The Saint Goes On (The Saint Series)
Page 19
“You do sound bloodthirsty,” he murmured.
The bald fruity man got up. Standing on his feet, he looked big and solid in spite of his rich complexion and extensive waistline.
“Oh, no. Not particularly bloodthirsty. Just four old soldiers who got used to being shot at quite a long while ago. I really don’t think we’d be the best people for any gangsters to pick on—some of them would certainly get hurt. It’s worth thinking about, anyway!”
A waitress came in with the next course of the Saint’s dinner. She went over and whispered something to the grey-moustached man, who dropped his pince-nez and spoke in an undertone to the fair-haired man with the receding chin. The other two looked at them as they got up.
“You must excuse us,” said the grey moustache, rather abruptly.
He went out, and the others followed him after a second’s hesitation. Hoppy Uniatz stared at the closing door blankly—he was experiencing some of the sensations of an early Christian who, having braced himself for a slap-up martyrdom, has been rudely sniffed at by a lion and then left high and dry in the middle of the arena. Coming on top of the other incomprehensible things that had happened to him since he arrived there, this was not soothing. He turned to the Saint with a rough sketch of these complex emotions working itself out on his face.
“Boss,” he said awkwardly, “dis place makes me noivous.”
4
Simon Templar chuckled, and probed a tentative fork into the section of warm rawhide crowned with a wodge of repulsive green mash which was apparently the local interpretation of Leg de Mouton under the influence of spinach.
“I can’t imagine it, Hoppy,” he said.
Mr Uniatz’s frown deepened.
“Ja see dose guys take a run-out powder on us?” he demanded, starting methodically at the beginning.
“They do seem to have breezed on.”
“Maybe dey see me goin’ for my Betsy,” said Mr Uniatz, passing on to the more nebulous realms of theory.
“They could hardly have helped it.”
“Well, where dey t’ink dey get off pullin’ dat stuff an’ beatin’ it before we say anyt’ing?”
The Saint grinned.
“I think we can say we’ve been very politely warned off. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen it done in a more classical style—those birds must have been reading the smoothest detective stories. How’s your spinach? Mine tastes as if they’d been mowing the lawn this afternoon.”
He struggled through as much more of the meal as his stomach would endure, and lighted a cigarette. Mr Uniatz was finished some time before him—Hoppy’s calloused maw would have engulfed a plateful of live toads dressed with thistles and wood-pulp without noticing anything extraordinary about the menu, even in normal times, and when he was worried he was even less likely to observe what he was eating. Simon pushed back his chair and stood up cheerfully.
“Let’s take a walk,” he said.
Mr Uniatz licked his lips yearningly.
“I could just do wit’ a drink, boss.”
“Afterwards,” said the Saint inexorably. “I want to look over the lie of the land.”
There was no sign of the four genial diners when they went out, nor of the unpleasant ginger-haired man who had been foolish. A couple of obvious local inhabitants were poring over tankards of beer in the bar parlour off the hall—Simon caught a mere glimpse of them as he went by, but he did not see Martin Jeffroll, and there was nothing visible or audible to suggest that anything worth the attention of a modern buccaneer had happened there for the last two hundred years.
He got into his car and drove it round to the garage, a ramshackle shed dumped inartistically on to the north wall of the inn. It had never been designed to give a comfortable berth to cars of the Hirondel’s extravagantly rakish proportions, and there was a big grey lorry parked along one side which forced the Saint to go through some complicated manœuvres before he could get in. He managed to squeeze himself into the available space with some accompaniment of bad language, and rejoined Hoppy on the road.
“We’ll go down to the waterfront and smell some ozone.”
There was a rough grey stone promenade where the lowest houses straggled along the edge of the bay, and at one end of the village a similar stone causeway sloped down from it and ran out for some distance along the edge of the channel through which the river found its way seawards through the mud. Apparently it had been laid out at some time to give easier access to the boats moored in the channel at low tide. The usual fishing village’s collection of miscellaneous hardy craft was scattered out across the inlet, with here and there a hull whose brighter paint and more delicate lines spoke of some more fortunate resident’s pleasure. A little way out on the darkening water he could see a few scraps of sail, and a curiously shaped vessel at anchor which looked like a dredger.
He was rather surprised to see a signpost on the quay—one arm pointed to Seaton, the other to Sidmouth. He had not known that there was another through road besides the one by which he had arrived. Later that evening he looked it up on a map and found that there was an alternative route along the coast which took a big loop seawards, rejoining his own road near Lyme Regis.
The knowledge did not immediately give him any clue to the mystery. He sat on a bollard and watched the tide lap in through the gathering dark, smoking a steady series of cigarettes and trying to co-ordinate his meagre information. There was a girl who did not look particularly hysterical, who had heard strange things at night. There was an innkeeper who was undoubtedly a badly frightened man. There was a red-haired road-hog who seemed to have something to do with something. There were four hikers untouched by the weather who talked like traditional conspirators in the accents of Sandhurst. He could see one rather obvious theory which might somehow embrace them all, but it failed to satisfy him. Larkstone was some way east of the historical smugglers’ country, and in any case the popularization of aerial transport had changed all the settings of that profession.
