The Saint Sees It Through s-26 Read online

  On his way, with the new chill ugly knowledge that the palpitating fright of Ferdinand Pairfield could only have been germinated by something that had been there in that house before any board creaked and Pairfield had thrown his door open and seen the Saint. And that that something, whatever form it took, could only be deadly for the federal man who had called himself Patrick Hogan—if it hadn't been conclusively deadly already.

  Or if simple death might not be much better than what could be going on.

  Simon was at the foot of the stairs, in the hall, with the front door only a few steps away; and Avalon was still close beside him. Escape would have been easy for them. But he knew with­out even wordless asking that neither of them had thought of that. Her eyes were steady and quiet and only inquiring as they met his again. The sounds that came through the solid closed door of the living-room were strangely distorted and dreadful in their muffled distortion.

  The Saint saw her throat move as she listened and looked at him; but her gaze was only waiting, always.

  Their hands met and held that time, for an instant; and some­thing quirked over his lips that could have been a smile, but wasn't. Then he left her.

  He didn't go to the living-room door, but vanished the other way, towards the kitchen.

  In a few seconds more he was back, and he brought with him a stag-handled carving knife. The blade was strong and gleaming, and he tested it with his thumb before he slid it up his left sleeve and held it there with the pressure of a bent elbow against the flat of the blade.

  His lips almost touched her ear, and he spoke in a voice that was only the echo of a whisper.

  "Get on your horse, darling," he said. "Sneak out of here and grab one of the cars outside while I keep 'em busy. Drive into town and recruit some large healthy cops. Bring 'em back just as fast as you can. And have breakfast with me."

  She only shook her head. Her long hair brushed his mouth.

  He couldn't argue with her there.

  He left her and hoped that she would go, and knew that she wouldn't. He was glad and yet bitter about that; but it was a confusion of things that he could only take as they broke over him and save to be struggled with some other time.

  He had to end this other thing first, no matter how.

  He went to the door that the sounds came through, and stopped to put an eye to the keyhole for a second's preview of what he had to walk into. And it was curious that while his face turned to stone his only detached mental reaction was that it was merely exactly what he had imagined in a distant nightmare of unbearable understanding. He had that unreal sensation of being a long way off from all of it, away somewhere, even while the nerve endings curdled under his skin and he began to move under an impetus that was altogether instinctive and altogether quixotic and absurd.

  Even while he heard the air-conditioned voice of Dr. Ernst Zellermann, cool and persuasive like the voice of a society psychoanalyst in a darkened consulting-room, the only distinct articulate sound that Re caught and held afterwards, saying: "Why not be reasonable, Patrick, and get it into your head that I must go on until you tell me exactly how much you've been able to accomplish with your masquerade?"

  The keyhole glimpse wiped out into a full picture as Simon opened the door.

  It was something that would haunt him all his life, something that belonged in a Grand Guignol school of outlandish horror, that was so much worse because the mind had heard all about it long ago and long ago dismissed it as a ghoulish fantasy. Now it was real after all, and the reality had a chill intellectual impact that was capable of leaving scars on the memory of even such a man as the Saint, who thought he had already seen most variations of what there was to be seen in the pathology of macabre dreadfulness.

  The figure of Dr. Zellermann, standing poised and cool with his smooth silver locks and fine ascetic profile and a long cigarette clipped in his sensitive fingers and treasuring half an inch of unshaken ash, was a stock item in its way. So was the figure of Patrick Hogan, bound hand and foot in a chair, with the sweat of agony running down into his eyes and the lower half of his face covered with the gag through which some of those horrible formless strangled sounds had come. It was the two women squatting beside him, Cookie with her crude bloated face no longer wearing its artificial smile, and Natello with the sallow skin stretched tight over the bones of her skull and her haggard eyes smouldering with a light of weird absorption. The women, and what they were doing. . . .

  And this was the reality of half-remembered legend-histories of Messalina, of tales of the Touareg women commissioned to the ritual torture of their captives, of witches out of a dim uni­versal folklore bent to the consummation of some black sacra­ment of pain. This was what gave a sudden dimension and articulation to his ambiguous impressions of Cookie and Natello, just as in their separate ways the performance seemed to breathe blood and life into them, hardening and enrooting the slobbish grossness of Cookie and illuminating Natello's starved ethereal gawkiness—even throwing a pale reflection of its hot heathen glow on Zellermann's satanically connoisseurish frigidity. This, that somehow crystallised and focused all the twisted negations and perversions that were inherent in the philosophy they served. This new scientific and persuasive barbarism, aptly and symbolically framed in the gleaming chrome-plated jungle of a Pairfield-decorated parlour. . . .

