14 The Saint Goes On Read online

  The weight of his automatic came off his hip pocket; and then he was pushed forward. Only then, when he could turn round and see Jeffroll's face, and keep a wary eye on the man's reactions, did he venture to indulge in any conversational amenities.

  "Bless my soul," he remarked mildly. "Do you know, for a moment I thought you were going to kiss me."

  Major Portmore reached down under the desk, where he was sitting, and brought up the shot-gun which he had been carrying in the wood that morning.

  "Get over against the wall and shut up," he ordered harshly.

  Simon got over against the wall.

  "Now then," said Jeffroll, over the sights of his revolver, "where is Julia?"

  The Saint's mouth hardened as if it had been turned to stone. Then that was the explanation of the landlord's strange whiteness. Ideas drummed through his brain-Hoppy Uniatz asleep, Garthwait who had escaped while he was away, the lawyer's visit. . . . But he scarcely had time to pin down one of those speeding flashes of fact before Jeffroll's voice was shrilling into his ears again.

  "Hurry up, damn you! I'm going to count up to ten. If you haven't answered by that time"

  "What happens?" asked the Saint, in his quietest voice. "You can hang yourself off that beam without bothering to shoot me-or would you rather have it done legally? And where does it get you, anyhow?"

  Portmore nodded.

  "That's right," he said impersonally. "I told you shooting was too quick, Jeffroll. Voss-Weems-you tie him up. I'll see if I can make him talk."

  Weems got up limply out of his chair and produced a coil of wire. The Saint's arms were twisted behind his back, and the wrists quickly and efficiently bound; then his ankles were similarly treated. Jeffroll's mouth worked as if he was tempted to refuse interference and stick to his original threat, but he said nothing.

  Portmore got up and came round the desk. He handed the shot-gun over to Voss and stood in front of the Saint.

  "Will you answer that question, or have I got to thrash it out of you?" he demanded.

  Simon looked at him steadily. Placed as he was, it required a superhuman effort to hold back the obvious defiance. Only the fact that he could understand and sympathise with the feelings of his inquisitors helped him to check his temper -that, and the knowledge that the same liberties could not be taken with a crazed amateur that could be taken with dispassionate professionals.

  "Don't you think it might have been worth while asking me the question in a normal manner, before you were reduced to all this Lyceum stuff?" he replied evenly.

  For a second they were taken aback; then Portmore blustered back into the breach.

  "All right-if you're going to answer the question, you can answer it now."

  "I haven't the vaguest notion where Julia is," said the Saint immediately. "But I expect Garthwait could tell us."

  "Because he helped you take her away," chattered Jeffroll.

  "You're wrong there," said the Saint, as equably as he could. "I've told you that I had nothing to do with it. Will you tell me when you think she was taken?"

  The landlord's white tragic face was in grotesque contrast to the murderousness of his eyes.

  "You know that. You let Garthwait out of this office-you only pretended to fight him because you thought we'd be taken in by you. You took her away between you, last night. You took your car out of the garage----"

  "You saw that when you came out to drive a lorryload of earth from your tunnel down to the quay and tip it into the harbour," said the Saint.

  If he had expected to cause a sensation with that blunt challenge, he was disappointed. Not one of the men showed any more reaction than if he had shown that he knew the hotel had a thatched roof; and Jeffroll babbled on: "You took her away in your car, and then Garthwait telephoned this morning-------"

  "This is wasting time," snarled Voss. "Let him do the talking, old man; and if he doesn't talk we'll see what we can do to make him."

  "I'm waiting for a chance to talk," retorted the Saint curtly. "I guess there are plenty of explanations to be made, and I don't want to waste time either. I'll put my cards on the table and trade them for yours, if you can stop making damn fools of yourselves for five minutes."

  "Get on with it, then," said Portmore. "And don't call me a damn fool again, or I'll hurt you."

  Simon looked him in the eyes.

  "Hitting a man who can't hit you back would naturally prove you weren't a damn fool, wouldn't it?" he said icily.

  "Oh, leave him alone, Portmore," drawled Weems. "Let's hear what he's got to say first."

