The Saint Meets his Match (The Saint Series) Page 22

  HAVE TAKEN TRELAWNEY AND TEMPLAR. COME DOWN AT ONCE.

  The message had been signed with the name of the Chief Commissioner, and it had been sent from Guildford at nine o’clock. An address was given at the end of the message.

  It had taken Teal a whole ninety minutes to read between the lines of that simple statement, and, even so, when he thought it over afterwards at his leisure, he was not disposed to consider himself slow on the uptake.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN:

  HOW SIMON TEMPLAR SURRENDERED AND CHIEF INSPECTOR TEAL WAS NOT HELPFUL

  1

  Every light in the house seemed to be on when Cullis arrived at the gate of the little garden. It stood on a dark side road, and, so far as he could make out, it was one of those picturesque places often to be found in country byways which modern enterprise has taken and improved without damaging the picture—a small, two-storeyed house with outside beams and a gabled roof, and an atmosphere of comfortable serenity about it which seemed about to be belied that night.

  He went up the short path, and mounted a couple of steps to the front door. His hand was actually on the bell when he noticed that the door was not completely closed, and with a slight frown he pushed it open and stepped into the hall.

  “Is that you, Cullis?”

  The voice came down from the top of the stairs and startled him, though he recognised it at once as that of the Chief Commissioner. “Yes, sir.”

  “Come along up, will you?”

  Cullis mounted the stairs. At the top he found a small landing, and on the landing was the Chief Commissioner with an automatic pistol in his hand.

  “You got my message? Good. I’m glad to see you.”

  “Where are they?” was Cullis’s first question.

  “In there.” The Chief Commissioner jerked his thumb at a closed door. “I ran them to earth here, and here I was stuck. They’ve locked the door on the inside, but they can’t get out through the window, because it’s barred. They’ve been working away on the bars, but they haven’t been able to get out yet. They can’t get out through the door, because I’m waiting for them here. But they’re armed themselves, and I didn’t feel like committing suicide by trying to force my way in alone.”

  “But are you alone, sir?”

  The Commissioner nodded.

  “Of course I am,” he said testily. “That’s how I got stuck. If you can tell me a way for one man to guard an inside door and an outside window at the same time I’ll be glad to hear it.”

  Cullis made a movement towards the door, and the Chief reached out and jerked him back.

  “I should stay where you are,” he said. “They’ve had one or two potshots at me through the door as it is, and you mightn’t be so lucky.”

  He pointed to three bullet-holes neatly drilled through the woodwork.

  “Couldn’t you get to the telephone?” asked Cullis.

  “There is no telephone.”

  “Then how did you send that telegram?”

  “That was a bit of luck. I picked them up in Guildford and heard them give the address to a taxi-driver at the station. So I waited to send off that wire before I followed along here…Listen!”

  Cullis listened and heard inside the locked room, the rasp and tinkle of metal.

  “They’re still trying to break through those bars,” said the Chief Commissioner, “but I don’t think they’ll get out that way in a hurry.”

  Cullis pulled out his cigarette-case.

  “How did it all happen?” he asked.

  “I got a squeal. It came from a man named Pinky Budd, who was one of the old Angels. He came up to my house last night and said he’d run into Trelawney at Guildford. He was hard up, and tried to get some money out of her, but she gave him the air. Budd felt nastier and nastier about that all the way home, and when he got to London he’d made up his mind to squeal. But when he found me all he could say was that he’d gathered that Trelawney and the Saint were living near Guildford, and also that they were coming up to town on a rush visit today. So I went down to Guildford and spent half the day in the station watching all the trains until they arrived.”

  “Without a word to anyone?”

  “There’s been too much inefficiency on this case already. I forget how many times that man Templar has slipped the men who are always supposed to be watching him. I was getting a bit tired of it, and when this squeal came through I made up my mind to settle the thing myself.”

  “And then you followed them down here—”

  The Chief accepted a cigarette.

