13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle) Read online

  "Stuff and nonsense!" interjected Lord Yearleigh heartily. "Englishmen have got too much sense. A bit of military training is good for a boy. Teaches him discipline. Besides, you can't stop people fighting—healthy people—with that watery pacifist talk. It's human nature."

  "Like killing your next-door neighbour because you want to steal his lawn mower," said Vould gently. "That's an­other primitive instinct which human nature hasn't been able to eradicate."

  Yearleigh gave a snort of impatience; and Sir Bruno Walmar rubbed his smooth hands over each other and said in his rasping voice: "I suppose you were a conscientious objector during the last war, Mr. Vould?"

  "I'm sorry to disappoint you," said Vould, with a pale smile, "but I was enjoying the experience of inhaling poison gas when I was sixteen years old. While you, Ormer, were making patriotic speeches, and you, Walmar, were making money. That's the difference between us. I've seen a war, and so I know what it's like; and I've also lived long enough after it to know how much good it does."

  "What's your opinion, Mr. Templar?" asked Yearleigh. "Don't you think Maurice is talking like one of these damned street-corner Reds ?" The Saint nodded.

  "Yes, I do," he said. There was a moment's silence; and then he added thoughtfully: "I rather like these street-corner Reds—one or two of them are really sincere."

  Chief Inspector Teal nibbled a crust of bread secure in his voluntary self-effacement, while Mrs. Ormer made some twittering remark and the thread of conversation drifted off into a less dangerously controversial topic. He had, he admit­ted, failed dismally in his little solitaire game of spotting the prospective murderer. A Cabinet Minister, a multi-millionaire, and a poet did not seem to comprise a gathering amongst whom a practical detective could seek hopefully for felons. The only suspect left for him was still the Saint; and yet even when the meal was finished, after the ladies had retired and the port and cigars had been passed around, he had no reason, actual or intuitive, to believe that Simon Templar was meditating the murder of his host.

  Yearleigh rose, and there was a general pushing back of chairs. The noble sportsman caught the detective's eye; and for the first time since Teal's arrival the object of his in­vitation was brought up again.

  "I've had another of those damned letters," he said.

  He produced it from his pocket, and held it out in a movement that was a general announcement that anyone who cared to might peruse it. Vould and the Saint, who were nearest, shared it with Mr. Teal.—

  The message contained two lines in laboured script.

  Since you have ignored my previous warnings, you will learn your lesson tonight.

  There was no signature — not even the skeleton haloed figure which Teal had half expected to see.

  The detective folded the letter and put it away in his wallet. His faded sleepy eyes turned back to his host.

  "I'd like to have a talk with you later on, sir," he said. "I have some men in the village, and with your permission I'd like to post special guards."

  "Certainly," agreed Yearleigh at once. "Have your talk now. I'm sure the others will excuse us. ... Wait a moment, though." He turned to Maurice Vould. "You wanted to have a talk with me as well, didn't you?"

  Vould nodded.

  "But it can wait a few minutes," he said; and both Teal and the Saint saw that his pale face was even paler, and the eyes behind his big glasses were bright with sudden strain.

  "Why should it?" exclaimed Yearleigh good-humouredly. "You modern young intellectuals are always in a hurry, and I promised you this talk three or four days ago. You should have had it sooner if I hadn't had to go away. Inspector Teal won't mind waiting, and I don't expect to be murdered for another half-hour."

  Simon fell in at Teal's side as they went down the hall, leaving the other two on their way to Yearleigh's study; and quite naturally the detective asked the question which was uppermost in his mind.

  "Have you any more ideas?"

  "I don't know," was the Saint's unsatisfactory response. "Who were you most interested in at dinner?"

  "I was watching Vould," Teal confessed.

  "You would be," said the Saint. "I don't suppose you even noticed Lady Yearleigh."

