"Chees," said Mr Uniatz admiringly. "Where do ya git dis stuff?"
"It's dropped from aeroplanes," explained Peter. "In large containers weighing about six hundred pounds each."
Mr Uniatz looked worried.
"But what happens when dey hit de ground?"
"They break," said Peter. "That's the whole idea. Think it over, Hoppy, while I go on with my gossip column."
He refreshed himself again and continued:
"Brigadier-General Sir Robert Sangore has stayed with Fairweather before. During his last visit he delivered a stirring address to the Church Lads' Brigade, in which Comrade Fairweather takes a benevolent interest. He warned them particularly against Socialists, Communists, and Pacifists, and told them that the Great War was a glorious spree for everyone who fought in it. He graduated from Sandhurst in the year Dot, served all over the place, got into the War Office in 1917 and stayed there until 1930, when he retired to become a director of the Wolverhampton Ordnance Company. He is an officer, a gentleman and a member of the Cavalry Club."
"Lady Valerie Woodchester," said Patricia, "is the spoiled darling of London Society. She uses Mond's Vanishing Cream, Kissabel Lipstick, and Charmante Skin Tonic. She goes to all the right places at all the right times, and she has her photograph in the Bystander every week. She has also stolen all my best clothes."
"Don't worry about that, darling," said the Saint reassuringly. "I'll take them off her."
Pat made a face at him.
"That wouldn't surprise me a bit," she said calmly.
"The young hero who rescued Lady Valerie," resumed Peter, when order had been restored, "is Captain Donald Knightley of the Dragoon Guards. He has a fine seat on a horse and a set of membership cards to all the best night clubs. That's all I could find out about him. . . . And that only leaves John Kennet, the man who didn't fit in anywhere."
"Yes," said the Saint thoughtfully. "The man who didn't fit in. And he seems to have been the most important one of all."
Patricia made a sharp restless movement.
"Are you sure?" she said, as if she was still fighting against conviction. "After all, if Fairweather has been in Parliament, he may have got friendly with Kennet's father——"
"I wouldn't argue. The old man may be a bit bothered about his aitches now and again, and he may still pretend that he belongs to the Labour party, but he joined the national government at the right time so of course all the duchesses love him because they know his heart must be in the right place. If it had been the old man, it might have been all right. But it wasn't. It was young Kennet. And young Kennet was a pacifist, an anti-blood-sporter, an anti-capitalist, an anti-Fascist and the Lord knows what not; and he once said publicly that his father had proved to be the arch-Judas of the working classes. Well, there may be all sorts of harmless reasons why a fellow like that should have been invited to join that congregation of worshippers of the golden calf, but you must admit that he still looks like the ideal burnt offering."
There was a silence, in which the only interruption was the sound of Mr Uniatz cautiously uncorking his private bottle of Vat 69, while their thoughts went on.
Peter said: "Yes. But that isn't evidence. You've been very mysterious all this time, but you must have something more definite than that."
"I'll give you four things," said the Saint.
He stood up and leaned against one of the pillars of the porch, facing them, very tall and dark and somehow deadly against the sunlit peace of the garden. Their eyes were drawn as if by a magnet.
"One: Kennet's door was locked."
Patricia stared at him.
"So you mentioned," Peter said slowly. "But if everybody who locked a door——"
"I can only think of two kinds of people who'd lock their bedroom doors when they were staying in a private house," said the Saint. "Frightened virgins and—frightened men."
"Maybe he was expecting a call from Lady Valerie," suggested Patricia half heartedly.
"Maybe he was," agreed the Saint patiently. "But if that made him lock his door, he must have been a very undiscriminating young man. And in any case, that's only half of it. He not only locked his door, but he took the key out of the lock. Now, even assuming that anyone might lock a door, there's only one reason for taking the key out of the lock. And that's when you realize that an expert might be able to turn the key from the outside—in other words, when you're really thinking hard along the lines of a pretty determined attempt to get at you."
