The Saint in London (The Saint Series) Read online

  A flake of ash broke from the Saint’s cigar and trickled a dusty trail down his coat, but his eyes did not waver.

  “I get you,” he said.

  The simplicity of the argument hit him between the eyes with a force that almost staggered him. Now that it had been put forward, he couldn’t understand how he had failed to see it himself from the beginning. It was so completely and brutally logical. The Saint was tough: everyone knew it, everyone admitted it. And he held the whip-hand. But he could be…ah…removed, and the whip would pass into the hands of one lone girl. Undoubtedly, the problem might be simplified. It would be reduced to an elementary variant of an old game of which the grim potentialities were still capable of sending a cold trickle down his spine. He should have seen it at once. His hat hung in the hall with a bullet-punched ventilation through the crown which was an enduring testimony that the opposition had neither gone berserk nor sunk into the depths of imbecility: without even charting the pinnacles of satanic cunning, they had merely grasped at the elusive obvious—which he himself had been too wooden-headed to see.

  “That’s a great idea,” said the Saint softly. “So after we’ve rubbed out this guy Templar, we go after his moll.”

  “Ah…yes,” assented Farwill, staring into the opposite corner as if he were not answering the question at all. “If that should prove necessary…ah…yes.”

  “Sure,” chirped Mr Uniatz brightly, anticipating his cue. “We’ll fix de goil.”

  The Saint silenced him with a sudden lift of ice-blue eyes. His voice became even softer, but the change was too subtle for Farwill to notice it.

  “Who thought of that great idea?” he asked.

  “It was jointly agreed,” said the Honourable Leo evasively. “In such a crisis, with such issues at stake, one cannot be sentimental. The proposition was received with unanimous approval. As a matter of fact, I understand that an abortive attempt has already been made in that direction—I should perhaps have explained that there is another member of our…er…coalition who was unfortunately unable to be present at our recent discussion. I expect him to arrive at any moment, as he is anxious to make your acquaintance. He is a gentleman who has already done valuable independent work towards this…ah…consummation which we all desire.”

  The Saint’s eyebrows dropped one slow and gentle quarter-inch over his steady eyes.

  “Who is he?”

  Farwill’s mouth opened for another elaborate paragraph, but before he had voiced his preliminary “Ah” the headlights of a car swept across the drawn blinds and the gravel scraped again outside the windows. Footsteps and voices sounded in the hall, and the library door opened to admit the form of the Honourable Leo’s butler.

  “Lord Iveldown,” he announced.

  8

  Simon Templar’s cigar had gone out. He put it down carefully in an ashtray, and took out his cigarette-case. It stands as a matter of record that at that moment he did not bat an eyelid, though he knew that the show-down had arrived.

  “Delighted to see you, Iveldown,” the Honourable Leo was exclaiming. “Yorkland was unfortunately unable to stay. However, you are not too late to make the acquaintance of our new…ah…agents. Mr Orconi…”

  Farwill’s voice trailed hesitantly away. It began to dawn on him that his full-throated flow of oratory was not carrying his audience with him. Something, it seemed, was remarkably wrong.

  Standing in front of the door which had closed behind the retiring butler, Lord Iveldown and Mr Nassen were staring open-mouthed at the Saint with the aspect of a comedy unison dance team arrested in mid-flight. The rigidity of their postures, the sag of their lower jaws, the glazed bulging of their eyes, and the suffusion of red in their complexions, were so ludicrously identical that they might have been reflections of each other. They looked like two peas who had fallen out of their pod and were still trying to realise what had hit them, and the Honourable Leo looked from them to the Saint and back again with a frown of utter bewilderment.

  “Whatever is the matter?” he demanded, startled into uttering one of the shortest sentences of his life, and at the sound of his question Lord Iveldown came slowly and painfully out of his paralysis.

  He turned, blinking through his pince-nez.

  “Is that…that…the American gunman you told me about?” he queried awfully.

  “That is what I have been…ah…given to understand,” said Farwill, recovering himself. “We are indebted to Mr Uniatz for the introduction. I am informed that he has had an extensive career in the underworld of…ah…Pittsburgh. Do you imply that you are already acquainted?”