  Teal did not answer; but he admitted to himself that the accusation was nearly true. As they went into the drawing-room his sleepy eyes looked for her at once, and saw her talking to Ormer on one side of her and Walmar on the other. He suddenly realised that she was young enough to be Yearleigh's daughter—she might have been thirty-five, but she scarcely looked thirty. She had the same pale and curiously transparent complexion as her cousin Vould, but in her it combined with blue eyes and flaxen hair to form an almost ethereal beauty. He could not help feeling the contrast be­tween her and her husband—knowing Yearleigh only by reputation, and never having visited the house, he would have expected Lady Yearleigh to be a robust horsey woman, at her best in tweeds and given to brutal bluntness. Mr. Teal had never read poetry; but if he had, Rossetti's Blessed Damosel would have perfectly expressed what he felt about this Lady Yearleigh whom Simon Templar had made him notice prac­tically for the first time.

  "She's very attractive," said Teal, which was a rhapsody from him.

  "And intelligent," said the Saint. "Did you notice that?"

  The detective nodded vaguely.

  "She has a wonderful husband."

  Simon put down his cigar-butt in an ashtray and took out his cigarette-case. Teal knew subconsciously that his hesitation over those commonplace movements was merely a piece of that theatrical timing in which the Saint delighted to in­dulge; he knew that the Saint was about to say something illuminating; but even as Simon Templar opened his mouth the sound of the shot boomed through the house.

  There was an instant's terrible stillness, while the echoes of the reverberation seemed to vibrate tenuously through the tense air like the vibrations of a cello-string humming below the pitch of hearing; and then Lady Yearleigh came to her feet like a ghost rising, with her ivory skin and flaxen hair making her a blanched apparition in the dimly lighted room.

  "My God," she breathed, "he's killed him!"

  Teal, who was nearest the door, awoke from his momentary stupor and rushed towards it; but the Saint reached it first. He ran at the Saint's shoulder to the study, and as they came to it the door was flung open and Lord Yearleigh stood there, a straight steady figure with a revolver in his hand.

  "You're too late," he said, with a note of triumph in bis voice. "I got him myself."

  "Who?" snapped Teal, and burst past him into the room, to see the answer to his question lying still and sprawled out in the middle of the rich carpet.

  It was Maurice Vould.

  Teal went over to him. He could barely distinguish the punc­ture of the bullet in the back of Vould's dinner jacket, but the scar in his shirt-front was larger, with a spreading red stain under it. Teal opened the dead man's fingers and de­tached an old Italian dagger, holding it carefully in his handkerchief.

  "What happened?" he asked.

  "He started raving," said Yearleigh, "about that bill of mine. He said it would be better for me to die than to take that bill into the House. I said: 'Don't be silly,' and he grabbed that dagger—I use it as a paper-knife—off the desk, and attacked me. I threw him off, but he'd become a maniac. I got a drawer open and pulled out this revolver, meaning to frighten him. He turned to the window and yelled: 'Come in, comrades! Come in and kill!' I saw an­other man at the window with a scarf round his face, and fired at him. Maurice must have moved, or I must have been shaken up, or something, because I hit Maurice. The other man ran away."

  Still holding the knife, Teal turned and lumbered towards the open french windows. Ormer and Walmar, who had ar­rived while Yearleigh was talking, went after him more slowly; but the Saint was beside him when he stood outside, listening to the murmurs of the night.

  In Teal's mind was a queer amazement and relief, that for once Simon Templar was proved innocent and he had not that possibi
lity to contend with; and he looked at the Saint with half a mind to apologise for his suspicions. And then he saw that the Saint's face was deeply lined in the dim starlight, and he heard the Saint muttering in a terrible whisper: 'Oh, hell! It was my fault. It was my fault!"

  "What do you mean?' asked the startled detective. Simon gripped him by the arm, and looked over his shoulder. Ormer and Walmar were behind them, venturing more cautiously into the dangerous dark. The Saint spoke louder.

  "You've got your job to do," he said rather wildly."Photographers—finger-prints——"

  "It's a dear case," protested Teal, as he felt himself being urged away.

  "You'll want a doctor—coroners—your men from the vi­llage. I'll take you in my car. . . ."

  Feeling that the universe had suddenly sprung a high fever, Teal found himself hustled helplessly around the broad ter­race to the front of the house. They had reached the drive before he managed to collect his wits and stop.