"He might have been tight when he went to bed," Peter pointed out. "That would account for almost any weird thing he did. And besides that, it might account for him not hearing the fire alarm."
"It might," said the Saint bluntly. "But while you're at it, why don't you think of the other possibility? Suppose he didn't lock the door at all. Suppose somebody else did ?"
They were silent again.
"Go on," said Patricia.
Simon looked at her.
"Two: during all the time we were there, did you see any signs of a servant?"
"It might have been their night out."
"Yes. And with a house that size, there must have been several of them. And Fairweather let them all go out together, on a Saturday night, when he had a house full of week-end guests. And Valerie Woodchester cooked the dinner, and Lady Sangore washed the dishes. Why don't we make up some more brilliant theories? Maybe the servants were all burnt in the fire, too, only nobody thought of mentioning it."
Peter sipped his beer abstractedly.
"What else?"
"Three: when we arrived, every door and window that I could see on the ground floor was wide open. Let me try and save your brains some of this fearful strain. Maybe that was because everybody who heard the alarm rushed out through a different window. Or maybe it was because they always went to bed with the ground-floor windows open so that if any burglars wanted to drop in they wouldn't have to break the glass. Of course that's much more likely than that somebody wanted a good draught to make sure that the fire would burn up nice and fast."
This time there was no comment.
"Point four," said the Saint quietly, "is only Luker. The man who ties Sangore and Fairweather together. And the man who perfectly represents the kind of bee that Kennet had in his bonnet. . . . Do you really think I'm insane, or doesn't it all seem like too many coincidences even to you?"
They didn't answer. Incredulity, a traditional habit of mind, even in spite of the years that they had spent in wild pursuit of the fantastic visions that steered the Saint's iconoclastic path, struggled desperately against the implications of belief. It would have been so much easier, so much more soothing, to let suspicion be lulled away by the uncritical rationalizations of ingrained convention, when to accept what the Saint argued meant something so ominous and horrible that the mind instinctively recoiled from dwelling on it. But it seemed as if the unclouded sunlight darkened behind the Saint's tall, disturbing figure while the echoes of his last words ran on through their protesting brains.
Mr Uniatz removed the neck of the bottle from his mouth with a faint squuck. The intermediate stages of the conversation had left as dim a blur on his consciousness as a discourse on the quantum theory would have left on an infants' class in arithmetic; but he had been told to think something over and he had been bravely obeying orders, even though thinking was an activity which always gave him a dull pain behind the eyes.
"Boss," he said, in a sudden wild bulge of inspiration, "I got it. It's some temperance outfit."
Simon blinked at him. There were occasions when the strange processes that went on inside the skull of Mr Uniatz were too occult even for him.
"What is?" he asked fearfully.
"De guys in de aeroplanes."
Simon clutched his head.
"What guys?"
"De guys," explained Mr Uniatz proudly, "who break de bottles of liquor."
2
The inquest was to be held at the Assembly Rooms i
n Anford, a largish building which served at various times for dances, whist drives, auctions and a meeting place for the Boy Scouts. When Simon arrived a small crowd had already started to gather, and three or four policemen were on duty to keep them back. Among the policemen Simon recognized the constable who had taken his arm on the night of the fire. He strolled across to him.
"Hullo, Reginald," he murmured. "What's new?"
"Oh, it's you, sir." The policeman lowered his voice confidentially. "Well, it all seems quite simple now. The pore devil never left 'is bed—'e come down, bed and all, right through into the libry. Shocking sight 'e was, too. But there, he couldn't 've felt nothing. He must 've bin spiflicated by the smoke before ever the fire reached 'im." He went on looking at the Saint with a certain amount of awe. "I didn't know 'oo you was till after you'd gorn, sir," he said apologetically.
"I'm sorry," said the Saint gravely. "But you can still arrest me now if you want to, so there's no harm done."