  His lordship swallowed.

  “You bumptious blathering ass!” he said.

  Simon Templar uncoiled himself from his chair with a genial smile. The spectacle of two politicians preparing to speak their minds candidly to one another was so rare and beautiful that it grieved him to interrupt, but he had his own part to play. It had been no great effort to deny himself the batting of an eyelid up to that point—the impulse to bat eyelids simply had not arisen to require suppressing. Coming immediately on the heels of Leo Farwill’s revelation, he was not sorry to see Lord Iveldown.

  “What ho, Snowdrop,” he murmured cordially. “Greetings, your noble lordship.”

  Farwill gathered himself together.

  “So you are already acquainted,” he rumbled with an effort of heartiness. “I thought—”

  “Do you know who that is?” Iveldown asked dreadfully.

  Some appalling intuition made Farwill shake his head, and the Saint smiled encouragingly.

  “You tell him, Ivelswivel,” he urged. “Relieve the suspense.”

  “That’s the Saint himself!” exploded Iveldown.

  There are times when even this talented chronicler’s genius stalls before the task of describing adequately the reactions of Simon Templar’s victims. Farwill’s knees drooped and his face took on a greenish tinge, but in amplification of those simple facts a whole volume might be written in which bombshells, earthquakes, dynamite, mule-kicks, and other symbols of devastating violence would reel through a kaleidoscope of similes that would still amount to nothing but an anaemic ghost of the sight which rejoiced Simon Templar’s eyes. And the Saint smiled again, and lighted his cigarette.

  “Of course we know each other,” he said. “Leo and I were just talking about you, your lordship. I gather that you’re not only the bird who suggested bumping me off so that you’d only have Patricia Holm to deal with, but your little pal Snowdrop was the bloke who tried it on this morning, and wrecked a perfectly good hat with his rotten shooting. I shall have to add a fiver on to your account for that, brother, but the other part of your brilliant idea isn’t so easily dealt with.”

  Farwill’s face was turning from green to grey.

  “I seem to have made a mistake,” he said flabbily.

  “A pardonable error,” said the Saint generously. “After all, Hoppy Uniatz didn’t exactly give you an even break. But you didn’t make half such a big mistake as Comrade Iveldown over there—”

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nassen make a slight movement, and his hand had flashed to his pocket before he remembered that he had set out to enjoy his joke with so much confidence that he had not even gone heeled. But even if there had been a gun there, he would have reached it too late. Nassen had a hand in his coat pocket already, and there was a protuberance under the cloth whose shape Simon knew only too well.

  He looked round and saw the reason for it. The ponderous thought processes of Hoppy Uniatz had at last reduced the situation to terms which he could understand. In his slow but methodical way, Mr Uniatz had sifted through the dialogue and action, and arrived at the conclusion that something had gone amiss. Instinct had made him go for his gun, but the armchair in which he was ensconced had impeded his agility on the draw, and Nassen had forestalled him. He sat with his right hand still tangled in his pocket, glaring at the lanky stillness of Iveldown’s private detective with se
lf-disgust written all over his face. “I’m sorry, boss,” he growled plaintively. “De guy beat me to it.”

  “Never mind,” said the Saint. “It’s my fault.” Iveldown came forward, with his mouth twitching.

  “The mistake could have been worse,” he said. “At least we have the Saint. Where is Yorkland?”

  Farwill chewed his lower lip.

  “I believe he could be intercepted. When he first arrived, he told me that he had meant to call on Lady Bredon at Camberley on his way down, but he had not had time. He intimated that he would do so on his way back—”

  “Telephone there,” snapped Iveldown.

  He strode about the room, rubbing his hands together under his coat-tails, while Farwill made the call. He looked at the Saint frequently, but not once did he meet Simon’s eyes. Simon Templar never made the mistake of attributing that avoidance of his gaze to fear: at that moment, Iveldown had less to fear than he had ever had before. Watching him with inscrutable blue eyes, the Saint knew that he was looking at a weak pompous egotistical man whom fear had turned into a jackal at bay.

