Alias the Saint (The Saint Series) Read online

There was a long silence, and then the Saint said, “Since the situation is working out in such a cheerful way, I think we ought to make the best of it.”

  She saw the mocking mischief in his eyes, and even in that hopeless impasse she found his bantering enchantment irresistible.

  ‘‘Perhaps you’re right,” she said.

  “In these matters, I am invariably right,” said the Saint, and he kissed her.

  Presently she seemed to grow heavier in his arms. He was stronger himself, and his mind was still clear, but his eyes felt strangely heavy, and his chest was starting to ache with the labour of trying to extract some life-giving oxygen from that poisoned air. There was a rushing as of many waters in his ears, and it seemed as if a thousand trip-hammers were pounding on his brain.

  He wondered if she was already gone, but then she spoke. It was no more than a whisper, but her voice seemed to come from a tremendous distance.

  “Good-bye, Saint,” she said.

  The Saint laughed softly.

  “Tell ’em to save a harp for me,” he said, and kissed her again.

  He was starting to feel very weak, and the room was swaying dizzily before his eyes. He leant against the wall, but he still held her with the last of his strength. It seemed to be getting dark, and he knew that he could not last much longer.

  13

  “There’s a man to see you, sir,” said Sergeant Barrow, entering the room. Teal looked at the card, and read the note that accompanied it.

  “Send him up,” he said.

  He started a fresh piece of chewing gum, and waited as though asleep. He remained in that attitude when the visitor was shown in, for his party manners were not his strong point.

  “Go right ahead,” said Teal, without opening his eyes.

  The man sat down.

  “The circumstances are rather peculiar,” he explained. “At about eleven o’clock this morning a rather bulky letter was deposited at one of our branches, addressed to you, with instructions that it was to be delivered at one o’clock unless the order was cancelled by telephone. It seemed a rather extraordinary proceeding to me at the time, especially as the address on the envelope told me that it was likely to be a message with some bearing on your professional activities. So after thinking it over, and taking the opinion of our head office by telephone, I decided that it was my duty to come round and see you at once.”

  “Have you the letter with you?” asked Teal.

  “Naturally, I brought it along.”

  Teal stretched out his hand.

  “Let’s have a look at it,” he suggested.

  He had to open his eyes to read the address, and then he was suddenly galvanised into life. He sat up with a violence that made his chair, solid as it was, creak protestingly.

  “The Saint!” he muttered. “I’d know that writing in a million.”

  “I hope I did right,” ventured the stranger.

  “You did one of the best things you’re ever likely to do in your life,” said Teal, and pressed a bell on his desk.

  “Barrow,” said Teal, as his subordinate entered, “take this gentleman away, fill him up with whatever he likes to drink, and thank him as profusely as you know how. I’m going to be busy!”

  Left alone again, he sat down and ripped open the envelope. He read, and he read quickly, and in five minutes he was leaping down the stone stairs in the direction of that wing of Scotland Yard which constitutes Cannon Row Police Station.

  “Every man you’ve got, armed and at the double!” rapped Teal.

  And the sergeant in charge was so astonished at this display of energy and hustle on the part of his normally drowsy superior officer that the order was obeyed in what must have come close to record time.

  At about half-past twelve, the keen observer might have noticed a number of burly men in plain clothes unostentatiously taking up positions round the block in which Vanney’s stood. Teal circumnavigated the block himself, and made certain that every possible exit was watched. Then he went in alone.

  A clerk met him in the waiting-room, but Teal had pushed past him before his business could be questioned. He went through the clerks’ room, into Simon Templar’s office, took in the emptiness of it at a glance, and went straight across to the door marked “Private.” His hand was on the gun in his pocket as he walked in.

  “Ah!” said Teal.

  One cupboard was still open as the Saint had left it, and Teal could see through into the disorder of the room beyond. He went forward cautiously, and squeezed through the hole in the wall.

  There was a man in the room, and Teal had him in an iron grip before the other could be quite sure what was happening.