"Arrest you?" repeated the policeman. "Wot—me?" A beaming grin split his face almost in half. "Why, I've read everythink they ever printed about you, and fair larfed myself sick sometimes, the way you put it over on those smart alecks at Scotland Yard. But I never thought I'd 'ave the pleasure of meeting you and not know it—though I did wonder 'ow you knew my name the other night."
"Your name?" said the Saint faintly.
"Yes sir. Reginald. That was pretty good, that was. But I suppose you've got pretty near the 'ole police force of the country taped, haven't you?"
The Saint swallowed. He searched unavailingly for an adequate reply.
Fortunately his anguished efforts were cut short by the blessed advent of two large cars that rolled up to the steps at the entrance of the building, and a spontaneous movement of the crowd drew the policeman back to his job. The Saint took out his cigarette case with a feeling of precarious relief and watched the cars disgorge the dignified shapes of Luker, Fairweather, Sir Robert and Lady Sangore, and Lady Valerie Woodchester.
"It must be wonderful to be famous," remarked Peter Quentin reverently.
"Get yourself some reflected glory," said the Saint. "Take Pat inside—I'm going to float around for a bit."
He waited while they disappeared, and presently followed them in. Immediately inside the entrance was a fair-sized hall in which a number of people were standing about, conversing in cathedral mutters. There were single doors on each side, and a double pair facing the entrance which opened into the main room where the inquest was to take place. Near these farther doors Lady Valerie was standing alone, waiting, rather impatiently tapping the ground with one trim-shod foot. Simon went over to her.
"Good morning," he said.
She turned languidly and inspected him, one finely arched eyebrow slightly raised. She had lovely eyes, large and dark and sparkling, shaded by very long lashes. Her dark hair gleamed with a warm autumn richness. The poise of her exquisitely modelled head, the angle of her childishly tip-tilted nose, the curl of her pretty lips, proclaimed her utter and profound disinterest in Simon Templar.
"What's happened to Luker and the others?" Simon asked. "I saw them come in with you just now."
"They're in the office talking to the coroner, if you want them," she said indifferently. Then suddenly she lost some of her indifference. "Are you a reporter?"
"No," said the Saint regretfully. "But I could get you one. May I compliment you on your taste in clothes. I always did like that dress."
He knew the dress very well, since he had helped Patricia to choose it.
Lady Valerie stared at him hard for a moment and then her expression changed completely. It ceased altogether to be cold and disdainful: her features became animated with eagerness.
"Oh," she said. "How silly of me! Of course I remember you now. You're the hero, aren't you?"
"Am I?"
She frowned a little.
"Not that I really hoot a lot about this hero business," she went on. "I daresay it's all very fine for great he-men to go rushing about dripping with sweat and doing noble things, but I think there ought to be special places set apart for them to perform in."
"You were rescued yourself the other night, weren't you?" said the Saint pleasantly.
"Rescued? My good man, I was simply thrown about like an old sack. When the fire alarm went off I didn't realize what it was for a moment, and then when Don Knightley came charging into my room with his hair standing on end and his eyes sticking out and his ears absolutely flapping with the most frightful emotion I merely thought I was in for a fate worse than death, and believe me I was. I mean, all's fair in love and war and all that sort of thing, but to be heaved up by one arm and one leg and slung over a man's bony shoulder, and then to be galloped about over miles of lawn with your only garment flapping up around your neck . . ."
She seemed to be expecting sympathy.
Simon laughed.
"It must have been rather trying," he admitted. "I haven't seen my rival today. By the way, where is he?"
"He had to go and change the guard, or something dreary. But it doesn't matter. It's nice to see you again."
She might almost have meant it.
"Next time you want rescuing, you must drop me a line," said the Saint. "I'm told I have a very delicate touch with damsels in distress. Maybe I could give you more satisfaction."
She glanced sideways at him, out of the corners of her eyes. Her lips twitched slightly.
"Maybe you could," she said.
"All the same," Simon continued resolutely, "it would have been even more trying if you'd been left in your room, wouldn't it?"