  “What message shall I leave?” asked Farwill, with his hand over the transmitter.

  “Tell them to tell him—we’ve caught our man,” said Iveldown.

  The Saint blew a smoke-ring.

  “You seem very sure about that, brother,” he remarked. “But Snowdrop doesn’t look too happy about that gun. He looks as if he was afraid it might go off—and do you realise, Snowdrop, that if it did go off it’d burn a hole in your beautiful Sunday suit, and Daddy would have to smack you?”

  Nassen looked at him whitely.

  “Leave him to me,” he said. “I’ll make him talk.”

  Simon laughed shortly.

  “You might do it if you’re a ventriloquist,” he said contemptuously. “Otherwise you’d be doing good business if you took a tin cent for your chance. Get wise to yourself, Snowdrop. You’ve lost your place in the campaign. You aren’t dealing with a girl yet. You’re talking to a man—if you’ve any idea what that means.”

  Lord Iveldown stood aside, with his head bowed in thought, as if he scarcely heard what was going on. And then suddenly he raised his eyes and looked at the Saint again for the first time in a long while, and, meeting his gaze, Simon Templar read there the confirmation of his thoughts. His fate lay in the hands of a creature more ruthless, more vindictive, more incalculable than any professional killer—a weak man, shorn of his armour of pomposity, fighting under the spur of fear.

  “The mistake could have been worse,” Iveldown repeated.

  “You ought to be thinking about other things,” said the Saint quietly. “This is Friday evening, and the sun isn’t standing still. By midnight tomorrow I have to receive your contribution to the Simon Templar Foundation—and yours also, Leo. And I’m telling you again that whatever you do and whatever Snowdrop threatens, wherever I am myself and whether I’m alive or dead, unless I’ve received your cheques by that time Chief Inspector Teal will get something that at this moment he wants more than anything else you could offer him. He’ll get a chance to read the book which I wouldn’t let him see this morning.”

  “But meanwhile we still have you here,” said Lord Iveldown, with an equal quietness that contrasted strangely with the nervous flickers that jerked across his mottled face. He turned to his host. “Farwill, we must go to London at once. Miss Holm will be…ah…concerned to hear the news.”

  “She has a great sense of humour,” said the Saint metallically, but his voice sounded oddly in his own ears.

  Iveldown shrugged.

  “That remains to be seen. I believe that it will be comparatively easy to induce her to listen to reason,” he said thoughtfully, and the Saint’s blood went cold.

  “She won’t even listen to you,” he said, and knew that he lied.

  Lord Iveldown must have known it too, for he paid no attention. He turned away without answering, gathering his party like a schoolmaster rallying a flock of boys.

  “Nassen, you will remain here and guard these two. When Mr Yorkland arrives, explain the developments to him, and let him do what he thinks best…Farwill, you must find some pretext to dismiss your servants for the night. It will avoid difficulties if Nassen is compelled to exercise force. We will leave the front door open so that Yorkland can walk in…”

  “Mind you don’t catch cold,” said the Saint in farewell.

  He smoked his cigarette through, and listened to the hum of Lord Iveldown’s car going down the drive and fading away into the early night.

  Not for a moment since Iveldown walked into the room had he minimised his danger. Admittedly it was easier to be distantly responsible for the deaths of ten thousand unknown men than to directly order the killing of one; yet Simon knew that Lord Iveldown, who had done the first many years ago, had in the last two days slipped over a borderline of desperation to the place where he would be capable of the second. The fussiness, the pretentious speech, the tatters of pomposity which still clung to him and made him outwardly ridiculous, made no difference. He would kill like a sententious ass, but still he would kill. And something told the Saint that the Rose of Peckham would not be unwilling to do the job at his orders.