  "Have you gone mad?" he demanded, planting his feet solidly in the gravel and refusing to move further. "What do you mean—it was your fault?"

  "I killed him," said the Saint savagely. "I killed Maurice Vould!"

  "You?" Teal ejaculated, with an uncanny start. "You're crazy," he said.

  "I killed him," said the Saint, "by culpable negligence. Be­cause I could have saved his life. I was mad. I was crazy. But I'm not now. All right. Go back to the house. You have somebody to arrest."

  A flash of memory went across Teal's mind—the memory of a pale ghostly woman rising from her chair, her voice saying: "My God, he's killed him!"—the hint of a frightful foreknowledge. A cold shiver touched his spine.

  "You don't mean—Lady Yearleigh?" he said incredulously. "It's impossible. With a husband like hers——"

  "You think he was a good husband, don't you?" said the Saint. "Because he was a noble sportsman. Cold baths and cricket. Hunting, shooting, and fishing. I suppose it's too much to expect you to put yourself in the place of a woman— a woman like her—who was married to that?"

  "You think she was in love with Vould?"

  "Of course she was in love with Vould. That's why I asked you if you'd looked at her at all during dinner—when Vould was talking. If you had, even you might have seen it. But you're so full of conventions. You think that any woman ought to adore a great fat-headed blustering athlete—be­cause a number of equally fat-headed men adore him. You think she oughtn't to think much of a pale poet who wears glasses, because the fat-headed athletes don't understand him, as if the ability to hit a ball with a bat were the only cri­terion of value in the world. But I tried to tell you that she was intelligent. Of course she was in love with Vould, and Vould with her. They were made for each other. I'll also bet you that Vould didn't want an interview with Yearleigh to make more protests about that bill, but to tell him that he was going to run away with his wife."

  Teal said helplessly: "You mean—when Yearleigh objected —Vould had made up his mind to kill him. Lady Yearleigh knew, and that's what she meant by——"

  "She didn't mean that at all," said the Saint. "Vould be­lieved in peace. You heard him at dinner. Have you for­gotten that remark of his? He pointed out that men had learned not to kill their neighbours so that they could steal their lawn mowers. Why should he believe that they ought to kill their neighbours so that they could steal their wives?"

  "You can't always believe what a man says ——"

  "You can believe him when he's sincere."

  "Sincere enough," Teal mentioned sceptically, "to try to kill his host."

  Simon was quiet for a moment, kicking the toe of his shoe into the gravel.

  "Did you notice that Vould was shot in the back ?" he said.

  "You heard Yearleigh's explanation."

  "You can't always believe what a man says—can you?"

  Suddenly the Saint reached out and took the dagger which Teal was still holding. He unwrapped the handkerchief from it; and Teal let out an exclamation. "You damn fool!"

  "Because I'm destroying your precious finger-prints?" mur­mured the Saint coolly. "You immortal ass! If you can hold a knife in your handkerchief to keep from marking it, couldn't anybody else?"

  The detective was silent. His stillness after that instinctive outburst was so impassive that he might have gone to sleep on his feet. But he was very much awake. And presently the Saint went on, in that gentle, somewhat mocking voice which Teal was listening for.

  "I wonder where you get the idea that a 'sportsman' is a sort of hero," he said. "It doesn't require courage to take a cold bath—it's simply a matter of whether your constitution likes it. It doesn't require courage to play cricket—haven't you ever heard the howls of protest that shake the British Empire if a batsman happens to get hit with a ball? Perhaps it requires a little more courage to watch a pack of hounds pull down a savage fox, or to loose off a shot-gun at a ferocious grouse, or to catch a great man-eating trout with a little rod and line. But there are certain things you've been brought up to believe, and your mind isn't capable of reason­ing them out for itself. You believe that a 'sportsman' is a kind of peculiarly god-like gladiator, without fear and without reproach. You believe that no gentleman would shoot a sitting partridge, and therefore you believe that he wouldn't shoot a sitting poet."

  A light wind blew through the shrubbery; and the detective felt queerly cold.

  "You're only talking," he said. "You haven't any evi­dence."

