The Saint Goes On (The Saint Series) Page 12

  Mr Teal felt that he was gazing at something that Could Not Possibly Happen. The earth was reeling across his eyes like a fantastic roundabout. He would have been incapable of further agonies of dizzy incredulity if Lord Ripwell had suddenly gone down on all fours behind a bush and tried to growl like a bear.

  The effort which he had to exert to get a grip on the situation must have cost him two years of life.

  “I brought the Saint down, your lordship, because he seemed to have some kind of knowledge of the matter, and I thought—”

  “Quite,” drivelled his lordship. “Quite. Quite right. Now I know that everything’s in good hands. If anybody knows how to solve the mystery, it’s Mr Templar. He’s got more brains than the whole of Scotland Yard put together. I say, Templar, you showed them how to do their own job in that Jill Trelawney case, didn’t you? And you had them guessing properly when Renway—that Treasury fellow—you know—”

  Chief Inspector Teal suppressed an almost uncontrollable shudder. Lord Ripwell was actually digging Simon Templar in the ribs.

  It was some time before Mr Teal was able to take command again, and even then it was a much less positive sort of command than he had intended to maintain.

  “Have you ever come across a man named Ellshaw?” he asked, when he could persuade Lord Ripwell to pay any attention to him.

  “Ellshaw? Ellshaw? Never heard of him. No. What is he?”

  “He is a rather bad card-sharper, your lordship.”

  “I don’t play cards. No. I don’t know him. Why?”

  “There is some reason to believe that he may be connected with these bombing attempts. Did you ever by any chance meet his wife—Mrs Florence Ellshaw? She was a sort of charwoman.”

  Ripwell shook his head.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever employed any sort of charwoman.” He looked up and raised his voice. “Hey, Martin, have we ever had a charwoman called Mrs Ellshaw?”

  “No, sir,” answered the youngish man who was coming across the lawn from the house, as he joined them. “At least, not in my time.”

  Ripwell introduced them.

  “This is Mr Irelock—my secretary. He’s been looking after me for five years, and he knows as much as I do.”

  “I’m sure that we’ve never employed anyone of that name,” said Martin Irelock. To describe him in a sentence, he looked like a grown-up and rather serious-minded Kewpie with hornrimmed glasses fixed across the bridge of his nose as firmly as if they had grown there. “Do you think he has something to do with this business, Inspector?”

  “It’s just a theory, but it’s the only one we have at present,” said Mr Teal.

  He summarized Simon Templar’s knowledge of the mystery for them. Lord Ripwell was interested in this. He slapped the Saint on the back.

  “Damn good,” he applauded. “But why ever didn’t you shoot the man when you had the chance? Then everything would have been cleared up.”

  “Claud Eustace doesn’t like me shooting people,” said the Saint mildly, at which Lord Ripwell guffawed in a manner which removed the last shadow of doubt from Teal’s mind that at least one member of the peerage was in an advanced and malignant stage of senile decay.

  Teal almost strangled himself.

  “Apparently both the bombs were planted on the same day,” he said, trying to lead the conversation back into the correct vein with all the official dignity of which he was capable. “I understand that your secretary—”

  “That’s right,” agreed Irelock. “I had to come down here the day before yesterday, and there was no bomb here then.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “Just after six—I caught the six-twenty back to town.”

  “So the bomb must have been placed here at some time between six o’clock on Wednesday and the time the chauffeur found it this morning.” Teal’s baby-blue eyes, throttled down again to a somewhat strained drowsiness, were scanning the house and garden. The grounds were only about three-quarters of an acre in extent, bordered by the road on one side and the river on another, and separated from its neighbours by well-grown cypress hedges on the other two boundaries. In such a comparatively quiet situation, it might not be difficult to hear of anyone who had been seen loitering about the vicinity. “The local police may have learnt something more by this time, of course,” he said.

  “We’ll get the Inspector to come round after dinner,” said Ripwell affably. “You’ll stay, of course.”

  Teal chewed for a while, pursing his lips.

  “I’d rather take your lordship back to London with me,” he said, and Ripwell frowned puzzledly.

  “What on earth for?”

