Knight Templar, or The Avenging Saint s-4

by Leslie Charteris

  "You still call it a bluff?" sneered the giant.

  "You will find out—"

  "I shall," drawled Simon. "Angel Face, don't you think this is a peach of a beard? Makes me look like Abraham in a high wind. ..."

  Absent-mindedly the Saint had picked up his disguise and affixed the beard to his chin and the dark glasses to his nose. The hat had fallen to the floor. Moving to pick it up, he kicked it a yard away. The second attempt had a similar result. And it was all done with such a puerile innocence that both Marius and the prince must have been no more than vaguely wondering what motive the Saint could have in descending to such infantile depths of clowning—when the manoeuvre was completed with a breath-taking casualness.

  The pursuit of his hat had brought the Saint within easy reach of the door. Quite calmly and unhurriedly he picked up the hat and clapped it on his head.

  "Strong silent man goes out into the night," he said. "But we must get together again some time. Au revoir, sweet cherubs!"

  And the Saint passed through the sitting-room door in a flash; and a second later the outer door of the suite banged.

  Simon had certainly visited the prince with in­tent to obtain information; but he had done so, as he did all such things, practically without a plan in his head. The Saint was an opportunist; he held that the development of complicated plans was generally nothing but a squandering of so much energy, for the best of palavers was liable to rocket onto unexpected rails—and these surprises, Simon maintained, could only be turned to their fullest advantage by a mind untrammelled by any preconceived plan of campaign. And if the Saint had anticipated anything, he had anticipated that the arrival of Rayt Marius in the role of an angel-faced harbinger of glad tidings would result in a certain amount of more or less informative backchat be­fore the conversation became centered on pros­pective funerals. And, indeed, the conversazione had worn a very up-and-coming air before the prince had switched it back into such a very prac­tical channel. But Prince Rudolf had that sort of mind; wherefore the Saint had chased his hat. . . .

  4

  IT HAD BEEN a slick job, that departure; and it was all over before Marius had started to move. Even then, the prince had to stop him.

  "My dear Marius, it would be useless to cause a disturbance now."

  "He could be arrested—"

  "But you must see that he could say things about us, if he chose, which might prove even more annoying than his own interference. At large, he can be dealt with by ourselves."

  "He has fooled us once, Highness—"

  "He will not do so again. ... Sit down, sit down, Marius! You have something to tell me."

  Impatiently, the giant suffered himself to be soothed into a chair. But the prince was perfectly unruffled—the cigarette glowed evenly in his long holder, and his sensitive features showed no sign of emotion.

  "I took the girl," said Marius curtly. "She has been sent to Saltham. The ship will call there again to-night, and Vassiloff will be on board. They can be married as soon as they are at sea—the captain is my slave."

  "You think the provocation will be sufficient?"

  "I am more sure of it than ever. I know Lessing. I will see him myself—discreetly—and I guarantee that he will accept my proposition. Within a week you should be able to enter Ukraine."

  In the bathroom the Saint heard every word. He had certainly banged the outer door of the suite, but the bedroom door had been equally convenient for the purposes of his exit. It has been explained that he came to the Ritz Hotel to gather informa­tion.

  The communicating door between the sitting room and the bedroom was ajar; so also was that between bedroom and bathroom. And while he lis­tened, the Saint was amusing himself.

  He had found a new tube of Prince Rudolf's beautiful pink toothpaste, and the glazed green tiles of the bathroom offered a tempting surface for artistic experiment. Using his material after the style of a chef applying fancy icing to a cake, the Saint had drawn a perfect six-inch circle upon the bathroom wall; from the lowest point of the circle he drew down a vertical line, which presently bifurcated into two downward lines of equal length; and on either side of his first vertical line he caused two further lines to project diagonally upwards..". .

  "And the other arrangements, Marius—they are complete?"

  "Absolutely. You have read all the newspapers yourself, Highness—you must see that the strains could not have been more favourably ordered. The mine is ripe for the spark. To-day I received a cable from my most trusted agent, in Vienna—I have decoded it—"

  The prince took the form and read it; and then he began to pace the room steadily, in silence.