  “And even then it wasn’t all plain sailing,” he said. “I saw the lights go on upstairs, and thought it was going to be easy, went in through a french window on the ground floor—and found a man waiting for me. Duodecimo Gugliemi! You remember, the man who should have been deported the other day.”

  Cullis nodded.

  “I got the order postponed. I was thinking the same thing as you about the men that Templar was always shaking off, and I wondered if someone who looked less like a detective might be able to do more.”

  “Instead of which,” said the Commissioner grimly, “he appears to have joined up with them. Anyway, there he was, loading a gun when I walked in. Fortunately I’d been very quiet about it, and he didn’t hear me at first. His back was towards me, and I got quite close before something must have made him look round. The gun was in his hand, but he’d still got the magazine out and it wasn’t much use to him. He let out a yell and heaved it at my head, but I ducked and caught him one behind the ear with the butt of mine. That settled it, but the alarm was raised. I sprinted out into the hall and saw a skirt whisking round the top of the stairs. Trelawney can’t have had her gun on her at the moment; otherwise it might have been quite a different story. As it was, this door slammed just as I reached the landing and I heard the lock turn as I went at it with my shoulder. Next minute a bullet came through a panel an inch from my ear, and I took cover. But I’d got them both in there together, which was a bit of luck, and the best thing I could do was to stand guard here and hope you’d get a train as soon as my telegram arrived.”

  “And what about Gugliemi?”

  “He’s still downstairs, unless he’s woken up and sloped off. I’ve had to keep one eye on the stairs all the time in case he tried to shove in his oar again, but there hasn’t been a sound. As a matter of fact, he’s probably still dreaming. When I hit him, I hit him hard. Since you’re here, I think you’d better go down and see if there’s any sign of him before we do anything else. You brought a gun, of course?”

  Cullis tapped his pocket.

  “I shouldn’t have come without one,” he said, and went down the stairs at once.

  In the room below which the Chief Commissioner had indicated, Cullis found the Italian sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. Certainly the man was awake—Cullis heard him groan.

  “Here, you!”

  Cullis took him by the collar and yanked him to his feet, and Gugliemi turned a white scared face to his.

  “Signor,” he wailed, “it was an accident—”

  “What was?” snarled Cullis. “Your double-crossing me?”

  “I do not understand—”

  Cullis thrust the trembling man roughly into a chair.

  “You know quite well what I mean,” he said, and the first brutal savagery of his voice had calmed down to something worse—quiet, frozen ferocity. “Do you remember the last time you saw me?”

  “Yes, sair.”

  “You were to find this girl Trelawney and get rid of her. That’s what I promised you a hundred pounds and a clear way out of England for. I didn’t tell you to turn round and join her gang—you rat!”

  “I can explain, sair.”

  “Can you?” said Cullis, and his pale eyes never left the Italian’s face. “I don’t think you can explain in any way that will satisfy me. You’re a traitor, and I have a way with traitors.”

  “But, if you will listen, sair—
”

  “Be quiet!”

  Cullis dropped the words like two flakes of red-hot metal. He had been jumpy enough earlier in the evening, but now he was master of himself, and there was no humanity in his face.

  He pointed to the floor where Gugliemi’s gun, with the magazine behind it, still lay.

  “You see that?” said Cullis.

  Gugliemi nodded dumbly.

  “You were loading it when the Commissioner came in. When I came in just now you had woken up and finished loading it, and you were waiting for me. I had to shoot you in self-defence. Do you understand? It will be quite simple for me to put the magazine in the gun and put the gun in your hand when you have finished with your treacherous life.”

  His finger was tightening on the trigger even as he spoke. Gugliemi could see the whitening of the knuckle and his eyes bulged wide with horror. Cullis saw the man’s mouth open for a scream and grinned savagely.

  But the shot he heard did not come from his own gun. It came muffled through the ceiling above him, and a second report followed a moment later. Then the Chief called, rather huskily, “Cullis!”