  He lighted another cigarette and paced the room with the smooth nerveless silence of a cat. It was queer, he thought, how quickly and easily, with so little melodrama, an adventurer’s jest could fall under the shadow of death, and he knew how utterly false to human psychology were the ranting bullying villains who committed the murders in fiction and films. Murder was so rarely done like that. It was done by heavy, grandiose, flabby, frightened men—like Lord Iveldown or the Honourable Leo Farwill or Mr Neville Yorkland, MP. And it made no difference that Simon Templar, who had often visualised himself being murdered, had a futile angry objection to being murdered by pettifogging excrescences of that type.

  They would have no more compunction in dealing with Patricia. Perhaps less.

  That was the thought which gnawed endlessly at his mind, infinitely more than any consideration of his own danger. The smooth nerveless silence of his own walking was achieved only by a grim effort of will. His muscles strained against it; a savage helplessness tore at his nerves while the minutes went by. Farwill and Iveldown had seventy-five miles to go, and with every minute his hope of overtaking them, even with his car and brilliant driving, was becoming more and more forlorn.

  He glanced at Hoppy Uniatz. Mr Uniatz was sitting hunched in his chair, his fists clenched, glowering at Nassen with steady unblinking malevolence. In Hoppy’s philosophy, there could be only one outcome to what had happened and his own failure on the draw. There was no point in revolving schemes of escape; the chance to put them into practice was never given. The only question to be answered was—how long? His wooden nerves warping under the strain of the long silence, he asked it.

  “Well,” he growled, “when do we go for dis ride?”

  “I’ll tell you when the time comes,” said Nassen.

  The Saint pitched away his cigarette and lighted yet another. Nassen was alone. There were two of them, and nobody had thought to take Hoppy’s gun away. If Hoppy could only get a second chance to draw—if Nassen’s nerves could be played on, skilfully and relentlessly, until it became a question of which side could outlast the other…

  “What does it feel like to be monarch of all you survey, Snowdrop?” he asked. “Doesn’t it make your little heart go pit-a-pat? I mean, suppose Hoppy and I suddenly decided we didn’t love you anymore, and we both jumped up together and slapped you?”

  “You’d better not try,” said Nassen. “I’d be glad of the excuse.”

  He spoke with a cold stolidity that made the Saint stop breathing for a moment. Not until then, perhaps, had he admitted to himself how hopeless was the idea which had crossed his mind—hopeless, at least, to achieve any results in time for it to be worth the effort.

  He halted in front of Nassen, gazing at him over the gun between them. So there was
only one way left. Nassen could not possibly miss him, but he might be held long enough to give Hoppy Uniatz a chance. And after that, Hoppy would have to carry the flag…

  “You know that would be murder, don’t you, Snowdrop?” he said slowly, without a flinch of fear in his bleak watchful eyes.

  “Would it?” said Nassen mincingly. “For all anyone would ever know, you’re a couple of armed burglars caught red-handed. Your record at Scotland Yard will do the rest. Don’t forget whose house this is—”

  He broke off.

  Another pair of headlights had flashed across the windows, and a car, frantically braked, skidded on the gravel outside. A bell rang in the depths of the house; the knocker hammered impatiently; then came the slight creak of the front door opening. Every movement of the man outside could be pictured from the sounds. The unlatched door moved when he plied the knocker; he looked at it for a moment in indecision—took the first hesitant step into the hall—hurried on…

  Nassen was listening too. And suddenly the Saint realised that the chance he had never looked for, the chance he had never thought of, had been given him. Nassen’s attention was distracted—he, too, had been momentarily fascinated by the imaginary picture that could be deduced from the sequence of sounds. But he recovered less quickly than the Saint. And Simon’s fist had already been clenched for a desperate blow when the interruption came.

  The Saint launched it.

  Snowdrop, the Rose of Peckham, was never very clear in his mind about what happened. He was not by nature addicted to physical violence of the cruder sort, and no experience of that kind had ever come his way before to give him a standard of comparison. He saw a bony fist a few inches from his face, travelling towards him with appalling speed, and his mouth opened. The fist shut it again for him, impacting on the point of his chin with a crack that seemed to jar his brain against the roof of his skull. And beyond that there was nothing but a great darkness filled with the hum of many dynamos…