  It was not a restless, fretful pacing—it was a matter of deliberate, leisured strides, as smooth and graceful and eloquent as any of the prince's gestures. His hands were lightly clasped behind his back; the thin cigarette holder projected from be­tween his white teeth; his forehead was serene and unwrinkled.

  Marius waited his pleasure, sitting hunched up in the chair to which the prince had led him, like some huge grotesque carving in barbarous stone. He watched the prince with inscrutable glittering eyes.

  And Simon Templar was putting the finishing touches to his little drawing.

  He understood everything that was said. Once upon a time he had felt himself at a disadvantage because he could not speak a word of the prince's language; but since then he had devoted all his spare time, night and day, to the task of adding that tongue to his already extensive linguistic ac­complishments. This fact he had had neither the inclination nor the opportunity to reveal during their brief reunion.

  Presently the prince said: "Our friend Mr. Tem­plar—I find it hard to forget that he once saved my life. But when he cheated me, at Maidenhead, I think he cancelled the debt."

  "It is more than cancelled, Highness," said Marius malignantly. "But for that treachery, we should have achieved our purpose long ago."

  "It seems a pity—I have admitted as much to him. He is such an active and ingenious young man."

  " A meddlesome young swine!"

  The prince shook his head.

  "One should never allow a personal animosity to colour one's abstract appreciations, my dear Marius," he said dispassionately. "On the other hand one should not allow an abstract admiration to overrule one's discretion. I have a most sincere regard for our friend—but that is all the more rea­son why I should encourage you to expedite his re­moval. He will endeavour to trace Miss Delmar, of course, when he finds that you were telling the truth."

  "I shall take steps to assist him—up to a point."

  "And then you will dispose of him in your own way."

  "There will be no mistake," said the giant ven­omously; and the prince laughed softly.

  In the bathroom, Simon Templar, with a very Saintly smile on his lips, was crowning his shapely self-portrait with a symbolical halo—at a rakish angle, and in scrupulously correct perspective.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  How Simon Templar travelled to Saltham and Roger Conway put up his gun

  1

  A BULGE—a distinct Bulge," opined the Saint, as he shuffled out of the Ritz Hotel, leaving a young cohort of oleaginous serfs in his wake. There was, he thought, a lot to be said for the principle of riding on the spur of the moment. If he had called upon the crown prince to absorb information, he had indubitably inhaled the mixture as prescribed—a canful. Most of it, of course, he either knew already or could have guessed without risk of bringing on an attack of cerebral staggers; but it was pleasant to have one's deductions confirmed. Besides, one or two precise and irrefutable details of the enemy's plan of attack had emerged in all their naked glory, and that was very much to the good. "Verily—a Bulge," ruminated the Saint. ...

  He found his laborious footsteps automatically leading him down St. James Street, and then eastwards along Pall Mall. With an eclat equalled only by that of his recent assault upon the Ritz, he carried the portals of the Royal Automobile Club—of which he
was not a member—and required an atlas to be brought to him. With this aid to geographical research, he settled himself in a quiet corner of the smoke room and proceeded to acquire the dope about Saltham. This he discovered to be a village on the Suffolk coast between Southwold and Aldeburgh; a gazetteer which lay on the table conveniently near him added the enlightening news that it boasted of fine sandy beaches, cliffs, pleasure grounds, a 16th cent, ch., a coasting trade, and a population of 3,128—it was, said the gazetteer, a wat.-pl.

  "And that must be frightfully jolly for it," murmured the Saint, gently depositing the Royal Automobile Club's property in a convenient wastebasket.

  He smoked a thoughtful cigarette in his corner; and then, after a glance at his watch, he left the club again, turned down Waterloo Place, and descended the steps that lead down to the Mall. There he stood, blinking at the sunlight, until a grubby infant accosted him.

  "Are you Mr. Smith, sir?"

  "I am,'' said the Saint benignly.