  “Both the bombing attempts failed, but these people seem pretty determined. They made a second attempt to get Templar a few hours after the first. There’s every chance that they may make a second attempt to get you, and it’s easier to look after a man in London.”

  If it is possible for a man to snort good-humouredly, Lord Ripwell achieved the feat.

  “Stuff and nonsense, Inspector,” he said. “I came down here for a rest and some fresh air, and I’m not going to run away just because of a thing like this. I don’t expect we’ll hear any more about it, but if we do, I’m in good hands. Anybody who tries to kill me while the Saint’s here will be biting off a bit more than he can chew—eh? What d’you say, Templar?”

  “I was trying to explain to your lordship,” said Teal thickly, “that I only brought Templar down to compare his story with yours. He has no official standing whatever, and as far as I am concerned he can go home—”

  “Eh? What? Go home?” said Lord Ripwell, who had suddenly become very obtuse or very determined. “Don’t be silly. I’m sure he doesn’t want to go home. He likes this sort of thing. It isn’t troubling him at all. And I want to talk to him about some of his exploits—I’ve wanted to for years. I like him. Wish my son was half the man he is.” His lordship gurgled, with what Mr Teal, from his prejudiced viewpoint, considered to be positively doddering glee. “You don’t want to go home, do you, Templar?”

  Simon tapped out a cigarette on his case, and smiled. It was certainly rather a gorgeous situation. His gaze flickered wickedly over Claud Eustace Teal’s reddening face.

  “All the excitement seems to go on round Lord Ripwell and me,” he murmured. “With both of us here together under the same roof, we could look forward to a gay week-end. I think it would be a grand idea to stay.”

  4

  “Well, what d’you make of it, Templar?” asked Ripwell, when they were scattered about the living-room around a bottle of excellent dry sherry.

  Simon shrugged.

  “Up to the present, nothing at all. All of you know as much as I do. There seems to be some kind of move afoot to discourage people from seeing Ellshaw, but I’ve taken a gander at him myself, and I didn’t notice anything about him that anyone would be crazy to see. All the same, there must be something big behind it—you don’t get three murders planned for the same day because somebody wants to keep the name of his tailor secret.”

  “Do you think you could ever have known Ellshaw under another name, your lordship?” asked Teal. “Can you think of anyone who might have a bad enough grievance against you to want to blow you up?”

  “I haven’t an enemy in the world,” said Lord Ripwell, and, looking at his clean pleasant face and friendly eyes, the statement was easy to believe.

  The Saint grinned slowly, and reached out to refill his glass.

  “I have plenty,” he remarked. “But if you haven’t any, it disposes of that motive. Anyway, it’s my experience that your enemies won’t take nearly as many risks to kill you as the blokes who just think you might stand in their way. Revenge may be sweet, but boodle buys a hell of a lot more cigars.”

  “Are we to consider ourselves in a state of siege?” inquired Irelock somewhat ironically.

  “Not unless it amuses you,” answered the Saint coolly. “But I don’t think anyone in this gat
hering who wants to live to a great age ought to be too casual about standing in front of windows or wandering around the garden after dark. The Ellshaw-hiding outfit keeps moving pretty quickly, by the looks of things, and they have enterprising ideas.”

  Ripwell looked almost hopeful.

  “I suppose you’ve got a gun, Inspector?”

  Mr Teal moved his head in a slow negative gesture, with his jaws working phlegmatically.

  “No, I’m not armed,” he said tolerantly, and his gaze shifted deliberately on to the Saint, as if estimating the degree of certainty with which he could pick out one man who was.

  “I think we have a revolver somewhere,” said Irelock.

  “By George, so we have!” exclaimed Ripwell. “See if you can find it, Martin.”

  “There isn’t any ammunition,” said Irelock cynically.

  His lordship’s face fell momentarily. Then he recovered buoyantly.

  “We’ll have to get some—I’ve got a licence for it. Never thought I should want it, but this is absolutely the time. Where can I get some cartridges? What d’you say, Inspector? With all this business going on, I’m entitled to have a gun in self-defence, what?”

  Mr Teal had the typical English police officer’s distaste for firearms, but he had no authority to show his disapproval.