  “I’ll take you for a start, Harry,” said Teal. “Now tell me what you’ve done with the rest of the gang, and tell me quick!”

  Long Harry straightened up.

  “I’ve been in this place all day,” he said. “I bust in. I don’t mind telling you that now. I was looking for Connell, or something that would tell me where he was, but I couldn’t find him. So I waited. I hid in the bathroom. Templar came in early in the morning, saw the mess, and looked round, but he never saw me. Then Connell arrived, but he wasn’t alone, and I didn’t dare start anything with witnesses. I heard them talking. Then, presently, after Templar had been in and spoken to them, Connell and the other man went out into the office and grabbed a girl who works in there. They had a blanket over her head, so I couldn’t see who it was, but I was watching round the corner of the door and I saw Connell take her down.”

  “Down where?” snapped Teal.

  “I’ll tell you in a moment. Connell took her down, but the other man stayed here, and I didn’t dare follow. Then Templar came in, and there was a fight. He knocked the other man out, and made him tell where Connell had taken the girl, and he went after her. Presently the other man followed. I waited, hoping Connell would come back alone. Then I heard something like a shot.”

  “Can’t you get to the point?” snarled Teal. “Where did they go?”

  “There,” and Harry pointed.

  Teal stared.

  “I can’t see anything.”

  “I’ll show you,” said Harry.

  He went across and pressed a panel, as the Saint had done. Presently a larger piece of the panelling opened, and the lift was revealed.

  Teal put his head inside, and stepped back quickly.

  “Gas,” he muttered. “For the love of mud, don’t strike a match!”

  He came back into the room and stood over Long Harry, who, taking the situation philosophically, had sat down comfortably in a chair to await removal to his home from home.

  “Harry,” said Teal, “would you like to improve your chances of getting off with a light sentence?”

  “Tell me how, Mr Teal!” replied Harry with alacrity.

  “Go down out of here any way you like—there are busies at every door. Send them up after me, and tell them I’ve gone down in that lift. There’s been something funny going on with all that gas about, and if you only heard one shot it means someone’s likely to be in trouble. Now jump!”

  Long Harry jumped.

  Teal went into the bathroom, soaked his handkerchief under the tap, and tied it over his nose and mouth. Then he went back and entered the lift.

  The door closed automatically behind him, and he was fortunate enough to find the right switch at his first attempt. The lift started to go down. With every yard of the descent the smell of gas, even through his wet handkerchief, grew worse, and Teal knew that he would not be able to live for long in that atmosphere. But he was a man without fear.

  Presently the lift stopped, and he stepped out. He saw a faint light coming from the branch tunnel, and hurried towards it. At the end was a lighted room, and in one corner he could see the Saint sagging against the wall with Pamela Marlowe in his arms. With the fumes already starting to make their presence felt, Teal hurried forward.

  He tried the iron gate, but it was immovable.

&n
bsp; “Saint!” he roared.

  The Saint’s eyes half-opened dazedly, but Teal knew that he could see nothing. “Saint,” he bellowed again. “Where’s the key?”

  Simon’s chest heaved, and Teal had to strain his ears to catch the reply. It came, with a fearful effort.

  “Stenning’s pocket—”

  Teal went stumbling back down the corridor towards the inert figure that he had nearly tripped over on his first journey. He bent down, and fumbled with the man’s pockets. The gas lay more heavily near the ground, and Teal wondered if he could hold out. But he found the bunch of keys, straightened up, and went staggering back down the tunnel. Somehow he found the lock. The gate opened. He was in time to catch the girl as the Saint fell.

  By this time his heart was pounding furiously, and his head seemed to weigh a ton. Few men could have remained conscious and active for so long, but Chief Inspector Teal was a giant in strength.