  "Gen'l'man gimme this letter for you." The Saint took the envelope, slit it open, and read the pencilled lines:

  No message. Heading N.E. Wire you Waldorf on arrival.—R.

  "Thank you, Marmaduke," said the Saint.

  He pressed a piece of silver into the urchin's palm and walked slowly back up the steps, tearing the note into small shreds as he went. At the corner of Waterloo Place and Pall Mall he stopped and glanced around for a taxi.

  It seemed a pity that Roger Conway would waste a shilling, but that couldn't be helped. The first bulletin had already meant an unprofitable in­crease in the overhead. But that, on the other hand, was a good sign. In the Saint's car and a chauffeur's livery Roger Conway had been parked a little distance away from the converted garage, in a position to observe all that happened. If Sonia Delmar had been in a postion to drop a note after her abduction she would have done so, and the bones of it would have been passed on to the Saint via the infant they had employed for the occasion; otherwise Roger was simply detailed to give in­conspicuous chase, and he must have shot his human carrier-pigeon overboard as they neared the northeastern outskirts of London. But the note carried by the human telegraph would only have been interesting if anything unforeseen had happened.

  So that all things concerned might be assumed to be paddling comfortably along in warm water— unless Roger had subsequently wrapped the automobile round a lamp-post, or taken a tack into the bosom of a tire. And even that could not now prove wholly disastrous, for the Saint himself knew the destination of the convoy without waiting for further news, and he reckoned that a village with a mere 3,128 souls to call it their home town wasn't anything like an impossible covert to draw, even in the lack of more minute data.

  Much, of course, depended on how long a time elapsed before the prince took it into his head to have a bath. . . . Thinking over that touch of melodramatic bravado, Simon was momentarily moved to regret it. For the sight of the work of art which the Saint had left behind him as a souvenir of his visit would be quite enough to send the entire congregation of the ungodly yodelling frantically over the road to Saltham like so many starving rats on the trail of a decrepit camem­bert. . . . And then that very prospect wiped every sober regret out of the Saint's mind, and flicked a smile on his lips as he beckoned a passing cab.

  After all, if an adventurer couldn't have a sense of humor about the palpitations of the ungodly at his time of life—then he might as well hock his artillery forthwith and blow the proceeds on a permanent wave. In any case, the ungodly would have to see the night through. The ship of which Marius had spoken would be stealing in under cover of dark; and the ungodly, unless they were prepared to heave in their hand, would blinkin' well have to wait for it—dealing with any in­terference meanwhile as best they could.

  "That little old watering-place is surely going to hum to-night," figured the Saint.

  The taxi pulled in to the curb beside him; and, as he opened the door, he glimpsed a mountain of sleepy-looking flesh sauntering along the opposite pavement. The jaws of the perambulating mountain oscillated rhythmically, to the obvious torment of a portion of the sweetmeat which has made the sapodilla tree God's especial favour to Mr. Wrigley. Chief Inspector Teal seemed to be enjoying his walk ....

  "Liverpool Street Station," directed the Saint, and climbed into his cab, vividly appreciating another factor in the equation which was liable to make the algebra of the near future a thing of beauty and a joy for Einstein.

  2

  HE HAD PLENTY of time to slaughter a sandwich and smoke a quartet of meditative cigarettes at the station before he caught Sunday's second and last train to Saxmundham, which was the nearest effective railhead for Saltham. He would have had time to call in at the Waldorf for Roger's wire on his way if he had chosen, but he did not choose. Simon Templar had a very finely calibrated judgment in the matter of unnecessary risks. At Liverpool Street he felt pretty safe: in the past he had always worked by car, and he fully expected that all the roads out of London were well picketed, but he was anticipating no special vigilance at the railway stations—except, perhaps, on the Continental departure platform at Victoria. He may have been right or wrong; it is only a matter of history that he made the grade and boarded the 4:35 unchallenged.

  It was half-past seven when the train decanted him at Saxmundham; and in the three hours of his journey, having a compartment to himself, he had effected a rejuvenation that would have made Dr. Voronoff's best experiment look like Methuselah before breakfast. He even contrived to brush and batter a genuine jauntiness into his ancient hat; and he swung off the train with his beard and glasses in his pocket, and an absurdly boyish glitter in his eyes.

