The Saint on Guard (The Saint Series) Read online

  A little after ten the next morning, a rather rotund and unobtrusive gentleman with the equally unobtrusive name of Harry Eldon presented Fernack with his credentials from the Department of Justice and said, “I’m sorry, but we’ve got to exercise our priority and take Templar out of your hands. We want him rather badly ourselves.”

  Somewhat to his own mystification, the detective found that he didn’t know whether to feel frustrated or relieved or worried.

  He took refuge in an air of gruff unconcern.

  “If you can keep him where he belongs, it’ll be a load off my mind,” he said.

  “You haven’t made any statement about his arrest yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  Fernack could never have admitted that he had been sufficiently impressed by the Saint’s warning, combined with the saddening recollection of previous tragic disappointments, to have forced himself to take a cautious breathing spell before issuing the defiant proclamation that was simmering in his insides.

  “That’s a good thing. You’d better just forget this as well,” Eldon said enigmatically. “Those are my orders.”

  He took Simon Templar out with him, holding him firmly by the arm, and they rode uptown in a taxi.

  The Saint filled his cigarette-case from a fresh pack, and lighted the last one left over, and said, “Thanks.”

  “I had a message to give you,” Eldon said laconically. “It says that this had better be good. Or somebody else’s neck will be under the axe.”

  “It will be good,” said the Saint.

  “Where do you want to be let off?”

  “Any drug store will do. I want to look in a phone book.”

  It was just a chance that Barbara Sinclair’s apartment would be listed under her name, but it was. It lay just off Fifth Avenue, across from the park.

  When Simon arrived there, he found that it was one of those highly convenient buildings with a self-service elevator and no complications in the way of inquisitive doormen, which are such a helpful accessory to the vie bohème.

  He rode up to the floor where he had found her name listed in the hall, and rang the bell. After a reasonable pause, he rang it again. There was still no answer, and he proceeded to inspect the lock with professional penetration. It was the usual Yale type, but the way it was set in the door promised very little opposition to a man whom the master cracksmen of two continents had been heard to mention with respect. He took a thin strip of flexible metal from a special compartment in the back of his wallet, and went to work with unhurried confidence.

  It took him less than a minute, and he went into a living-room which could have served as a model of relaxing and fussless cosiness to any lady who wanted her gentlemen friends to feel much better than at home.

  He took three steps into the room, and a syrupy voice said, “The hands up and clasped behind the back of the neck, please, Mr Templar.”

  5

  Simon did as he was told, while he turned to locate the welcoming committee. He realised that he had been quite conspicuously careless: because there had been no answer to the bell, he had assumed that there was nobody home. Which seemed to have been an egregiously rash assumption.

  He found himself considering two separately unreliable trigger fingers.

  One of them, which had appeared from behind the door, belonged to the thin blue-chinned specimen who had had such an unfortunate collision with a slab of functional timber the night before. He wore a broad patch of adhesive tape across his brow as a souvenir of the occasion, and if there was any spirit of Christian forgiveness and loving-kindness in his secret soul it had not yet had time to dig its way out into his sunken eyes.

  The other man, who must have been the owner of the grenadine voice, stood in the doorway of the bedroom. A glimpse of the room behind him formed a sudden sensuous woodcut of black painted floor and white snow leopard rugs, black marble fireplace and white leather panelled walls, ebony and white corduroy furniture—the sort of room from which a man like that would most naturally seem to emerge. For aside from the plated automatic in his hand, he was outwardly a very boudoir type. In contrast with the hapless butter of doors, whose clothes hung on his skinny frame like washing on a line, this exhibit was tailored to the point of being almost zoot-suited. He had glossy black hair with three beautiful regular waves in it, and the adenoidal type of Latin countenance which belongs with the male half of a ballroom dance team. He smiled steadily, showing teeth that were very white and slightly buck.

  “So you walked into the parlour, Mr Templar,” he said.

  “You have the advantage of me,” Simon said genially. “Would you like to introduce yourself, or are you the man of mystery?”

  The wavy head bowed.

  “Ricco Varetti—at your service. And on your left is Cokey Walsh, who will now proceed to search you.”

  Simon nodded.

  “We nearly met last night, only something came between us. I suppose you were the guy who rescued him?”

  “I had that pleasure. By the way, it’s a little surprising to see you. We really expected that the police would detain you much longer than this. How were you able to get away so soon?”

  “I told them I had an appointment with the hairdresser for a new permanent, so of course they had to let me go. You’d understand.”

  The scrawny warrior stepped back from his search with malevolence in the thin gash of his mouth.

  “So this is the guy, is it?” he said.

  “This is the guy, Cokey,” Varetti agreed.

  “The guy who gave me this crack on the head.”

  “Yes, Cokey.”

  “Lemme have him, Ricco. All to myself.”

  “Not yet, Cokey.”

  “The sonofagun bust my head open,” Cokey argued. “Lemme get a piece of rope and put him out of my misery.”

  “Not yet, Cokey.”

  The Saint’s expression was interested and sympathetic.

