The Saint Goes On (The Saint Series)

by Leslie Charteris

  Crack!

  A tongue of flame split the blackness ahead, and he heard Lord Ripwell gasp at his heels. He whipped up his gun and fired at the flash—there was no danger of mistaken identity there, for on the analysis they had held a short while ago he was the only one of the party who was armed. Therefore the other gun belonged to one of the raiding party—however many of them there were. It spoke again, and the thunder of his second shot rang out on the reverberations of the first, but it was blind shooting with a hundred chances to one against a hit.

  Someone ran over the grass and plunged through the cupressus hedge into the road, and the car’s engine roared louder. Simon tore recklessly in pursuit, and came out into the gravelled lane as the flaring headlights leapt towards him. A man lurched out of the darkness and struck at him, catching him on the shoulder, and the Saint spun round and caught the striking wrist. The forefinger of his other hand took up the resistance of the trigger.

  “Are you ready to die?” he said softly.

  “Oh, Lord!” ejaculated Martin Irelock.

  Simon let him go, and turned round again as the red tail light of the car whirled round the near corner.

  “Hell!” He dropped the gun in his pocket. “Maybe I can catch them with my car.”

  He ran over the drive and leapt into the seat of the Hirondel. There was not a sound when he pressed the starter button, and he slid his hand along under the dash and felt wires trailing loose. It would take precious minutes to get out a light and re-connect them, and by that time the chase would be hopeless. With a sigh he opened the door and stepped down again, and then a match flared some distance away, and he heard Teal’s voice.

  “Give me a hand, someone.”

  He went back to the corner of the house, and saw that the man who lay on the ground, with Teal bending over him, was Lord Ripwell.

  5

  The match flickered out, and Teal struck another. Ripwell’s eyes were open, and he was breathing painfully.

  “Don’t bother about me…I’m not hurt. Just a scratch. I’ll…be all right. Did you get…any…of those villains?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said the Saint grimly.

  They picked him up and carried him into the house. The bullet had passed through his chest just below the right shoulder—there was an ugly exit wound which had smashed his shoulder-blade, but the internal injuries were probably clean.

  “I forgot to…put down…the cigar,” he said with a twisted mouth, when they had settled him on his bed.

  The Saint understood. Ripwell had been running just behind him and a little to one side when the first shot that he saw was fired. Simon realized now that he had heard him gasp when the bullet struck, but in the excitement of the moment he had not recognized the sound.

  “Where’s the nearest doctor?” asked Teal, turning to Irelock.

  It was only then, when they were all gathered in the same room, that Simon realized that they were still one short of their number.

  “Where’s Ke—”

  He started the question without thinking, and could have bitten his tongue the next moment, but he broke off too late. Ripwell struggled up on his elbow and stared from face to face, finishing the name for him in his clear commanding voice.

  “Kenneth! Where’s Kenneth?”

  There was an answer in Irelock’s pale strained features, at least enough answer for the Saint to read, even before the secretary began to stammer, “He’s…he’s gone…”

  “Gone to see if he can catch Inspector Oldwood on his way here, hasn’t he?” Simon caught him up in an instant, with cold blue eyes cutting off the truth with a flash of steel. “We’d better go and grab this doctor, and we may meet them.”

  He dragged Irelock out of the room and ran him down the stairs. In the hall he faced him, taking out a cigarette and straightening it between steady brown fingers.

  “What has happened to Kenneth?” he asked.

  “They got him.” Irelock was trembling slightly, and his grown-up Kewpie face looked older and tensely hard. “We opened the front door, and somebody fired at us. Got me in the arm—only a graze.” He pulled up his sleeve to show a raw straight furrow scored at an angle across his wrist. “I ran out and got hit in the stomach—not with a bullet this time, but it almost laid me out. I heard Ken yell for help, and then I heard people running away. I ran after them, and then I caught you. You remember. But they must have got Ken.”

  Simon flicked his thumb over his lighter, and drew his cigarette red in the flame.