  "Thanks." Simon held the Major's gaze as long as the other would meet it; then he relaxed against the wall. "What I've got to say won't take long. To start with, my name isn't Tombs. It's Templar-Simon Templar. You may have read about me in the newspaper sometime. I'm called the Saint."

  This time he did get a reaction; but for about the first time in his life he did not pause to bask in the scapegrace glow which his own notoriety usually gave him.

  "I came down here because I heard there was something mysterious going on, and poking my nose into mysterious goings-on is my business. I'd never met Garthwait in my life, never heard of him, till we had that argument in the bar last night and I pushed his face in. I know most of the crooks in this country, but I can't know all of them. I came prowling about last night because I heard noises, and I found Garthwait tied up in here-----"

  "And let him out."

  "No. I admit it was my fault that he got out, but it was unintentional. I opened the door with a pair of wirecutting pliers, and I left them behind, accidentally, when I went out again. Before that, he'd told me that he was supposed to meet a guy on the Axminster road, and that this guy would give me ten thousand quid to let him loose--from the way he talked he seemed to think I was one of your party. I pushed off to keep the date with this guy------"

  "And he gave you ten thousand pounds to let Garthwait go," said Voss flatly.

  Simon shook his head.

  "He didn't-for one reason, because he was a bit wiser in sin than you fellows, and he recognised me."

  "But you'd have done it if he had given you ten thousand pounds."

  "I don't know," said the Saint candidly. "It isn't my party anyhow, and I've a pretty open mind; but on the whole I doubt it. Anyway the question doesn't arise. I went out to keep this date because I was hoping to collect some more information on this racket you've got here. On account of the guy on the road recognising me, I didn't get much more than a couple of bullets whizzing past my ear; but I did hear his voice, and I've heard it again this morning. I can't help it if you think this is a tall story, but the guy on the road- Garthwait's pal-was your lawyer friend who just called."

  There was a moment's silence; and then Weems sniffed loudly.

  "Oh, quate," he said; and Simon Templar, who reckoned that he himself could do almost anything with his voice, had to acknowledge that he had never heard such a quintessence of sneeringly bored incredulity expressed in two syllables.

  "You're the worst liar I've ever listened to," rasped Portmore, more crudely. "Why, you bloody crook!-Yestering told us you'd probably have some slippery story----"

  "I notice he didn't stay to listen to it," said the Saint.

  For a second he had them again; and in that second he got several things straight. Yestering hadn't taken such an insane risk after all-the lawyer had simply come to the hotel with two strings to his bow and an arrow on each of them, ready to use whichever one his reception told him to. If it had been hostile, he would have known at once that the Saint really was in cahoots with the inn garrison; but Julia Trafford would still remain as an effective hostage. The reception having been friendly, Yestering would have realised that the Saint was sitting in with a lone hand: to pass on the job of getting rid of him to Jeffroll & Co. was the most elementary tactical development. But there was one thing the lawyer had forgotten-or, rather, had never known about-one cogent argument that might still be thrown in in time t
o break the back of Jeffroll's insensate vengefulness before his fear drove him too far beyond the reach of reason. Seizing his momentary advantage without relaxing a fraction of his iron restraint, the Saint used it.

  "I can give you a certain amount of proof," he said. "It doesn't back up every word I say, but it's something. I didn't come down here entirely off my own bat. I was asked to come-by someone on the spot who was definitely worried about what was going on."

  "Who was that?" asked Voss sceptically.

  "Julia."

  They stared at him hesitantly-even Portmore looked doubtful. Then Jeffroll's trembling hand brought up the revolver again.

  "That's a lie! Julia didn't know anything"

  "That's why she wrote to me," said the Saint. "The letter's in my breast pocket-why don't you read it?"

  Portmore took it out and passed it over.

  "Is that her writing?"

  Jeffroll nodded.

  "My God," he said stupidly.