  Cullis cursed under his breath. His plan could not be put into execution then: it was too late for his explanation to hold water now. Another pretext must be thought of. But meanwhile—

  He caught Gugliemi by the lapels of his coat and pulled him towards him. Reversing his gun with a swift movement, he struck callously…

  As the man crumpled to the floor at his feet, Cullis heard the Commissioner call his name again.

  He raced up the stairs. At the top he found the Chief leaning against the wall with one hand clutched to his shoulder.

  “They got me,” said the Chief gruffly. “I heard them talking and I went closer to listen. Then a shot through the door. But I fired back, and I think I hit something.”

  Cullis listened, and inside the room he heard a stifled groan. Then, through the door, Simon Templar spoke: “We’re surrendering,” he said.

  The key grated in the lock, and the door opened. The Saint stepped out, holding his gun, butt foremost, at arm’s length in front of him. His blue eyes swept the Assistant Commissioner with cool contempt as Cullis took the weapon and dropped it into his pocket.

  “Jill’s hit,” said the Saint. “That was a lucky shot for you.”

  Cullis went in. He found himself in a small bedroom, and a glance at the barred window showed him that the prisoners had been well on the way to making the gap big enough to squeeze through. Then his eyes fell on the bed, and he saw Jill Trelawney lying there with a red stain spreading on her white blouse.

  “It’s only a flesh wound,” said the Saint, “but it’s good enough. You’d better send for a doctor.”

  He turned to see the Chief Commissioner stuffing a folded handkerchief inside his shirt.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get a better bead on you,” said the Saint pleasantly.

  The Chief Commissioner grunted.

  “You’d better get her downstairs, Cullis,” he said. “I’ll go out and find a telephone. You’re in a better condition to look after this bunch than I am.”

  But Simon Templar pushed Cullis unceremoniously aside and picked Jill Trelawney up in his arms as lightly and tenderly as if she had been a baby. They went downstairs in procession to the room where Gugliemi was, Cullis covering Simon from behind, and the Chief Commissioner bringing up the rear. Downstairs, Simon laid the girl gently on the sofa, but when he would have moved away she caught his hand and held him.

  The Chief Commissioner was looking at the prostrate Italian.

  “He’s moved,” he said, “so I didn’t kill him.”

  “He was waking up when I came down,” said Cullis. “When I heard the shot and you called me I hadn’t time to do anything but knock him on the head again and leave him.”

  “Well, we’ve got them all together now. If you’ll watch them I’ll be getting along down the road. I think I noticed some telephone wires leading to a house about a hundred yards further on.”

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right, sir?”

  “I’m all right, Cullis. It’s messed up my shoulder a bit, but I can make that hundred yards without any trouble. You stay here and keep your eyes skinned. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  He went out, and they heard the front door slam. Presently the gate clicked…

  And then Cullis turned to the Saint.

  “So this is the end of your cleverness?”

  Simon Templar eyed him coldly.

  “I’m not so sure,” he said. “I never stop being clever. And I shouldn’t bet on this being the last word, if I were you. It may be my last adventure, but there are so many possible endings.”

  Cullis showed his teeth.

  “You’ll get seven years for this night’s work alone,” he said.

  “And how long do you think you’ll get, old dear?” asked the Saint very gently.

  Cullis returned his gaze stonily.

  “I think,” he said, “that it won’t help you much to try that sort of bluff.”

  “But suppose,” said the Saint—“just suppose, sweet Cullis, that it wasn’t entirely a bluff. I admit that for the moment you have us under the lid of the tureen, so to speak. But that’s only a bit of luck: a chance shot through a door that ought to have missed both of us by miles. But it was good enough that Jill couldn’t get away through that window—couldn’t have run for it, even if we’d come out and put up a fight. And yet, Cullis, it mightn’t turn out to be all jam.”