  “I only heard one shot before they started potting at me. Have you got a torch?”

  They went out and searched the garden with an electric flashlight which Irelock produced from the kitchen. Inspector Oldwood arrived and challenged them while they were doing it, but relaxed when he recognized Ripwell’s secretary. He had come from the opposite direction to that which the escaping car had taken, and he had seen no one on the road near the cottage. Certainly he had not seen Nulland.

  One or two startled villagers and a handful of young people from adjacent bungalows, attracted by the noise and the shooting, were revealed at the gate in the fringe of the torchlight, and Oldwood pressed them into the search while Irelock went back into the house to telephone for a doctor. There was not a great deal of ground to cover, and two of the holiday bungalow party had torches. In twenty minutes the last of the searchers had drifted back to the front drive.

  “Perhaps he went for help,” said Oldwood, who had not had time to learn more than the vaguest rudiments of the story.

  “I don’t think so,” said the Saint.

  He noticed something else, in the reflected glow of the hovering ovals of torchlight, and swept his own light over the drive again. The Hirondel showed up its gleaming lines of burnished metal, exactly where he had left it when he first drove in, but it was the only car there. Of Kenneth Nulland’s noisy little roadster there was no trace but the tyre tracks in the gravel.

  Simon whistled softly.

  “In his own car, too, by God! That’s hot stuff—or is it?”

  He saw something else, which had been overlooked in the first search—a small dark shadow on the ground close to the place where Nulland’s car had stood—and went over to it. It was a red silk handkerchief, and when he picked it up he felt that it was wet and sticky.

  “We’d better see how badly Ripwell’s hurt,” he said.

  The doctor had arrived while the search was going on, stopping his car outside the gates, but he was still busy upstairs when Teal came down and joined them.

  “He ought to pull through,” was Teal’s unofficial report. “He’s stopped a nasty packet, but the doctor says his constitution is as sound as a bell. What’s this about Nulland?”

  “What’s this about, anyhow?” asked Oldwood more comprehensively.

  He was a red-faced grizzled man who looked more like a rather hard-bitten farmer than anything else, with an air of quiet self-contained confidence which was not to be flustered even by such sensational events as he had walked into. When his knowledge had been brought up to date he was still quiet and deliberate, stuffing his pipe with square unhurried fingers.

  “I haven’t anything for you,” he said at the end. “I haven’t been able to trace any suspicious characters hanging around here yet, but I’m still making inquiries.”

  “I wonder whether Nulland was kidnapped, or if he ran away,” said Teal stolidly.

  “The evidence doesn’t show that he ran away,” said the Saint.

  He produced the silk handkerchief which he had picked up in the drive. There was an embroidered “K” in one corner, and the wet stickiness on it was blood.

  Teal studied the relic and passed it over to the local man, who put it away in an envelope.

  “What are the roads like around here, Oldwood? We can try to stop that car.”

  “They can’t have gone Chertsey way,” said Oldwood, striking a match. “Because that’s the way I came from. They may have gone almost anywhe
re else. There’s a road to Staines, another to Sunbury, and another to Walton—and half a dozen different routes they could take from any of those places.”

  “Added to which,” murmured the Saint, “there must be at least fifty other baby sports cars exactly like his wandering about Surrey tonight.”

  “It’ll have to be tried,” said Teal doggedly. “Do you know the number, Mr Irelock?”

  The secretary hadn’t noticed it. Apparently Nulland changed his cars at an average rate of about once a month, except when one of his frequent accidents compelled an even quicker change, and it was almost beyond anyone’s power to keep track of the numbers. The instructions that Teal telephoned out were hardly more than a hopeless routine, and all of them knew it.

  He had just finished when the doctor came downstairs to confirm the preliminary bulletin.

  “He’s fairly comfortable now, but he’ll want looking after for the next couple of days—I don’t think there’s any need to move him to the hospital. I’ll send a nurse along tonight if I can get hold of one—otherwise I’ll bring her over with me tomorrow morning.”

