14 The Saint Goes On Page 23

  The innkeeper stood looking at him with his mouth twitching mutely.

  "That happens to be true," said the Saint quietly. "My friend-the Yankee thug, I think you called him-rescued her and brought her back. You'll be able to check up on that. And now let's move on-there's no scenery here, and I have an aunt somewhere around who is calling me in a loud voice."

  He shepherded the party back along the tunnel, after taking over Jeffroll's revolver-the others were unarmed. At that stage of the proceedings he was making no foolish mistakes, and his flock had no chance whatever to dispute his orders. When the last of them had come up the ladder into the office, he sat down at the desk and laid out his armoury on the blotter.

  "You can go and say hullo to Julia, Uncle Martin," he said. "We'll wait for your report."

  He waited, tranquilly smoking a cigarette. Weems sat down in another chair and stared at the carpet. Voss finicked with his moustache. Portmore breathed stertorously. Kane leaned against the wall, glowering at him in sulky silence.

  Jeffroll came back, and the four men turned to look at him. The answer was in his face, before he nodded.

  "It's true," he said. "Julia's back. Mr. Templar"

  "You owe me an apology," said the Saint gently. "Isn't that it? And another apology to Hoppy Uniatz." He sighed. "But after all, what's an apology? Will the Commissioners of Inland Revenue accept it in payment of our income tax? Can we pass a bit of it over the bar and get a drink? No. Therefore I'm afraid we must have more."

  "What are you going to do?" sobbed Bellamy Wage, in a kind of panic.

  The Saint smiled.

  "I'm going to ask you to do a little extra writing, dear old bird," he said. "Here is the cheque-book on your old-age pension, removed from the custody of Comrade Yestering. In case your memory is getting dim, the account is in the name of Isledon. The reward you offered was five hundred thousand. According to plan, it should have worked out at a hundred thousand each, but now it'll have to be split seven ways. That is seventy-one thousand four hundred and twenty-eight pounds eleven shillings and fivepence each, but you can make my share payable to Hoppy Uniatz as well-he's earned it. And you boys," said the Saint, glancing over the other conspirators and shuffling his guns persuasively, "are going to take your loss and like it, being thankful that Hoppy and I aren't naturally avaricious."

  Bellamy Wage wrote according to instructions; and Simon picked up one of the cheques and led him outside, to where Mr. Uniatz was waiting patiently beside his carload of captives.

  "Here's your transport," he said, "and I believe there's a motor-boat waiting for you in the harbour and your own yacht outside. And I hope you'll be seasick. . . . Get rid of these blisters, Hoppy, and come back for a celebration. You must be dying' of thirst, but they've paid their passage and they're entitled to the ride."

  When he returned to the office he found five philosophical men examining their cheques. Portmore was the spokesman.

  "How about a drink?" he suggested gruffly; and the Saint was delighted.

  "I'm glad we got things straightened out without bloodshed," he said. "I like a good amateur; but there were moments when I thought you didn't appreciate me."

  "What do you think Garthwait and Yestering will do?" asked Jeffroll.

  He asked this some time later, after Hoppy had returned from his mission of speeding the ungodly on their way. Mr. Uniatz, reclining in a corner with a bottle of Johnnie Walker all to himself, had been immersed in a sort of coma, with a scowl of hideous agony on his brow from which Simon deduced that he was thinking about something; but at the sound of Jeffroll's question he awoke sufficiently to reply.

  "Dey won't do nut'n," he said, closing the argument to his own satisfaction.

  "I don't know," Jeffroll demurred. "They're bound to be pretty vindictive. Ever since Garthwait first came here we've been ready to clear out at short notice, and now we can afford to go"

  Hoppy continued to shake his head.

  "Dey won't do nut'n," he repeated emphatically. "Mr. Templar tells me to get rid of 'em, an' what de boss says goes."

  "What on earth do you mean?" demanded the Saint faintly.

  "I mean I take 'em for a ride, like ya told me, boss. We take de motor-boat, an' when we're outside de harbour I haul out my Betsy an' give dem de woiks. Dey won't do nut'n." Mr. Uniatz stretched himself complacently. "Say, juse guys mind if I take dis bottle upstairs an' finish it? I just finished de last voice of a pome I was makin' up on de way back, an' I gotta tell it to Julia before I forget."

  <(bm)>

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  Document creation date: 29.4.2012

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  Leslie Charteris

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