  "I know I haven't," said the Saint, with a sudden weariness. "I've only got what I think. I think that Yearleigh planned this days ago—when Vould first asked for the interview, as Yearleigh mentioned. I think he guessed what it would be about. I think his only reason for putting it off was to give himself time to send those anonymous threats to himself—to build up the melodrama he had invented. I think you'll find that those anonymous threats started on the day when Vould asked for a talk with him, and that Yearleigh had no sound reason for going away except that of putting Vould off. I think that when they were in the study tonight, Yearleigh pointed to the window and made some excuse to get Vould to turn round, and then shot him in the back in cold blood, and put this paper-knife in his hand afterwards. I think that that is what Lady Yearleigh, who must have known Year­leigh so much better than any of us, was afraid of; and I think that when she said 'He's killed him,' she meant that Yearleigh had killed Vould, and not that Vould had killed Yearleigh."

  The Saint's lighter flared, like a bomb bursting in the dark; and Teal looked up and saw his lean brown face, grim and curiously bitter in the light of the flame as he put it to his cigarette. And then the light went out again, and there was only Simon Templar's quiet voice speaking out of the dark.

  "I think that I killed Maurice Vould as surely as if I'd shot him myself, because I couldn't see all those things until now, when it's too late. If I had seen them, I might have saved him."

  "But in the back," said Teal harshly. "That's the part I can't swallow."

  The tip of the Saint's cigarette glowed and died.

  "Yearleigh was afraid of him," he said. "He couldn't risk any mistake—any cry or struggle that might have spoilt his scheme. He was afraid of Vould because, in his heart, he knew that Vould was so much cleverer and more desirable, so much more right and honest than he would ever be. He was fighting the old hopeless battle of age against youth. He knew that Vould had seen through the iniquity of his bill. The bill could never touch Yearleigh. He was too old for the last war, when I seem to remember that he made a great reputation by organising cricket matches behind the lines. He would be too old for the next. He had no children. But it's part of the psychology of life, whether you like it or not, that war is the time when the old men come back into their own, and the young men who are pressing on their heels are miraculously removed. Yearleigh knew that Vould de­spised him for it; and he was afraid. . . . Those are only the things I think, and I can't prove any of them," he said; and Teal turned abruptly on his heel and walked back towards th
e house.

  IX

  The Damsel in Distress

  "You need brains in this life of crime," Simon Templar would say sometimes; "but I often think you need luck even more."

  He might have added that the luck had to be consistent.

  Mr. Giuseppe Rolfieri was lucky up to a point, for he happened to be in Switzerland when the astounding Liver­pool Municipal Bond forgery was discovered. It was a simple matter for him to slip over the border into his own native country; and when his four partners in the swindle stum­bled down the narrow stairway that leads from the dock of the Old Bailey to the terrible blind years of penal servi­tude, he was comfortably installed in his villa at San Remo with no vengeance to fear from the Law. For it is a principal of international law that no man can be extradited from his own country, and Mr. Rolfieri was lucky to have re­tained his Italian citizenship even though he had made him­self a power in the City of London.

  Simon Templar read about the case—he could hardly have helped it, for it was one of those sensational scandals which rock the financial world once in a lifetime—but it did not strike him as a matter for his intervention. Four out of the five conspirators, including the ringleader, had been convicted and sentenced; and although it is true that there was a certain amount of public indignation at the immunity of Mr. Rolfieri, it was inevitable that the Saint, in his career of shameless lawlessness, sometimes had to pass up one inviting prospect in favour of another nearer to hand. He couldn't be every­where at once—it was one of the very few human limitations which he was ready to admit.

  A certain Domenick Naccaro, however, had other ideas.

  He called at the Saint's apartment on Piccadilly one morn­ing—a stout bald-headed man in a dark blue suit and a light blue waistcoat, with an unfashionable stiff collar and a stringy black tie and a luxuriant scroll of black moustache ornament­ing his face—and for the first moment of alarm Simon won­dered if he had been mistaken for somebody else in the same name but less respectable morals, for Signor Naccaro was accompanied by a pale pretty girl who carried a small infant swathed in a shawl.