in the beam of a searchlight and fell luminously into formation with a
precision that was uncanny. Everything fitted in its place: the murder of
Brian Quell, the King's Messenger who lay dead in an adjoining room, the man
who could make gold... the man called "Binks" a queer nickname to be given to
such a brilliant and irritable old magician by his dissolute young brother!
And that last mordant reference to the Secret Service: an idea that was worthy
of the genius of Mr. Jones so much simpler, so much more ingenious and
effective than the obvious and hackneyed alternative of threats and torture. .
. . Most astounding of all, the proof that the essential pivot of the thing
was true. Sylvester Quell "Binks" could make gold. He had made
it hundredweights of it. He was making more.
Simon heard him grousing on in the same cracked querulous voice.
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"I don't know why I came here. I could have done better in my own laboratory.
Look after me, eh? With the intelligence you've got, you couldn't look after
yourself. What use d'you think you are? Why don't you go away and let me do my
work? You're worse than that other man, with his stupid questions and his
schoolroom tests. Does he think I don't know real gold when I make it ?"
It was all quite clear to the Saint. The only question left was how he should
act. He could give very little time now to arguments and discussions escape
from that house had become one of the paramount considera-tions of his life, a
thing more vitally important than he had ever thought it could be.
His hand went back to his pocket, his thumb feeling around for the safety
catch of his automatic and pressing it gently out of engagement. Under
straight dark brows the blue Saintly eyes centred on Quell like spear points.
"Of course not, Professor. But about the notes of your process   "
He was so intent on the scientist that the movement of the door behind him
missed his ears. The crack of an automatic fired at close quarters battered
and stung his eardrums, and the bullet plucked at his coat. Some-how he was
untouched it is much easier to miss with an automatic than any inexperienced
person would believe, and perhaps Mr. Jones's haste made him snatch at the
pull-off. The Saint spun round and fired from his pocket; his nerves were
steadier, and he scored where he meant to score on the gun in the big man's
hand. The weapon dropped to the floor, and Simon stepped closer.
"Keep still."
The big man's face was twisted with fury. Behind him, Simon heard Quell's
shrill whine.
"What does this mean, sir? Eh? Dammit   "
The Saint smiled.
"I'm afraid you've been taken in, Professor. Our friend no more belongs to the
Secret Service   "
"Than you do!" the big man's voice snarled in viciously. His fists were
clenched and his eyes murderous only the Saint's gun held him where he stood.
"This is one of the men I warned you about, Professor  he's trying to steal
your secret, that's what it means! The damned traitor! if I could only get my
hands on him.... For God's sake, why don't you do something? He's probably one
of the gang that killed your brother   "
"Stop that!"
The Saint's voice cracked through the room like a blade of lightning; but he
saw where the big man's desperate clatter of words was leading to a fraction
of a second too late. Quell leapt at him suddenly with a kind of sob, before
Simon had time to turn. The pro-fessor's skinny hand wrestled with his gun
wrist, and late-crazed talons clawed at his throat. Simon stumbled sideways
under the berserk fury of the scientist's on-slaught, and his aim on the man
called Jones was hopelessly lost. They swayed together in the corner. Quell's
hysterical breathing hissed and moaned horribly in the Saint's ears; and over
the demented man's shoulder he saw Jones stooping with his left hand for the
fallen gun.
The Saint saw certain and relentless death blazing across his path like an
express train. With a savage gathering of all his muscles he shook the
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professor off and sent him reeling back like a rag doll. Quell's dread-ful
shriek rang in his ears as Simon leapt across the dividing space and kicked
away the automatic that the big man's fingers were within an inch of touching.
The gun clanged heavily into a piece of metal on the far side of the room, and
Simon caught the big man by one lapel of his coat and spun him round. The
Saint's gun rammed into the big man's ribs with brutal forcefulness that made
the other wince. "Don't try that again."
Simon's whisper floated into the other's ears with an arctic gentleness that
could not have been driven deeper home by a hundred megaphones. It carried a
rasping huskiness of meaning that only a fool could have mistaken. And Mr. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]