  “I suppose you didn’t find a bullet,” said Teal.

  The doctor shook his head.

  “It went right through him. From the look of the wound I should say it must have been fired from a fairly large-calibre gun.”

  “That reminds me,” said Oldwood, searching his jacket pockets, “I brought over those cartridges that he asked for. You may as well have them, but I don’t know that they’re much use now.”

  “They may be useful,” said Irelock. “We’d better keep some sort of guard while all this is going on.”

  “I’ll send a man over as soon as I get back to the station,” said Oldwood, and stood up. “You might give me a lift, Doctor, if it isn’t taking you out of your way. There’s nothing more we can do tonight.”

  Irelock saw them out, and then went back up the stairs to look in on Ripwell, and the Saint lighted another cigarette and stretched out his legs under the table. There was a train of thought shunting about in the half-intuitive sidings of his mind, backing and puffing tentatively, feeling its way breathlessly over a maze of lines with only one dim signal to guide it, but something about the way it was moving sent that weird sixth-sense tingle coursing again over his thoracic vertebræ. Teal trudged about over a minute area of carpet with his jaw oscillating rhythmically, and his sleepy eyes kept returning to the inscrutable immobility of the Saint’s brown face.

  “Well, what do you make of it now?” he said at last.

  Simon came far enough out of his trance to put his smouldering cigarette back between his lips.

  “I think it was magnificently staged,” he said.

  “How do you mean—magnificently? To try something like this only an hour or two after we get here, and make a success of it—”

  “I like the organization,” said the Saint dreamily. “Think it over, Claud. A bloke pushes his face against the window, and there’s a first-class scare. The gathering breaks up and goes dashing out in the dark through three separate doors. There are five of us milling around in all directions, and yet it only takes a few seconds to sort out the right people and make a job of it. The bullet that hit Ripwell may have been meant for either him or me, but we were the two who got the bombs to begin with. Young Nulland is snatched off—a member of the same family—but nobody seems to have tried to grab Irelock when he was knocked out. And nobody tries to damage that beautiful stomach of yours.”

  “That may only be because they didn’t have time.”

  “Or else because you don’t know enough to be dangerous.”

  Mr Teal scowled.

  “Nulland’s car was only a two-seater, wasn’t it?” He stared at the curtained windows, working at the problem in his own slow methodical way. “We ought to have tried the river…These people are clever.”

  “How many have you counted up to?”

  “Ellshaw’s the only one we know personally, but you saw another man in Duchess Place when you went there. I don’t know how many more there are, but Ellshaw couldn’t do it all alone. I know that man, and I’d swear he wasn’t a killer.”

  The door opened and Irelock returned, bringing a bottle and glasses on a tray.

  “What are the four motives that might make anyone a killer?” asked the Saint.

  Teal’s heavy lids settled more wearily over his eyes.

  “Revenge? Nobody whom he’s attacking ever seems to have met him before, except his wife. Jealousy?”

  “Of what?”

  “The fear of being found out?” suggested Irelock.

  “We haven’t anything against him,” answered the detective. “And I don’t know how to believe that he’s done anything before that would be big enough to give him such a guilty conscience. He’s the type that makes the usual whine about persecution when he’s caught, but he always goes quietly.”

  Simon nodded.

  “So that only leaves the best motive of all. Money. Big money.”

  “Extortion?” queried Teal sceptically.

  “It has been done,” said the Saint mildly. “But it doesn’t meet all the facts this time. What’s he going to extort from Mrs Ellshaw and me? And how can we know anything that might spoil the racket before Nulland’s even been kidnapped—much less before anyone’s put in the bill for ransom? And how the hell could you get a ransom out of Lord Ripwell if he was dead? Don’t forget that he was on the bumping-off list before tonight.”

  Chief Inspector Teal breathed audibly.