  “Certainly, if you have a licence, you’re entitled to it,” he replied unenthusiastically. “The local police may be able to lend you a few rounds of ammunition.”

  There was another arrival before dinner in the shape of Lord Ripwell’s son, the Honourable Kenneth Nulland, who drove up in a very small and very noisy sports car. Irelock went out to meet him and brought him in—he was a young man with fair wavy hair and a face rather like a bright young cod, and he was very agitated. He shook hands limply.

  “Haven’t you solved the mystery yet? It’s no good asking me to help you. I think it was the jolly old Communists, or the Fascists, or something. Anyhow, I hope they don’t try anything more while I’m here—I can only just stay to dinner.”

  “I thought you were coming down for the week-end,” said his father slowly.

  “Sorry, Pop. Old Jumbo Ferris rang up and asked me to go to a party—he’s having a jolly old beano down at his place in Hampshire.”

  “Did you have to accept? Cicely’s coming over tomorrow.”

  Nulland shook his head. He grabbed a drink and hung himself over a chair, rather like a languid eel in plus fours.

  “Sorry, Pop. But she won’t miss me.”

  “I don’t blame her,” said Ripwell, with devastating candour. He turned to Teal and the Saint. “Cicely Holland’s a sort of protégée of mine. Works in my office. Daughter of a pal of mine when I was young. Never made any money, but he was a pal till he died. Damned fine girl. I wish Kenneth was fit to marry her. She won’t look at him as he is, and I wouldn’t either.”

  Kenneth Nulland grinned weakly.

  “Pop thinks I’m a jolly old prodigal son,” he explained.

  The explanation was scarcely necessary. Simon sensed the bitter disappointment behind Lord Ripwell’s vigorous frankness, and, for his own comfort, led the conversation away into a less personal channel. But while he went on casually talking he studied Lord Ripwell’s heir-presumptive more closely, and realized that Nulland was simultaneously studying him. The youngster was a mass of undisciplined nerves under his flaccid posturing, and the inane clichés which made up ninety per cent of his dialogue came pattering out so noisily at the slightest lull in the general talk that Simon wondered why he was so afraid of silence.

  Teal noticed it too.

  “What do you think?” he asked the Saint.

  They were alone together for a moment after dinner—Lord Ripwell was telephoning the local Inspector, and Nulland had taken Martin Irelock out to admire some new gadget he had had fitted to his car.

  “He’s frightened,” said the Saint carefully. “But I don’t know that it would take much to frighten him. Maybe he doesn’t want to be blown up.”

  Mr Teal sucked at his after-dinner ration of spearmint. He was letting himself become temporarily resigned to the irregularity of his position. After all, there was nothing else that he could do about it. The house was Lord Ripwell’s, and the case was more or less Lord Ripwell’s: if Lord Ripwell wanted the Saint to stay with him, that was Lord Ripwell’s business and nobody else’s. Even the Assistant Commissioner, Teal tried to tell himself with more confidence than he actually felt, could have found no flaw in the transparent logic of the argument. Therefore, proceeded Chief Inspector Teal, brilliantly scoring all the points in this pleasant imaginary debate with the spectre of his superior officer, since the Saint had to be accepted, it was simply an obvious stroke of masterly and unscrupulous cunning to pick his brains for any help they could be induced to yield.

  “That fellow has something on his mind,” said the detective, astutely pursuing this Machiavellian plan.

  “If you could call it a mind,” said the Saint, docilely surrendering the fruits of his cerebration.

  Teal screwed up a scrap of pink paper in his pudgy fingers.

  “I suppose he’d come into all Ripwell’s money, if a bomb went off as it was meant to.”

  “Don’t forget he’d come into all Mrs Ellshaw’s money as well—and mine,” said the Saint, with the utmost kindness. “And I’ll bet he’d need it all. There’s a beautiful motive in that, waiting for some bright detective to dig it out, Claud. I expect Ripwell gives him a perfectly miserly allowance, don’t you? Ripwell strikes one as that sort of man.”

