The Saint Abroad

by Leslie Charteris

  “What about Liskard’s letters?”

  “I don’t know. When you asked for them, and I found them gone, I…kind of lost my head. I was afraid of what you might think—because of the blackmail you were talking about and everything—so I just said they’d been stolen, too. But I don’t know. I thought they were there.”

  Simon let considerably more credence show on his face than he felt in his mind.

  “Then you obviously had a real theft here which you didn’t know about,” he said. “Who could have taken those letters? More importantly, who would have wanted them?”

  She got up and paced over to the record shelf and began pulling down all the records she had pulled down the evening before.

  “Maybe they’re here,” she said a little feverishly. “I’ll find them if…”

  “They’re not,” Simon assured her. “I’ve already looked.”

  She turned back toward the bed and glared at him.

  “You’re a regular sneak, aren’t you?” she snapped.

  “No, I’m an extraordinary sneak. I see all and know all. So tell me—did Jeff Peterson take the letters?”

  She looked indignant.

  “Jeff? Of course not! Why on earth should he?”

  “Maybe he’s gotten himself into debt, too. Twenty-five thousand pounds is a nice amount of money for an hour or so of playing post office.”

  Mary Bannerman looked at him with puzzled anger and began to lose control of her temper.

  “Twenty-five thousand pounds? I absolutely do not know what you are talking about, and I’m not interested to know. I happen to be in love with Jeff Peterson, and I’m not going to have you breaking into my apartment and insulting him. Go find the letters yourself, if you’re so full of ideas. But whatever you do, just get out!”

  Simon did not raise his voice.

  “When and what did you tell Jeff Peterson about Liskard?”

  The girl tightened her lips in rage, then shouted at him, “None of your damn business! Now get out before I…”

  The Saint was smiling.

  “Call the police?” he suggested. “Good. You can save me the trouble.”

  Her spirit crumpled again, and she looked hopelessly at the suitcase.

  “You’re not going to tell?” she asked. “Why?” She moved closer to him, and her voice was more pleading than angry. “Are you so perfect that you can’t let anybody else get away with anything? What do you care about some old insurance company’s money?”

  The sweet scent of the room was concentrated in her clothes and hair and skin, and it was fairly obvious that she expected the effect of her proximity to be devastating.

  “I don’t care about the insurance company,” Simon said. “What I care about is…”

  She ran the tip of one of her fingers along his lapel.

  “Wouldn’t it be more fun to help me spend it than to take it away from me?” she murmured.

  “Much more…as soon as you give me those letters.”

  She dropped her arms to her sides.

  “I don’t have them, I told you!”

  “Then the moment of truth has arrived for you, darling.”

  Without turning his back on her, he began to repack the contents of the suitcase.

  “What do you mean?” she asked,

  “I mean you must find those letters and give them to me by ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” said the Saint. “Otherwise I’ll arrange a little tête-à-tête between you and the insurance people. And also with a friend of mine at Scotland Yard who’s starving for a pinch.”

  She followed him to the door, ready to grab the suitcase, which he carefully kept just out of her reach.

  “I’ve told you I don’t have those letters!”

  “If you don’t, your boyfriend does. So get them…And if you release those letters to the papers I’ll do worse than I’ve already promised.” He stopped and looked at her just before he opened the door. “I’m just curious. If you’re after money, why didn’t you say so in the first place when you threatened Liskard? You might have gotten it instead of me.”

  “I’m not after anything!” she moaned. “I don’t know anything!”

  Simon stepped out into the hall.

  “Then how is it you knew I was supposed to be fast asleep somewhere at eight o’clock this evening instead of picking you up here for dinner?”

  It was a strictly rhetorical question, which was just as well, since Mary Bannerman was visibly incapable of answering it—at least in the brief interval before Simon closed the door between them and walked away down the hall swinging the suitcase and whistling to himself.

  That was the last she saw of him for some time, but he saw her again very shortly. He almost ran to his car and then quickly drove it to a corner which gave him a view of the block where she lived. Within ten minutes her small sports car pulled out from the curb and headed for the Cromwell Road. Simon stayed within sight of her without making himself conspicuous in the moderate traffic. Within ten minutes they were on the M4 motorway heading west. When Mary Bannerman reached the Windsor exit she turned off and took minor winding roads for several more miles. Twice Simon turned off his lights briefly, so that she would be less likely to suspect that the same car was staying behind her on that unlikely route of twisting country lanes.

  When the sports car turned off into one of the bordering fields in what could only be the direction of the river, Simon stopped his own car and got out. Along that part of its wandering course, about midway between its youth at Oxford and its maturity in London, the Thames flows quietly through small towns and woods and pastures. What buildings there are on its banks between the towns are private and well spaced, and there are many miles as rural and serene as they must have been at the time of William the Conqueror. Such stretches of the river’s banks are popular with the owners of small cabin cruisers, who simply make fast a couple of lines to the shore and spend the night.

  Apparently such a mobile and secluded hideaway was being used by Jeff Peterson and his friends who had entertained Simon in the graveyard. The fact that the Saint had heard the mention of a boat would have been of no particular immediate help if Mary Bannerman had not been thoughtful enough to lead him straight to its current moorings.