  Voss took the letter from him, glanced through it, and handed it to Portmore. They looked at each other rather foolishly. Portmore dropped the letter on the desk in front of Weems, who turned it over with a limp hand and rubbed the place where his chin would have been if he had had a chin. An awkward kind of silence settled upon the congregation and scratched itself reflectively, as Job might have done on discovering a new and hitherto unsuspected boil, Weems was the first to break it.

  "That does seem to make things look a little bit different," he admitted, gazing vacantly at the inkwell.

  Portmore cleared his throat.

  "What was your story again?" he asked.

  The Saint repeated it, in greater detail; and this time there were no interruptions. When it was finished, the four men looked at one another almost bashfully, like members of a Civic Reform committee who have caught each other buying nudist magazines. Something compromising had certainly been done. There had, perhaps, been a slight technical departure from the canons of good form and unblemished purity. But nothing, of course, that had not been done with the most impeccable motives-that could not, naturally, be explained away with a few well-chosen words delivered in an austere and dignified and gentlemanly tone.

  The other three turned automatically to Jeffroll, tacitly appointing him their spokesman; but perhaps this failure to respond immediately was understandable. The innkeeper had lowered his gun some minutes before, but the strained pallor of his face had altered only in degree.

  "Then-then that means Garthwait has got her!" he stammered-. "And if Yestering-if Yestering's gone over to him . . . or he may even have been the man who put Garthwait on to us-nobody else knew. Then it'll all have been for nothing- they'll use our work and divide the money. . . ." Suddenly, absurdly, his weak pathetic eyes turned to the Saint in helpless appeal. "What are we going to do?"

  Simon smiled.

  "I'd like to help you," he remarked lazily, "but I'm afraid it always cramps my style when I'm tied up."

  "Sorry, old boy," drawled Captain Voss, for after all he was an officer and a gentleman, and had once played cricket for Oxford.

  He stepped forward to undo the wire; but he had barely started fumbling with it when there was a scutter of quick lurching footsteps in the passage outside, and the door burst open with a crash.

  It was the big black-haired man, Kane, who reeled in under the startled eyes of his companions. His shirt was ripped into two great trailing fragments, and he was clutching one side of his head dizzily. A small trickle of blood ran down his cheek from under the heel of his hand. He stared at the scene for a moment and then nodded weakly, sagging against the jamb of the door.

  "Good," he said huskily. "We've still got one of the swine, anyhow."

  "What the hell are you talking about?" demanded Port-more, with the reaction of his nerves indexed in the unnecessary loudness of his voice. "This fellow's all right-we made a mistake. What's happened?"

  Kane glared at him with bloodshot eyes.

  "Who made a mistake?" he rasped. "That pal of his-that Yankee thug-came out just now. After Yestering. He tried to hit me with the butt of his gun-did it, too. Laid me out. When I woke up I was lying in the hall-and he'd got away!"

  IX SIMON TEMPLAR wriggled his cramped limbs into the most comfortable position he could find, and tried to doze. There was really nothing to encourage him in this relaxation, for even the most ascetic of mortals might find it difficult to fall into a peaceful sleep while lying on a hard floor with his hands tied behind his back, and the mental serenity which might have made these physical discomforts tolerable was noticeably lacking. The Saint scratched an itching part of his nose by rubbing it against the edge of the carpet, and contemplated the inscrutable capriciousness of Life.

  Six hours ago he had been on the very point of removing himself from under the aim of a thunderbolt with masterly adroitness and aplomb. Five and three-quarter hours ago he might have been in complete control of the situation, with Jeffroll and the Four Horsemen sitting in eager humility at his feet while he planned and ordered their counterattack with crisp and inspiring efficiency. But during that vital quarter of an hour things had gung, as they had with Robert Burns' immortal mouse, distressingly agley.

  They had, fairly enough, given him a chance to explain the conduct of Mr. Uniatz; but for once in his life the Saint felt as if he had been hit below the belt. He had been swatted with the full force of the sort of situation which he had himself so often used on Chief Inspector Teal, of Scotland Yard; and he admitted the poetic justice of the reversal without enjoying it any the more for that.