  But for Simon Templar it was a symbol too; and more than that it was a trial and evidence and verdict, and a sentence that only waited for an execution that would be a pride and a clean pleasure to remember with the ugliness that began it.

  He walked into the room empty-handed, with the carving knife in his sleeve held by the pressure of his bent left arm.

  Zellermann held his cigarette with the ash unbroken in his left hand, and his right hand dropped into the side pocket of his beautifully tailored coat. Aside from the lightning switch of his bleached gray eyes, that was his only movement. But it was quite adequate for what it meant.

  The Saint didn't even seem to. notice it.

  He was Tom Simons again, perfectly and entirely, for the few steps that he had to take. They seemed to stretch out for an infinity of distance and an eternity of time; but no one who watched him could have seen how every cell and fibre of him was wrung out in the achievement of that convincing uncon­sciousness of their importance. He lurched quite clumsily in his walk, and his stare trying to hold Zellermann was blank and glazed—and those were the easiest tricks in his act.

  " 'Ullo, Doc," he mouthed. "Wot abaht one fer the road?"

  He was in a dream where every second seemed to take a week to crawl by, and you could stop overnight to analyse every inching flicker of event.

  He saw Zellermann relax fractionally, even embark on the mental prologue to an elaborate clinical evaluation of drug reactions. He saw Cookie and Kay Natello rising and turning towards him with a mixture of uncertainty and fear and hope. He saw everything, without looking directly at any of it.

  "You must be made out of iron, Tom," Zellermann said admiringly, and as if he had learned the formula from a book. "You just about put us all under the table. We were going to bed."

  The Saint staggered closer to him.

  "I bin to bed once," he said. "But I'm thirsty. Honester­gawd. Coudden I 'ave just one more drop before closing time?"

  Then his wandering gaze seemed to catch sight of Hogan for the first time.

  "Swelp me," he said, "that's 'im! The bugger 'oo 'it me! All tied up shipshake so 'e 'as ter be'yve. Just lemme 'ave one crack at' im—"

  "Patrick just had too much to drink," Zellermann said. "We're trying to get him to bed . . ."

  He actually moved closer, suavely and with almost contemptu­ous skill, interposing himself between Simon and the uglier details of his specialized treatment for intoxication.

  The Saint blinked at him blearily, swaying another step and two steps nearer.

  It looked fine and perfect until the doctor's glance suddenly switched and hardened on a point beyond the Sain
t's shoulder, and the whole calm patronising balance of his body hardened with it as if it had been nipped in an interstellar frost.

  And even then, only one precise unit of him moved—the hand that still rested in his coat pocket. But that movement was still as adequate and eloquent as it had been the first time.

  Simon didn't need any manuals or blueprints to work it out. He knew, with that endless impersonality of comprehension, that Avalon Dexter had started to follow him into the room, and that Zellermann had seen her, and that the shining wheels that ran in Zellermann's brain had spun an instantaneous web together, and that rightly or wrongly the web had enough tensile strength in Zellermann's mind for Zellermann to walk on it.

  The Saint's own movement actually followed and resulted from Zellermann's; and yet it was like the clicking of a switch and the awakening of a light, so that it was almost simultaneous.

  He heard the splitting blast of Zellermann's gun in the same quantum as he was aware of stumbling sideways and straight­ening his left arm so that the bone handle of the carving knife dropped into the curved fingers of his waiting left hand, and then he was aware of a searing pang in his left arm and a shocking blow that spun him half around, but he had his bal­ance again in the same transposition, and his right hand took the haft of the knife as it dropped and drew it clear of the sleeve and turned it and drove it straight with the same continued gesture into Zellermann's chest, just a little to one side of the breastbone and a hand's breadth below the carnation in his buttonhole.

  Then he left the knife there where it stuck and took Zeller­mann's automatic away as the doctor's fingers loosened on it, ripping it clear of the pocket at about the moment when Zellermann's shoulders rolled on the floor, and fired again and again while he was still rising and Cookie was starting towards him with her broad muscular hands reaching out and Natello was still swinging back the hot curling-iron that she had been playing with.