  He had lost nothing by not bothering to collect Roger Conway's telegram, for he knew his man. In the first bar he entered he discovered his lieutenant attached by the mouth to the open end of a large tankard of ale. A moment later, lowering the tankard in order to draw breath, Roger perceived the Saint smiling down at him, and goggled.

  "Hold me up, someone," he muttered. "And get ready to shoo the pink elephants away when I start to gibber. . . . And to think I've been complaining that I couldn't see the point of paying seven-pence a pint for brown water with a taste!"

  Simon laughed.

  "Bear up, old dear," he said cheerfully. "It hasn't come to that yet."

  "But how did you get here?"

  "Didn't you send for me?" asked the Saint innocently.

  "I did not," said Roger. "I looked out the last train, and I knew my message wouldn't reach you in time for you to catch it. I wired you to phone me here, and for the last three hours I've been on the verge of heart failure every time the door opened. I thought Teal must have got after you somehow, and every minute I was expecting the local cop to walk in and invite me outside."

  Simon grinned and sank into a chair. A waiter was hovering in the background, and the Saint hailed him and ordered a fresh consignment of ale.

  "I suppose you pinched the first car you saw," Roger was saying. "That'll mean another six months on our sentences. But you might have warned me."

  The Saint shook his head.

  "As a matter of fact, I never went to the Waldorf. Marius himself put me onto Saltham, and I came right along."

  "Good lord—how?"

  "He talked, and I listened. It was dead easy."

  "At the Ritz?"

  Simon nodded. Briefly he ran over the story of the reunion, with its sequel in the bathroom, and the conversation he had overheard; and Conway stared.

  "You picked up all that?"

  "I did so. . . . That man Marius is the three-star brain of this cockeyed age—I'll say. And by the same token, Roger, you and I are going to have to tune up our gray matters to an extra couple of thousand revs. per if we want to keep Angel Face's tail skid in sight over this course. . . . But what's your end of the story?"

  "Three of 'em turned up—one in a police-inspector's uniform. When the bell wasn't an­swered in about thirty seconds they whipped out a
jemmy and bust it in. As they marched in, an ambulance pulled into the mews and stopped outside the door. It was a wonderful bit of team work. There were ambulance men in correct uniforms and all. They carried her out on a stretcher, with a sheet over her. All in broad daylight. And slick! It was under five minutes by my watch from the moment they forced the door to the moment when they were all piling into the wagon, and they pulled out before anything like a crowd had collected. They'd doped Sonia, of course . . . the swine ..."

  "Gosh!" said the Saint softly. "She's just great—that girl!"

  Roger gazed thoughtfully at the pewter can which the waiter had placed before him.

  "She is—just great. ..."

  "Sweet on her, son?"

  Conway raised his eyes.

  "Are you?"

  The Saint fished out his cigarette case and selected a smoke. He tapped it on his thumbnail abstractedly; and there was a silence. . . .

  Then he said quietly: "That ambulance gag is big stuff. Note it down, Roger, for our own use one day. . . . And what's the battlefield like at Saltham?"

  "A sizeable house standing in its own grounds on the cliffs, away from the village. They're not much, as cliffs go — not more than about fifty feet around there. There are big iron gates at the end of the drive. The ambulance turned in; and I went right on past without looking round — I guessed they were there for keeps. Then I had to come back here to send you that wire. By the way, there was a bird we've met before in that ambulance outfit — your little friend Hermann. "

  Simon stroked his chin.

  "I bust his jaw one time, didn't I?"

  "Something like that. And he did his best to bust my ribs and stave my head in . "

  "It will be pleasant," said the Saint gently, "to meet Hermann again. "

  He took a pull at his ale and frowned at the table.

  Roger said: "It seems to me that-all we've got to do now is to get on the phone to Claud Eustace and fetch him along. There's Sonia in that house — we couldn't have the gang more red-handed."