  He picked the girl up as if she were a feather, and fireman’s-lifted her on to his shoulder. He bent down again, and got an arm round the Saint. Carrying the girl, and dragging the Saint behind him, he began the terrible journey back along the tunnel to the lift. It was like a nightmare. At every step he seemed to grow weaker, and it was only by a superhuman effort of grim determination that he was able to move at all. He never knew how he accomplished the journey with his double load, but after what seemed an eternity of ineffective struggling he found the lift in front of him.

  It would only hold two at a time. He dragged the girl in, and pressed the switch. The lift crept upwards.

  At the end of a thousand years the bare wall of the lift turned into panelling, and the panelling sprang open in front of him, and Teal fell out of the lift into the arms of two of his men.

  “Get her to a doctor,” he gasped, and somehow reached the bathroom. He felt sick and weak and giddy, but he soaked his handkerchief again, replaced it, and went back to the lift. They tried to stop him, and then he was savage.

  “The Saint’s down there,” he said, “and I owe him something. Let me go!”

  This time the journey was not so difficult, for his short relief in the purer air of the room above had revived him a little, but there was a limit even to his endurance. He remembered dragging the Saint into the lift; he remembered pressing the button that started them on their upward journey; he remembered the beginning of the ascent. Then everything went black.

  When he opened his eyes again he was in bed. Looking to right and left, he saw a row of beds in which other men lay motionless. The room was almost in darkness, but in the dim twilight he saw nurses moving about, and a man in a white jacket was bending over the next cot. At the side of his own bed a nurse was sitting reading, but she looked up as soon as he moved.

  “I gather that I’m not going to die,” drawled Teal. But this time he spoke drowsily because he really felt drowsy.

  The nurse smiled.

  “You’ll be back at work in a couple of days,” she said cheerfully.

  Teal sighed comfortably, and rolled over. As he did so, the doctor moved away from the next bed, and Teal saw who the patient was.

  “How are you, Saint?” said Teal.

  “I’m fine,” said the Saint. “Sorry, old dear.”

  “Remind me to arrest you when you’re better,” said Teal, and went to sleep.

  14

  Four days later, Mr Teal, a trifle pale, but otherwise his old self, rang the bell of No. 7, Upper Berkeley Mews, and the Saint answered the door himself.

  “Why, it’s old Claud Eustace,” said the Saint. “Come right in!”

  Teal came in.

  “Say when,” murmured Simon.

  Teal said when.

  “Cheerio!” said the Saint.

  “Cheerio!” said Teal.

  “By the way,” said the Saint, “I believe you saved my life, and all that sort of thing. God bless you, damn your eyes!”

  For the first time in his life, Mr Teal looked embarrassed, but he shook the hand which the Saint offered.

  “And before I arrest you,” said Teal presently, “why haven’t you tried to jump for it on that boat you’ve got lying at Gravesend?”

  “It didn’t happen to be necessary,” said the Saint. “I have a little story signed by the late James Arthur himself to show you. Take a look at it, and get ready to laugh.”

  Teal sat down and unwrapped a fresh packet of his favourite sweetmeat.

  “This is our one consolation for having lost America,” he remarked. “Let’s see this confession.”

  The Saint passed over the paper. Teal read it through, and glowered.

  “When did you write this?” he inquired.

  “I didn’t write it. Our one and only James Arthur wrote it. It’ll stand any test. Sorry, I’m sure.”

  “You haven’t by any chance got his signed permission to shoot him, have you?” asked the detective sardonically.

  “Self-defence, old dear. Self-defence. Want to have it argued out in court?”

  Teal sighed.

  “And how’s Connell?” asked the Saint.

  “Enjoying a tropical climate, I should say,” replied Teal dispassionately. “They got him up later, when the firemen had arrived with gas masks, but he was one of the deadest men I’ve ever seen.”

  The Saint lighted a cigarette.