Mr Uniatz had no theories. He had been trying very hard to work several things out for himself, but after a while the effort gave him a headache and he laid off.
It was quite dark when they strolled back to the hotel. Jeffroll was locking up. He bade the Saint a distantly polite good night, and Simon remembered the lorry which was taking up more than its fair share of the garage.
“Do you think it could be moved?” he asked. “I’m likely to be here for two or three days.”
The landlord pursed his lips apologetically. “As a matter of fact, it was left here on account of a debt by a man I’ve never seen again. It won’t go—the propeller shaft is broken. And it’s too heavy to push. I don’t want to spend any money on repairing it, and I’m trying to sell it as it stands. I’m afraid it is a bit of a nuisance, but I’d be very much obliged if you could put up with it.”
Simon went upstairs with the knowledge that he was unlikely to get much sleep that night, but the prospect did not trouble him. He had gone without sleep before, and could give the appearance of going without it for phenomenal periods, although by cat-napping at appropriate moments he could secure more rest than many people gain from a night’s conventional slumber. At the same time he wished that he could have heard more from Julia Trafford first, and it might have been a telepathic fulfilment of his unspoken thought when the door of his bedroom opened again almost as soon as he had closed it and she came in.
Almost every woman has some setting in which she can look astonishingly beautiful: for Julia Trafford, wide-trousered crêpe-de-Chine pyjamas and a flimsy silk wrap, with the shaded lights striking unexpected glints of copper from her dark hair, was only one of many. Hoppy Uniatz, who had no natural modesty, stared at her dreamily. The Saint could have thought of many more interesting things to talk to her about than the troubles of her frightened uncle, but he hoped she was not going to fall in love with him, which was one of the most serious risks he ran when succouring damsels in distress.
“Scotland Yard is convinced about it,” he said solemnly, “so I suppose I must be.”
He made her sit down and gave her a cigarette.
“What exactly is this all about?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said helplessly. “That’s the trouble. That’s why I wrote to you. There’s something ugly going on. My uncle’s terrified, even though he won’t admit it. I’ve begged him to tell me several times, but he keeps on saying I’m imagining things. And I know that isn’t true.”
The ginger-haired man, apparently, had been there before, and on his second visit he had been accompanied by two others whose descriptions sounded equally unpleasant. Each time he had seen Jeffroll alone, and each time the interview had left the innkeeper white and shaking. After both occasions she had made attempts to gain his confidence, but he had only denied that there was any trouble, and refused to talk about it any more. She knew, however, that since the second visit he had taken out a licence for a revolver, for the local police sergeant had come in with it one afternoon when he was out.
“Do you think he’s being blackmailed?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” said the Saint mildly. “What about these noises you hear at night—would they be the blackmailers painting up their armour?”
“They’re—well, I told you nearly all I could in my letter. This is a very old place, and a lot of boards creak when they’re stepped on. Sometimes when I’ve been lying awake reading at night I’ve heard them, even when I know Uncle Martin’s gone to bed and nobody else has any business to be moving about. At first I thought we were being burgled, but I went downstairs twice and I couldn’t find anybody.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“You thought there were burglars in the place, and you went down to look for them alone?”
“Oh, I’m not nervous—I think most burglars would run for their lives if they thought anybody was coming after them. But that was before that red-haired man came here.”
“And the noises have been going on—how long?”
“Nearly all the time I’ve been here. And then there’s the rumbling. It sounds like a train going by, very close, so that the house vibrates, but the nearest railway is five miles away.” She looked at him with a sudden youthful defiance. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”
“I’ve never seen one yet,” he said coolly. “Certainly not a ginger-haired one in ginger plus fours.”
He finished his cigarette and lighted another, strolling thoughtfully about the room. He did believe in neurotic women, having been pestered by more than his share, but he knew no species which panicked over imaginary terrors and at the same time went single-handed in search of burglars. Besides, he had seen certain things for himself. The landlord’s startling reaction to Mr Uniatz’s rasping voice, for instance—it had puzzled him considerably at the time, but he realized now that a man who had had disturbing interviews with a bloke like Gingerhead might have some reason to be frightened of a stranger who looked and talked like the most blatantly typical gangster that ever stepped. Obviously Jeffroll was being threatened, but ordinary blackmail was a very inadequate explanation, and the cruder forms of extortion were not likely to reach a small innkeeper in an obscure Devonshire village.
“Who are the Four Horsemen?”
She was baffled for a moment.
“Oh, you mean the men who were having dinner? They were here before I came. My uncle seems to be quite friendly with them. They go out fishing every night—you never see them about before dinner.”
The fat fruity man, he learned, was Major Portmore; the big black-haired man was Mr Kane; the grey moustache and pince-nez were worn by Captain Voss; and the thin man with the deficient chin who always talked to the table was blessed with the name of Weems.
“They’ve always been perfectly nice to me,” she said.