  “How, for instance?” asked Cullis, as if the idea amused him.

  “When your desk was opened last night—”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you go through your papers after the police had come?”

  “I did.”

  “Carefully?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t have done,” said the Saint. “If you had, you’d have realised what we got away with.”

  Cullis laughed.

  “You didn’t have a chance to get away with anything. I came into the room just as she got the secret panel open, and she didn’t go back again.”

  “I know she didn’t go back,” said the Saint, swaying gently on his toes. “But I did.”

  “You?”

  “Me. Of course, you didn’t realise I was there. But I was—impersonating a rhododendron in the middle distance. When you followed Jill outside and shot after her as she went across the lawn, I slipped in through the window, took what I wanted, and slipped out again.”

  Cullis’s eyes gleamed.

  “And what did you take?”

  “Only this.”

  Simon slipped a hand in his pocket and brought out his wallet. From the wallet he took a piece of paper, and unfolded it, holding it up before the Assistant Commissioner’s eyes. It was a new five-pound note.

  “Recognise it?” asked the Saint, in that very gentle tone. “Don’t you hear its little voice chirruping to you and calling you Daddy?”

  “It means nothing to me.”

  “But it was one of many which you had tied up in that deed-box in your very ingenious desk, my pet. There must have been a couple of thousand pounds’ worth altogether…Oh, Cullis, did you forget what your old grandmother told you, and did you let your avarice get the better of your caution? You couldn’t bring yourself to destroy them, and yet you didn’t dare pay them into your bank or try to dispose of them in any other way.”

  Cullis stiffened.

  “And why do you think that was?” he asked quietly.

  “Because,” said the Saint deliberately, “the number of this note—which was the top one of the bunch I found in your desk—is the very next number after the last number of the wad which was taken out of Sir Francis Trelawney’s safe deposit, and which was traced back to Waldstein. And when the matter comes to be investigated, I wouldn’t mind betting that this note will be found to have been drawn out of Waldstein’s bank at the very same time!”

  2

&nb
sp; There was a long silence, tensed up almost to breaking point by the measured tick of a cabinet clock somewhere outside in the hall. And through that silence, the Saint lounged at his ease against the revolving book-case which he had selected for his support, and his bleak eyes rested unwaveringly on the Assistant Commissioner’s face. Jill Trelawney lay still on the settee, and on the floor Duodecimo Gugliemi groaned and rolled over, with his fingers twitching; there was no other movement.

  For a space of five or six taut and significant seconds…and then a glimmer of the old saintly mockery twinkled back into Simon Templar’s gaze, and he laughed.

  “Which is all very unfortunate for you—isn’t it, Algernon?” he drawled, and Cullis’s mouth tightened up like a steel trap under his moustache.

  “I see,” he said softly.

  “Cheers!” said the Saint. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  He helped himself to a cigarette from the box on the table and struck a match.

  “So that’s the yarn you propose to tell, is it?” said Cullis.

  “It is,” said the Saint tranquilly. “And I think it’s a damned good yarn, if you ask me. At any rate, it’ll keep your brain ticking over, working out what sort of an answer you’re going to make.”

  Suddenly Cullis laughed.

  “And you really think anyone will believe you?”

  “I don’t know,” said the Saint. “I shall do my best to spread the glad news around, and when I get going I have no mean spread. With all the accumulated evidence—”

  “What other evidence?”

  “Duodecimo’s, for instance. He has a little story to tell of his very own which ought to cause a sensation.”

  Cullis sneered.

  “A crook lying to save his skin! Do you think that his word will have any weight? With a reputation like his—”

  “Oh, but he hasn’t got to rely on his reputation alone, comrade. There is a very important bit of corroborative what’s-it, or circumstantial how’s-your-father.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “I’ll tell you that later,” said the Saint, “if you remind me. But for the present I’m just fascinated to hear what fairy-tale you think you’re going to tell about that fiver.”