  “He was Vanney, of course,” he said. “And at the same time he wasn’t. It would have been too risky to let Stenning interview people that he had probably done business with before, although he had grown a moustache and made one or two little alterations to his face. But dressed up in livery, as George—a mere porter—nobody ever noticed him. There was a door opening right out of the private office to the passage, only a yard from his cubicle. When I went through to speak to Vanney, I went farther through, and spoke to George. When Vanney had to interview people I got my instructions from Stenning, and conducted most of the interview myself. Connell simply said ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ as I tipped him the wink.”

  Teal nodded.

  “I guessed all that,” he said.

  “I don’t suppose you’d have spotted us so soon if we had been able to keep Connell in order. He looked great in a false beard, but he started getting uppish. He had to have money, and wanted more and more. We tried to keep him indoors in case he got tight and spilled the beans, but he got away the other night.”

  “I found him,’ said Teal. “He told me a lot that I wanted to know. It was clever the way he and Stenning arranged for that chauffeur to drive him and the body of Red Mulligan, recently deceased, into the country at night, upset the car, and have Wylie to swear that it was Stenning who had been killed. In fact, it was all very clever, but it wasn’t good enough.”

  “It was good enough for me,” said the Saint cheerfully.

  “And what have you got out of it?”

  “An untarnished reputation, and a glorious escape from the name of Tombs. You can have no idea how tired I was getting of that name.”

  There was a silence, during which Teal ruminated in a certain atmosphere of gloom.

  He rose ponderously to his feet at last.

  “Well,” he said, “you seem to have done it again.”

  “I’m always doing it,” said the Saint modestly.

  They walked together to the door, but on the threshold Teal stopped and gave birth to the expression of his greatest worry.

  “Saint,” he said, “when you were locked up down in that cellar with Miss Marlowe”

  “Yes?”

  “Wasn’t it—er—um—Well, you know, I’ve only seen that sort of thing on the movies, but when I arrived you were—er—”

  “Teal,” said the Saint, “you’re a naughty old man. Go home and read the News of the World.”

  And he closed the door gently, and left the detective blinking at a polished brass knocker of very doubtful respectability.

  THE IMPOSSIBLE CRIME

  1

  The man in the big loose-cut overcoat walke
d quickly through the dark mean streets that led to Gaydon’s Wharf. Although the night was not very cold, the wide collar of his coat was pulled up high about his ears, and his soft hat was crushed down over his eyes. He kept his hands in his pockets, and one of those hands gripped a squat bulk of unlawful metal. But that was from sheer force of habit—as were the swift keen glances with which he probed every shadowy doorway and every patch of shadow. The ingrained instinct which dictated these circumstances of his passage was far too deep-rooted for him to change, although he knew that here in London, for a short time anyway, he was safe.

  He paused for a moment at the corner of an intersecting street, and shot a long watchful gaze down the new road over which he proposed to travel, then he went on with the same rapid stride.

  A little way down, he stopped to look at the number of a house, then he pressed gently on the door. It swung back at his touch, and he went in, closing it behind him. The gloomy uncarpeted stairs, miserably lighted by a flickering gas jet at each landing, faced him. He went on up them, and stopped again outside a door on the third floor.

  He tapped on it softly, giving a signal, and presently the sound of a well-oiled bolt slipping back answered him. Then the latch clicked. He was looking at a little card that was pinned to the door just above the lock; it receded from him as the door opened, and he stepped quickly forward following it with suddenly savage eyes, and abruptly found the view blocked by the body of a man and an automatic pistol in the man’s hand that dug into his chest. He straightened up.

  “Quit that, you damned fool!” he snarled.

  The man who had opened the door backed away, pocketing his gun. He was a tallish man with a pinched face and closely set dark eyes under thick tangled eyebrows, and his sallow complexion was even paler than the shade at which the visitor remembered it.

  “Oh,” he said weakly. “It’s you, Farnberg.”

  “Who did you think it was?” demanded Farnberg roughly.

  He pushed his way into the office, and the other retreated before him awkwardly. “I don’t know, Farnberg. I was scared.”

  Farnberg unbuttoned his coat and glared at him.