  The red lights on the rear of her car had faded and disappeared into mists. Now Simon could no longer hear the sound of its engine. The only interruption of the silence was the lowing of a cow in the pasture through which she had driven. Then the cow was quiet again, and Simon moved through the gate and across the uneven soggy ground toward the river. The water was so close that he could smell it, and he decided it was wisest to stick close beside the fence which ran that way so as to be camouflaged by the trees which grew along it on the edge of the meadow.

  He moved as quietly as his own shadow, and even so he disliked the degree to which he had to expose himself. If Peterson and his boys were the least bit clever, they would have a man posted to watch all approaches to the boat. So far they had not shown much sign of all that intelligence, but if they had begun to develop some efficiency the Saint might find himself in trouble.

  Ordinarily he would never have approached the boat so directly. Ideally, he might have come up to it in another boat, or crossed over from the other side of the river. But he fully expected that Peterson’s first move on hearing from Mary would be to take the boat to another spot on the river as a precautionary measure. The time Simon had in which to board the floating hideout—where he hoped to find not only the blackmailers but also Liskard’s letters—might be limited to the next three or four minutes.

  He went on as fast as he dared. He could see Mary Bannerman’s small car, and a few feet beyond it, tied alongside the low bank, a grayish-looking, medium-sized cruiser with lights glowing behind the curtains of its portholes. There were no other cars. Apparently the boat had been moved there from another mooring up or down the river after its occupants had driven to it. Maybe the two from the churchyard were not there, although
it seemed likely they should have hurried out to report their failure to Peterson.

  There was not much to be gained by mere speculation. Between Simon and the boat, separating the pasture from the tow-path, was a ramshackle fence put together of wire and iron posts. The only inconspicuous way for him to get through was on his hands and knees. Holding his gun at ready, he dropped to the ground and started through an opening below the last strand of wire.

  That was when a voice behind him said, “Stop there, Templar, or I’ll blow your head off!”

  9

  There was no room for argument. The Saint was not in a position to move quickly or even to see behind him. His main emotion was sheer rage at himself. He had been in a thousand more dangerous situations, but rarely in one which he could blame so completely on his own carelessness.

  “Just hold it there,” the voice said. Then it rose to a shout. “Come on, Benson!”

  The tall man from the churchyard appeared on the deck of the boat and jumped ashore.

  “Drop the gun!” he ordered.

  Simon obeyed, continued on through the fence, and stood up. Jeff Peterson came out of the trees carrying a rifle. The man called Benson picked up the Saint’s pistol.

  “Onto the boat,” Peterson said. “Tie him up.”

  The hefty man from the churchyard came up from the boat’s cabin, and Mary was with him.

  “You’re very observant,” Simon called to her cheerfully. “I thought I’d kept out of sight most of the way.”

  “She didn’t need to be observant,” Peterson said. “Benson was watching the road.”

  Benson’s rough-faced companion grabbed the Saint’s arm and shoved him toward the boat. Simon yielded, and then with a sudden shift of balance pushed the man with a splash into the narrow space between the side of the boat and the short perpendicular drop of the bank. Amid the general consternation and cursing, Simon continued obediently—mindful of the two guns pointed at him—down into the cabin.

  “Lie down on your face in the bunk,” Peterson said.

  Simon followed the order, and Benson tied his hands.

  “Now I’ve got no clothes to put on and what am I going to do?” bellowed the man the Saint had shoved. “I’d like to bash…”

  He was coming down the companionway, but the cabin, with a bunk on either side, was scarcely large enough for the four people who were already in it.

  “Never mind, Rogers,” Peterson interrupted. “Go pace around up top until you’re dried out.”

  “It’s foggy! It’s freezing! What’ll I do?”

  “Try catching pneumonia,” suggested the Saint.

  The man lunged at him, but Peterson pushed him back.

  “Let’s keep our heads,” Peterson said. “There’s no point getting this far and then fouling things up.”

  “We don’t need him!” Rogers said. “Let’s drown the blasted nosey…”

  Mary Bannerman broke in. Her voice was full of panic.

  “What’s the point?” she asked. “I mean, what’s the point to any of this? Haven’t we done enough?”

  Simon rolled over on his side so that he could see the speakers without twisting his neck.

  “Not as long as Liskard’s still on his throne!” Peterson said.

  “Or until your father is on it?” Simon asked.

  Peterson turned on him.

  “What do you know about my father?”

  “Quite a lot. I think you could find a better cause than trying to avenge him. He may have been an able man, but he was sick.”

  “No sicker than Liskard’s own wife,” said Peterson.

  “Liskard’s wife isn’t helping run a government,” Simon said. “Even if your father got a rough deal, it’s no reason to try to wreck your own country.”

  “Getting rid of Liskard would be a favor to my country,” Peterson said.

  “Amen,” said Benson.

  Simon nodded with new and somewhat sad understanding.

  “I see. You people are the sturdy band of young patriots who are going to cast out the tyrant and make your country free, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “Tom Liskard is a tyrant!” Mary said to the Saint.