  They were the first women that Simon Templar had ever killed, and he did it rather carefully and conscientiously, in the pellucid knowledge of what they were and what they had done, and to his own absolute judicial satisfaction, shooting Kay Natello three inches above her hollow navel and Cookie in the same umbilical bullseye, as closely as he could estimate it through her adipose camouflage.

  4

  Hamilton said almost plaintively: "Couldn't you arrange to leave more than one prisoner, just once in a while?"

  "Could you arrange to have people stop attacking me?" asked the Saint. "Self-defense is so tempting. Besides, think how much I save the country on trials and attorneys. I ought to get a rebate on my income tax for it."

  "I'll speak to the President about it right away."

  "Anyway, I left you the kingpin—and I think he's got the kind of imagination that'll do some real suffering while he's waiting for his turn in the death house. I feel rather happy about that—which is why I left him."

  "Before your tender heart gets you into any more trouble," Hamilton said, "you'd better get out of there if you can. I'll talk to you again in New York. I've got another job for you."

  "You always have," said the Saint. "I'll get out. Hogan can hold the fort long enough."

  He cradled the telephone and looked at the federal man again. He said: "It's all yours, Patrick. Washington wants me out of the limelight. As usual. ... By the way, is the name really Hogan?"

  The other nodded. Simon had done all that he could for him: he would be able to hold the fort. And other forts again. His face was still pale and drawn and shiny, but there was no uncertainty in it. It was a good face, moulded on real founda­tions, and durable.

  "Sure," he said. "Hogan's the name. But I was born in New Jersey, and I have to work like hell on the brogue." He was studying the Saint while he talked, quite frankly and openly, but with a quiet respect that was a natural part of his reversion from the character part he had been playing, sitting very laxly but squarely in an armchair with the glass of brandy that Simon had poured for him, conserving and gathering his strength. He said: "You had me fooled. Your cockney's a lot better. And that make-up—it is a make-up, isn't it?"

  "I hope so," said the Saint with a smile. "I'd hate to look like this for the rest of my life."

  "I didn't expect anything like this when I left my badge in your pocket. I was just clutching at a straw. I figured it was a thousand to one it wouldn't do me any good. I thought you were just another drunken sailor—in fact, I let you pick me up just for that, so I could watch what this gang would do with you."

  The Saint laughed a little.

  Avalon Dexter finished binding up his arm with torn strips of another of Cookie's expensive sheets. She was very cool and efficient about it. He moved his arm and tested the bandage approvingly; then he began to wriggle into his jacket again. Zellermann's one shot had missed the bone: the bullet had passed clean through, and the flesh wound would take care of itself.

  He said: "Thanks, darling."

  She helped him with his coat.

  He said: "Go on quoting me as just another drunken sailor, Pat. You don't even have to bring me into this finale. The witnesses won't talk. So Tom Simons woke up, and was drunk and sore and scared, and scrammed the hell out. He went back to his ship, and nobody cares about him anyway. Let him go. Because I am going anyway, while you take the phone and start calling your squads to take care of the bodies."

  "What about Miss Dexter?" Hogan asked practically.

  "She was scared too, and she scrammed independently. You know about her and how they were trying to use her. Leave her out of it if you can; but if you need her we've got her address in New York. I'll steal one of the cars and take her back with me. Hamilton will okay it. The police in New York were warned long ago, it seems—when Zellermann tried to frame me at 21, they went through a performance to make Zellermann think he'd gotten me out of the way, but they turned me loose at once."

  "Okay, Saint. When you call that Imperative exchange in Washington, I say Uncle anyhow. But I can look after this. And—thank you."

  They shook hands around. Hogan stayed seated in his chair. He could keep going. He was still full of questions, but he was too well trained to ask them.

  "Let's get together one day," said the Saint, and meant it just like that.

  He went out with Avalon.

  They talked very ordinarily and quietly on the drive back, as if they had known each other for a long while, which they had, while the dawn lightened slowly around them and drew out the cool sweetness of the dew on the peaceful fields. The red-gold casque of her hair was pillowed on his shoulder as they slipped into the rousing murmur of Manhattan in the bright sunlight of another day.

  WATCH FOR THE SIGN OF THE SAINT. HE WILL BE BACK.

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  Leslie Charteris

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