  Mr Teal’s mouth tightened—he was an amiable man in most ways, but he had a train of memories behind him which were apt to start a quite unreasonably truculent inflammation in his stout bosom when the Saint smiled at him so compassionately and said things which made him feel that his legs were being playfully lengthened. He might even have responded with fatal rudeness, if he had had time to compose a sufficiently crushing retort, but Lord Ripwell joined them again before this devastating gem of repartee was polished to his mordant satisfaction.

  “Inspector Oldwood will be over in ten minutes,” said his lordship. “He’s bringing some ammunition for my gun—I wish I knew where the damned thing was.” He went to the French window that opened on to the garden at the side, and peered out. “Hey, Martin!”

  It was nearly dark outside, and the air had turned cool directly the sun went down. Simon Templar, lighting one of Lord Ripwell’s cigars by the mantelpiece, wondered if that seasonable evening chill was enough to account for the way Kenneth Nulland seemed to be shivering when he came in behind the secretary.

  “Martin, where is that damned revolver? I haven’t seen it for months.”

  “I think it’s in the loft,” said Irelock. “Shall I have a look for it tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?” repeated Ripwell, screwing up his face like a disappointed schoolboy. “Eh? What? I want it now. Suppose this gang comes back tonight? Nonsense. What’s the matter with looking for it now?”

  “Right-ho,” said Irelock peaceably. “I’ll look for it now.”

  “Right-jolly-old-ho,” echoed Nulland, peeling himself off the edge of the table in his undulating boneless way. “And I must be tootling along. Cheerio, Pop. Sorry I can’t stay longer, but jolly old Jumbo Ferris is always complaining about me being late for his parties. Toodle-oo, Martin—”

  Mr Teal cleared his throat.

  “Just a minute, Mr Nulland,” he said. “There are one or two small questions you might be able to help us with before you go.”

  The young man’s restless eyes travelled about the room.

  “What are they? I don’t know anything.”

  “Have you ever met a man named—”

  “Look!”

  It was Irelock’s voice, sharp and unnatural. Wheeling round to look at him, the Saint saw that his face was tense and startled, his weak eyes in their tortoise-shell frames staring rigidly at the window.

  “What is it?” snapped T
eal.

  “A man looked in—just now—with a mask on his face. I saw him—”

  Teal put his gum away in the side of his mouth and waded towards the casement with surprising speed for a man of his flabby dimensions, but Simon was even quicker. His hand dropped on the detective’s shoulder.

  “Wait for it, Claud! You may be just ballast at Scotland Yard, but you’re the light of my life—and I’d hate you to go out too soon. Switch off those lights, somebody!”

  It was Lord Ripwell who carried out the order, and the Saint’s voice went on speaking in the dark.

  “Okay, souls. Now you can get on with it. But try to remember what I told you about standing in front of lighted windows—and watch your step outside. Will someone show me the way to the back door?”

  “I will,” barked Ripwell eagerly.

  He grabbed Simon by the arm and hustled him into the hall. Irelock called out, “Shall Ken and I take the front?”

  “Do that,” said the Saint, and slipped out his automatic as he followed Ripwell into the kitchen.

  “I wish I knew where that damned revolver of mine was,” said his lordship plaintively, as he shot back the bolt of the trades door.

  The Saint smiled.

  “Since you haven’t got it, you’d better let me go first. And put down that cigar—it’s a swell target.”

  He slipped out into the cool darkness, thumbing down the safety catch of his gun with an absurd feeling of unreality. The night was moonless, and the sky was a film of deep grey, only a shade lighter than the dull black of the earth and the trees. A stir of the air that was too soft even to be called a breeze brought the mingled scents of the river and damp grasses to his nostrils: everything was so suddenly quiet and peacefully commonplace after the boisterous confusion of their dispersal that he almost put his gun away again and laughed at himself. Such things did not happen. And yet—he would have liked to know why Kenneth Nulland was afraid, and what his reaction to the name of Ellshaw would have been…

  Crack!

  The shot crashed out from the front of the house, and a shout followed it. He heard the roar of an engine, and all the feeling of unreality vanished. As he raced up the strip of turf under the shadow of the wall he heard a shrill cry for help, in what sounded like Kenneth Nulland’s voice.