  “I don’t agree,” Simon answered. “I’ve been there, you know, and I’ve seen Nagawiland. Without Liskard, the place would fall apart…at least, right at this moment. I’m not saying he’s indispensable forever.”

  “You’re damned right he’s not,” Jeff Peterson put in. “The sooner we get rid of him the better it’ll be.”

  Mary Bannerman looked at him with worried eyes.

  “I wish you wouldn’t put it that way,” she said. “You promised me there wouldn’t be any getting rid of anybody. I mean, discrediting Tom is one thing, and I agreed. That’s why I gave you the letters. But…”

  “If you think he’s got dangerous ideas about Liskard,” Simon said, “wait till you see what he does to me.”

  “What will you do, Jeff?” she asked.

  “Let him go when we’ve finished.”

  Peterson did not sound very convincing.

  “And what’ll I do?” the Saint gibed. “Recommend you for a knighthood? If you let me go you’ll get ten years in jail.” He looked at the girl. “Don’t you see where this is leading? If you’re really just after revenge, haven’t you had it? If you quit the whole thing now it won’t be…”

  Suddenly Peterson’s hand lashed out and struck Simon’s face so hard that he was knocked back against the wall of the boat.

  “Jeff!” the girl screamed. “Stop it!”

  “I’m going,” Peterson said, avoiding the Saint’s steady, burning eyes. “The letters will have gotten to Liskard’s wife by now.”

  “You sent them?” Mary Bannerman asked in astonishment. “You said he’d have two days, and it’s not…”

  “That’s not the point, is it?” Peterson asked crisply. “The point is to bring him down, and there’s timing involved.”

  “What kind of timing?” the girl asked, puzzled.

  The three men—Benson, Rogers, and Peterson—looked at one another. None of them answered Mary Bannerman’s question.

  “Keep her here,” Peterson said, jerking his head toward her. “I want to be in town when this breaks. I’ll take her car and I’ll be at her flat. Even if anybody thinks I’m involved I should be safe enough there, and I’ll be near a phone.”

  “Involved in what?” the girl asked desperately.

  “Involved in the revolution,” he said coldly.

  She stared.

  “Revolution? What…”

  “Call it what you like,” Peterson said. “You don’t think we could bring down Liskard without replacing him, do you?”

  “But that’s no revolution. There are men who’ll take over automatically…”

  “And be no better than Liskard.”

  “If you turn this into a racial thing, Peterson—stirring up the people down there, playing on the Africans’ grievances—you’ll have another Congo blood bath.”

  Peterson was halfway up the companionway. He smiled.

  “Well, as Lenin said, you can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs.”

  He disappeared onto the deck. Simon looked at Mary.

  “We who are about to be cracked salute you.”

  “Jeff wouldn’t!” she said foolishly.

  Simon settled back on the bunk with weary resignation.

  “Oh, I think he would. In fact, I think he will. If he’s going to cause the deaths of several thousand people, what’s one egg more or less? As a matter of fact, you’re quite a dish yourself. Omelet?”

  Mary turned to run up to the deck, calling out Peterson’s name. Rogers, the most muscular of Peterson’s fellow patriots, stopped her on the companionway.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Jeff wants you here.”

  “I don’t care what he wants! He doesn’t own me. I’m not his prisoner.”

  “Look again,” Simon murmured.

  The girl tried once
more to shake off Rogers, who thoroughly enjoyed holding her. She yanked herself away and sat down furiously on the land-side bunk on the other side of the boat from Simon.

  “What’ll we do?” she said angrily.

  Obviously she was not the type to fall apart under pressure, and she did not take kindly to being pushed around—both qualities being in Simon’s favor.

  “Why don’t we try escaping?” he suggested.

  Rogers laughed, but the thin man, Benson, took offense.

  “Shut up!” he barked. “Both of you!”

  Rogers chuckled again.

  “Well, Bill, which of us guards these tigers and which stands watch out there in the fog?”

  “Who’d come here now?” Benson asked.

  “Never mind what you think might happen. One of us has got to keep posted where we can keep an eye on the road, and get Templar’s car out of sight while we’re at it.”

  Benson heaved a grudging sigh.

  “All right, then. We’ll toss for it.”

  They flipped a coin, and Rogers was chosen to stand first watch ashore. He took Simon’s car key, put on a slicker, and left the boat

  “Better keep on your toes, Benson,” the Saint said.

  Benson looked around uneasily.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Miss Mary might bash you in the head when your back’s turned.”

  “My back won’t be turned,” Benson said.

  He sat down on the steps of the companionway facing into the cabin. At that point the Saint sat up and swung his legs, which were not tied, to the floor. Benson was alarmed and instantly on his own feet.

  “Lie down,” he ordered.

  Simon stood up. Time was too short to allow for planning and caution. It was better to do something brash than nothing at all. He could only hope that Mary Bannerman would get the idea and go into action.

  “Make me,” said the Saint with a look of mystifying and total confidence.

  The look threw Benson off balance. For anybody trapped in a tiny bit of space with his hands tied behind him to look confident was completely unnerving.

  “I told you to lie back down,” Benson said nervously.

  “Going to call your mate to help?” Simon taunted him.