  “After all, we do have to make up our minds about me,” he murmured helpfully. “Cokey is just frying to be practical. Now, what are the possibilities? We could all just stand around here for ever, but one day we might get bored with our own conversation. Of course, you could always shoot me, but then one of the other apartments might hear and get curious about the noise. You might take me for an old-fashioned ride, but that’s kind of a luxury these days, what with the tyre situation and gasoline rationing and everything.”

  “Or,” said Varetti, in the same vein, “we might call the police again and give you back to them for breaking in here.”

  “That’s quite an idea,” Simon admitted. “But I was under the impression that this apartment belonged to Miss Barbara Sinclair. Are you sure that you mightn’t have to do a little awkward explaining about why you’re here yourselves and how you got in?”

  As bait, it was worth the casual try, but Varetti’s greasy smile was toothily unchanged.

  “I think you forget your position, Mr Templar. Yes, I am sure you do. I ask the questions. You answer them…I hope. If not, I shall have to ask Cokey to help you. And that wouldn’t be nice. I’m afraid Cokey doesn’t like you.”

  “I like him,” Cokey said glitteringly. “I’ll show you, Ricco. Just lemme tie a piece of rope around his neck and show you. He bust my head open, didn’t he?”

  “You see?” said Varetti. “He does like you. And there are plenty of things you ought to be telling us. Yes. Perhaps he has the right idea.”

  “He must have one sometimes,” Simon conceded. “Anyone with his looks has to have some compensation.”

  “You shut your trap,” said Cokey with cold savagery, and the Saint raised one mildly mocking brow at him.

  “Well, well, well! What coarse idioms you do use, Cokey, old chum. I didn’t think you’d really be sore about our little game of hide-and-seek last night. I thought that would all be under the heading of business as usual.”

  Varetti flashed him another dental broadside.

  “Cokey has his f
eelings,” he said. “You hurt his pride last night. So he’s entitled to a little revenge…Go and find your piece of rope, Cokey. We’ll try to make Mr Templar take us into his confidence.”

  Everything had been diverting enough up to that point, but there is always a stage in such situations where the fun can go too far, and Simon Templar was very sensitive to those subtle barometric changes. He could feel this one all the way from his fingertips to his toes.

  He said coolly, “While we’re all getting so friendly, would you mind very much if I took my hands down from this uncomfortable position and had a cigarette?”

  “Go ahead,” said Varetti, “But don’t try anything clever, because I’d hate to have to deprive Cokey of his entertainment.”

  The Saint let his hands down and eased his shoulders as he took out his cigarette-case, watching Varetti with thoughtful blue eyes like flakes of sapphire.

  He was not, he told himself, a slave to snap judgments. He tried to be broadminded and forbearing; he tried to find in even the most repulsive creatures some redeeming spark that would allow his heart to warm towards them. But even with the most noble effort, it was becoming cumulatively plain to him that he and Mr Varetti could never be as brothers. He did not like any part of Mr Varetti, from his marcelled hair to his pointed shoes. And he particularly disliked Mr Varetti’s idea of suave dialogue—no doubt partly because it was too much like a hammy imitation of his own. He was going to enjoy doing something about Comrade Varetti.

  He selected his cigarette with care from one end of the case—it was the single cigarette that had been left there when he refilled it, as it was always left there when he refilled, for the Saint was never totally unprepared for any emergency. He lighted it, and strolled across the room to deposit the match in an ashtray as Cokey came back from the kitchen.

  He was figuring and manoeuvring for position with the oblique innocence of a cat encircling a pair of sparrows.

  “Before this gets too unpleasant,” he said, “couldn’t we talk it over?”

  “You talk,” said Varetti, with his teeth glaring. “I’ll listen.”

  Simon hesitated a moment, and then with the most natural gesture of decision he put his cigarette down in the ashtray and moved around towards Varetti, while Cokey came around to follow him.

  Varetti said, “Not too close, Mr Templar. You can talk from there.”

  Simon stopped a step farther on. Varetti’s gun, trained steadily on his mid-section, was about four feet away. Cokey was to his right and a little farther off, but he had put his gun away to have both hands free for the length of cord he had found.

  “Look,” said the Saint. “All this business—”

  It was at that point that the cigarette he had left in the ashtray went bam! like a small fire-cracker, which in fact it was.

  Varetti would probably have been too smart to fall for any ordinary stall, but he would have been less than animate if he could have heard that noise with no reaction. His head and eyes switched away together, and that was all Simon really needed. The fact that this involuntary movement also happened to angle one side of Varetti’s jaw into an ideal position for receiving a left hook was actually only a bonus.

  The Saint took one long step forward, and the impetus of his stride added itself to the impact of a fist that must have made Mr Varetti think for one split second that he had received a direct hit from a block-buster bomb. After that immeasurable instant he did no more thinking at all; he slid down the door frame like sloppy plaster down a wall, and Simon picked the shiny automatic out of his unresisting fingers as he dropped.