  "The damn fool must have gone off his rocker," was the only thing he had honestly been able to say; and even now, five hours and three quarters later, he could think of no other explanation. The psychological motivations of Hoppy's mind remained, as they always had been, shrouded in the unpenetrable darkness of the Styx. Down in the forest of Mr. Uniatz's fogbound brain, something occasionally stirred; and only God Almighty could predict what would develop from one of those rare bewildering feats of cerebral peristalsis.

  Simon tried to derive some consolation from the fact that he was not dead yet.

  On the other hand, he wasn't far off it. Major Portmore, in his bluff healthy way, had been the first to advocate a resumption of threats of violence; but he had been overruled. At least their previous conversation had done something to shake the meeting's confidence in itself, and to restore a tendency to sober and judicial thinking. And Julia Trafford's letter remained as one unshaken scrap of evidence in the Saint's favour. Jeffroll was sure it wasn't a forgery, and Voss admitted that to call it a forgery would have postulated an almost unbelievable amount of foresight and cunning on the Saint's part. Weems said: "Oh, absolutely. But" and continued to stare vacuously at his finger-nails. Kane, with his head still bloody and aching from the impact of the butt of Hoppy's Betsy on his temple, was pardonably inclined to side with Portmore; but Jeffroll had lost some of the fire which had temporarily wiped out his natural self. During the argument, a little more information came out. The big moment, it appeared, was actually scheduled for that very night: everything had been done, the work finished, everything prepared, and Yestering in his lawful capacity of a solicitor had visited the prison the previous afternoon to warn his client. The Saint listened quietly, co-ordinating what he heard; and his veins tingled. It was too late for the hotel confederacy to turn back, and they would gain nothing by doing so. Luck had timed his arrival at the Clevely Arms on the very peak of eventfulness; but whether that luck was good or bad seemed to be highly doubtful.

  "What's the use of finding out where Julia is?" Jeffroll summed up the situation. "Even if we knew we were getting the truth. Garthwait told us what'd happen if we tried to get her back; and I believe he'd be capable of it. I'd rather lose everything than risk that."

  "What about the police?" Portmore suggested awkwardly, but the innkeeper shook his head.

  "Garthwait's threat would still hold good-he'd be all the more viciou
s. Besides, if they got him, he'd be sure to let out the rest of it, just for revenge. That'd mean we should all suffer. There's no need for all of you to be sacrificed-oh, I know you're going to say you don't care, but I wouldn't allow it. No. We can still go on, and get Julia back in exchange for B. W. . . . And after that, if we've still got this fellow, we may be able to drive another bargain in exchange for him."

  His grim hurt eyes turned back to the Saint with a sober implacable resentment that was perhaps more terrible than his first frantic passion; and Simon Templar remembered that look, and Kane's significant grunt of acquiescence, during all those hours in which he had nothing else to do but estimate his own nebulous prospects of survival.

  They had at least allowed him to eat-a plate of cold meat and somewhat withered-looking salad had been brought to him at two o'clock. His hands had been untied; but Kane and Portmore-Portmore re-possessed of his shot-gun-had stood over him while he ate it. The Saint had no doubt that Portmore would have had a fatal accident with the gun-"not knowing it was loaded"-if he had made any attempt to escape; and he saved his strength for a better opportunity. Neither of the men spoke a word while he was eating, and for once Simon had no time to spare on polishing the lines of back-chat with which he would ordinarily have amused himself in goading his jailers to the verge of homicide-he was wise enough to know that homicide must be already close enough to the forefront of their minds. After the meal was finished, his wrists were bound again, and he was left to resume his uncomfortable contemplations.

  Rolling over on his back and squinting up, he could watch time creeping round the face of the clock on the mantelpiece. Five o'clock went to six, six to seven, seven to eight. From time to time he experimented with different schemes for releasing himself; but the wire with which he had been bound was strong and efficiently tied, and his movements only served to tighten it till it cut into his flesh. He would cheerfully have given a hundred pounds for a cigarette, and another hundred for a tankard of beer. Eight o'clock crawled on to nine. He began to suffer another acute physical discomfort which had always been romantically ignored in all the stories he had read about people who were tied up and kept prisoner for prolonged periods. . . .