  “Well, if you’ve got a theory of your own, I’d like to hear it. All you’ve done yet is to make it more complicated.”

  “On the contrary,” said the Saint, with that intangible intuitive train of thought still shuffling through the untracked subconscious labyrinths of his imagination. “I think it’s getting simpler.”

  “You’ve got a theory?” Irelock pressed him eagerly.

  The Saint smiled.

  “For the first time since all the excitement started, I’ve got more than a theory,” he answered softly. “I’ve got a fact.”

  “What is it?” demanded Teal, too quickly, and the Saint grinned gently, and got up with a swing of his long legs.

  “You’d like to know, wouldn’t you? Well, how do you know you don’t?”

  Mr. Teal swallowed the last faint scrap of flavour out of his gum, and blinked at him.

  “How do I know—”

  “How do you know you don’t? Because you do.” Simon Templar flattened the stump of his cigarette in an ash-tray, and laughed at him soundlessly. He put his hand on Teal’s cushy shoulder. “It’s all there waiting for you, Claud, if you figure it out. Think back a bit, and work on it. Who’s supposed to be the detective here—you or me?”

  “Do you mean you know who’s responsible?” asked Irelock.

  The Saint turned his head.

  “Not yet. Not positively. I’ve just got a few ideas walking around in my mind. One or two of ’em have got together for a chat, and when they’ve all met up I think they’re going to tell me something. I’d like to see how his lordship’s getting on.”

  He went upstairs and let himself quietly into the bedroom. Ripwell was smoking a cigar and reading a book, and he looked up with a steady smile that overcame the pallor of his face.

  “Looks as if I’m pretty hard to kill, what? You were splendid—wish we’d caught one of those blighters. Why the devil didn’t I have that damned revolver? I might have bagged one myself.”

  “Inspector Oldwood brought over some ammunition for you,” said the Saint. “I’ll see that you have it before we turn in. It’s a comforting thing to have under your pillow.”

  “Damned comforting,” agreed his lordship. “I don’t mind telling you I’m glad to have you in the house—you won’t be leaving yet, will you?”

  “Not for a while.”

  Lord Ripwell grunted cheerfully.

  “That’s good. They got Kenneth, didn’t they? Oh, yes, I k
now—I dragged it out of Martin just now. Decent of you to try and keep it from me, but I’d rather know. I can stand a good deal. Wish Kenneth could. Still, an experience like that may wake him up a bit. What d’you think they’ll do to him?”

  “I don’t know. But somehow I don’t think it’ll be anything…fatal.”

  Ripwell nodded.

  “Neither do I. If they’d wanted to…do that…they needn’t have taken him away. I’m glad you think so too, though. I wouldn’t like to feel I was hoodwinking myself. Somebody’d better ring up that chap Ferris and tell him Ken won’t be coming down.”

  “Do you know the number?”

  “Never did know it. Ring up his flat in London and see if you can get it from there. The least we can do is to save Kenneth from getting in trouble for being late again. You’ll find a directory under that table. Address in Duchess Place somewhere, I think.”

  “What?”

  The question was slapped out of the Saint with such spontaneous startlement that Ripwell dropped his cigar and scorched the sheet.

  “Eh? What? What’s the matter?”

  “Did you say Duchess Place?”

  Ripwell picked up his cigar and dusted off the debris of ash from the bedclothes.

  “I think that’s right. Kenneth has talked about it. Why?”

  Simon did not answer. He sprang up and dived under the extension telephone table by the bedside for the directory. He could hear Mrs Florence Ellshaw’s unmusical voice rasping in his ear as clearly as if her ghost had been standing beside him, repeating the fragments of her long-winded and meandering story: “…in Duchess’ Place, sir…number six…next door to two young gennelmen as I do for, such nice young gennelmen…”

  “Does he share this flat with another fellow?” Simon jerked out, whipping over the pages.

  Lord Ripwell raised his eyebrows foggily.

  “I believe he does. Don’t know who it is, though. How did you know?”