  Cokey Walsh backed away with a wild attempt to get his own automatic out again, but he was too tangled up with the garrotting cord which he had been twisting around his hands for a good purchase. Without even bothering to reverse the gun that he had taken from Varetti, Simon bonged him firmly on his already tender brow, and once again Mr Walsh passed into slumberland…

  The Saint lighted himself another and less stimulating cigarette, and paused for a bare moment’s thought. His mind was still gyrating with questions that he had still had no chance to ask, and which now seemed condemned to further postponement on account of the magnificent lethargy of the potential respondents. On the other hand, after such a promising introduction, Miss Sinclair’s interesting and unusual apartment should be at least worth a little more detailed survey. But there was no telling how soon some other interruption might crop up in such an unconventional ménage, and whatever form it might take, it seemed fair to assume that the presence of a pair of unconscious bodies on the living-room floor would do nothing to facilitate coping with it.

  In order to dispose of that difficulty first, he took the two bodies by the collar, one in each hand, and dragged them into the bedroom, in which process he nearly tripped headlong over a rawhide suitcase which someone had thoughtfully left out in the middle of the floor. He was still rubbing an anguished shin when he heard the rattle of a key in the front door lock and went back hopefully into the living-room.

  “Hullo, Barbara,” he said blandly. “I was afraid I’d missed you.”

  6

  In her street clothes, she looked just as exotic and exciting as she had the night before. Her tailored suit had obviously been conceived by a Scottish sheep, born on a hand loom north of the Tweed, and lovingly reared by a couturier with a proper admiration for the seductive curves of her figure. The inevitable hatbox which is the badge and banner of the New York model dangled from one gloved hand, but you would still have seen her as a model without it, if only because such a sheer physical perfection as hers simply demanded to be pictured. Simon observed, with dispassionate expertness, that even broad daylight could find no flaw in the clear olive smoothness of her skin.

  Another and less simple observation was that she seemed at first too surprised and angry to be afraid.

  “Well, I’m damned,” she said. “How did you get in here?”

  “I burgled the joint,” said the Saint candidly.

  “You’ve got a nerve,” she said. “On top of what you did to me last night.”

  The act looked quite terrific. But the lift of the Saint’s right eyebrow was only mildly impudent.

  “Did they make you wash a lot of dishes?” he inquired interestedly.

  The flare in her eyes was like lightning reflected in pools of jet. She was certainly wonderful. And it was no help to her at all that anger only cleared her beauty of the magazine-cover sugariness and gave it a more vivid reality.

  “So you’re damned smart,” she said in a frozen voice that came like icicles out of a blast furnace. “You make a fool out of me in front of half the waiters in New York. You stick me with a dinner check for about thirty dollars—”

  “But you must admit it was a good dinner.”

  “And then you have the gall to break into my apartment and try to be funny about it.” Her voice thawed out on the phrase, as if she was coming out of a momentary trance into the full spoken realisation of what he had actually done, and then it sizzled like oil on hot coals. “Well, we can soon settle that—”

  “Not so fast, darling.”

  His arm shot out almost lazily, and he hardly seemed to have moved towards her at all, but her wrist was caught in fingers of steel before she had taken more than one full step towards the telephone.

  He stopped her without any apparent effort at all, and calmly disengaged the hatbox and tossed it into the nearest armchair.

  “Before you add half the cops in New York to half the waiters, in this audience of yours,” he said. “I think we should talk some more.”

  “Let me go!” she blazed.

  “After all,” he continued imperturbably, “it is a pretty nice apartment. And you did invite me here originally, if you remember. There must be some handy dough in this modelling racket for you to be able to keep up a pied-a-terre like this. Or, if it isn’t a rude question, who else is contributing at the moment?”

  Her ineffectual struggle alm
ost ceased for a moment, and then, when it sprang up again, for the first time it had the wild flurry of something close to the delayed panic that should have been there long before.

  “You must be crazy! You’re hurting me—”

  “And that,” said the Saint, nodding towards a veneered cabinet against the wall, without any change either in the steel of his grip or the engaging velvet of his voice, “is presumably the radio whose dulcet tones were to beguile me last night—while I was being cosily framed into the neatest murder rap that I’ve had to answer for a long time.”

  “You crazy lunatic…”

  Her voice faded out just like that. And the fight faded out of her in exactly the same way, abruptly and completely, so that she was like a puppet with the strings suddenly cut.

  “What do you mean,” she whispered, “murder?”

  Simon let go her wrist and put his cigarette to his mouth again, gazing down at her with eyes of inexorable blue ice. His mind was clear and passionless like the mind of a surgeon in an operating room. In the back of his mind he could hear the whirr of wheels in a production line, and again he could remember the candlelight and soft music and rich food and wine in a penthouse hideaway, and still behind that in his mind was the rumble of tanks and the drone of aeroplanes and the numbing thunder of shells and bombs, and men sweating and cursing in the smoke of hell; and the war was there in that room, he could feel it as fierce and vital as the hush in a front-line trench before an attack at dawn, and he knew that even in those incongruous and improbable settings he was fighting not one battle but many battles.

  He repeated passionately, “I said murder.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s in the papers. But you wouldn’t need to read about it.”

  Her eyes were pleading.

  “I don’t understand. Honestly. Who are you talking about?”

  “The linnet will sing no more,” Simon said. “And if I hadn’t been a calloused sceptic and walked out on you last night, I’d be doing my own singing in a very minor key and a most undecorative cage.”