“I’ll believe you,” he murmured. “I thought they were most refined. A bit sinister in their line of backchat, but very British. What happened to the ginger bloke?”
She didn’t know. Jeffroll had carted him into his private office to revive him, leaving her in charge of the bar, and later on had announced that the patient had recovered and departed quietly. He had seemed pleased, and this was understandable.
The Saint smiled.
“I suppose there must be a good deal of head-scratching going on about us by this time,” he said. “First of all we’re taken for a couple of Gingerhead’s strong-arm guys, and then I sock Gingerhead on the jaw and put the whole thing cockeyed. I wonder if Uncle is tying himself in knots over it, or whether he thinks the whole show was a piece of low cunning especially staged to put him off the scent.”
“I couldn’t tell you, but I’ll let you know if I do find out. You’ve spoken to Major Portmore, then—what did he have to say?”
“He was quite pleasant. They told us they didn’t like gangsters, and gave us a few ideas about what they’d feel like doing if any hoodlums tried to muscle in on their preserves. It was all very nicely done, and if I’d been an ordinary thug I might have been quite impressed. Possibly. But I’ll agree with you that they seem pretty harmless fellows at heart, and that only makes things more complicated. If they’re quite innocent, why the hell don’t they get some policemen to deal with Gingerhead and me?”
He scowled over the enigma for a few moments longer, and then he shrugged.
“Anyway, I suppose we’ll find out. I’m going to do my sleeping in the daytime like the Four Horsemen—the night has a thousand eyes, and mine are going to be two of ’em.”
He got up out of the arm-chair into which he had thrown himself, with a quick smile that wiped the hard calculating lines out of his face in a flash of careless friendliness that was absurdly comforting. She really was rather beautiful, even if that moment found her at a loss for anything but the conventional answer.
“I don’t know why you should take so much trouble—”
“It’s no trouble. Most of us have to earn our living, and if there is any useful racket working around here I shall get my percentage out of the gate. I’ll let you know where I get to, and you can keep in touch with me. I haven’t made up my mind yet what part I’m going to try to put over, so you’d better not take a lot more risks like this in case anybody got wise to us. If I want to tell you anything, I’ll leave a note”—he glanced swiftly about the room—“under that corner of the carpet. And you’d better park your mail in the same place. Unless it’s desperately urgent. Don’t worry, kid—Hoppy and I are rough on rats, and when the ungodly think up a game that we didn’t play in our cradles…”
He left the rest of the sentence in the air, with the hairs at the back of his neck tingling.
While he talked, he had become faintly aware of a queer vibration that was at first too deep in its choice of wavelength to be perceptible to any ordinary faculty. And then, gradually, it grew strong enough to be felt. A glass upturned over the neck of the carafe on the washstand trilled in a sudden shrill relay of the impulse. He listened, in utter silence, and heard something like the rumble of wheels roll through the earth and come to a thudding stop far underneath his feet.
5
Julia Trafford’s face was suddenly white in the dim light which robbed the tapestry covering of the chair-back behind her of much of its hideousness. Her lips parted breathlessly.
“That’s it,” she whispered, with her grey eyes widening against his. “You heard it yourself—didn’t you? That’s what I’ve been hearing.”
The lamplight cut dark lines and piratical masses of shadow out of his brown face and brought up the glint of blue steel in his mocking gaze. He stood checked in precarious stillness, with the white scrap of his cigarette clipped between steady fingers, and the lamp threw his shadow towering up the wall so that his head and shoulders stooped over the
low ceiling.
“How far away is this railway?” he said.
“The line’s about five miles inland—the nearest station is Colyford.”
He nodded.
“Go back to your room, bright eyes,” he said, and his hand touched her shoulder as she stood up. “And don’t lose any sleep over it. Whatever this racket is, I’ll take it apart and see what makes it go.”
He closed the door after her, and found Hoppy Uniatz gaping at it with the glazed otherworldly look of a man who is going to be seasick. For a couple of seconds he studied the phenomena in fascinated silence, and then he cleared his throat tactfully, and Mr Uniatz came out of his trance with a guilty start.
“I could give dat dame a tumble sometime—when I ain’t got nut’n better to do,” he said, in a tone so overpoweringly blasé that the Saint blinked at him in considerable awe.
Simon would have liked to probe deeper into this remarkable statement, but he reserved his curiosity for a more leisured date.
“I think I’ll wander about the place and look at the architecture,” he said.
“Okay, boss.” Mr Uniatz roused himself finally out of his dreams, and dragged out his Betsy. He slid back the jacket and inspected the cartridge in the chamber with unromantic stoicism. “Wit’ you an’ me on de job, I guess dis racket is on de skids.”
“With me on the job, it may be,” said the Saint calmly. “You’re going to stay here and snore for both of us—and that ought to be a pushover for you.”
He was firm about this, in spite of Hoppy’s injured protests. For a partner in a gun-fight, Simon would have asked nobody better, but for a tour of stealthy investigation he would as soon have chosen a boisterous young bison.