Again her expression changed like magic; in a moment she looked utterly woebegone.
"Yes," she said in a low voice. "Like—like John."
She turned wide, distressed eyes on him.
"I—I can't think what could have happened," she said tremulously. "He—he must have heard the alarm, and I —I know he wasn't drunk or anything like that. He couldn't have committed suicide, could he? Nobody would commit suicide like—like that."
She seemed to be begging him to reassure her that Kennet had not committed suicide; there were actually tears in her eyes. Simon was puzzled.
"No, he didn't commit suicide," he answered. "I'll bet anything on that. But why should you think of it?"
"Well, we did have the most awful row," and—and I swore I'd never speak to him again, and he seemed to take it rather to heart. Of course I didn't really mean it, but I was getting awfully fed up with the whole silly business, and he was being terribly stupid and awkward and unreasonable."
"Were you engaged to him, or something like that?"
"Oh no. Of course he may have thought . . . But then, nobody takes those things seriously. Oh, damn! It's all so hopelessly foul and horrible, and all just because of a silly bet."
"So he may have thought you were in love with him. You'd let him think so. Is that it?" Simon persisted.
"Yes, I suppose so, if you put it that way. But what else could I do?"
She stared at him indignantly, as if she were denying a thoroughly unjust accusation.
"I bet you wouldn't see a thousand-guinea fur coat that you were simply aching to have go slipping away just because you couldn't make a bit of an effort with a man," she said vehemently. "And it was in a good cause, too."
The Saint smiled sympathetically. He still hadn't much idea what she was talking about, but he knew with a tumultuous certainty that he was getting somewhere. Out of all that confusion something clear and revealing must emerge within another minute or two—if only luck gave him that other minute. He was aware that his pulses were beating a shade faster.
"Was John going to give you a fur coat?" he inquired.
"John? My dear, don't be ridiculous. John would never have given me a fur coat. Why, he never even took me anywhere in a taxi."
She paused.
"He wasn't mean," she added quickly. "You mustn't think that. He was terribly gener
ous, really, even though he didn't have much money. But he used to spend it all on frightfully earnest things, like books and lectures and Brotherhood of Man leagues and all that sort of thing." She shook her head dejectedly. "He used to work so hard and study such a lot and have such impossible ideals, and now ... If only he'd had a good time first, it wouldn't seem quite so bad somehow," she said chokingly. "But he just wouldn't have a good time. He was much too earnest."
"He probably enjoyed himself in his own way," said the Saint consolingly. "But about this fur coat. Where was that coming from?"
"Oh, that was Mr Fairweather," she answered. "Of course he's got simply lashings of money; a thousand guineas is simply nothing to him. You see, he thought it would be quite a good thing if John became reconciled with his father and stopped being stupid, and then he thought that if John was engaged to me—only in a sort of unofficial way, of course—I could make him stop being stupid. So he bet me a thousand-guinea fur coat to see if I could do it. So of course I had to try."
"Did you have any luck?"
She shook her head.
"No. He was terribly obstinate and silly. I wanted him to have a good time and forget all his stupid ideas, but he just wouldn't. Instead of enjoying himself like an ordinary person he'd just sit and talk to me for hours, and sometimes he'd bring along a fellow called Windlay that he lived with, and then they'd both talk to me."
"What did they talk about?"
She spread out her hands in a vague gesture.
"Politics—you know, stupid things. And he used to talk about a thing called the Ring, and Mr Luker, and General Sangore, and even his own father, and say the beastliest things about them. And there were newspapers, and factories, and some people called the Sons of France——"
The Saint was suddenly very rigid.
"What was that again?"
"The Sons of France—or something like that. I don't know what it was all about and I don't care. I know he used to say that he was going to upset everything in a few weeks and make things uncomfortable for everybody, and I used to tell him not to be so damned selfish, because after all what's the point in upsetting everybody? Live and let live is my motto, and I wouldn't interfere with other people's private affairs if they'll leave mine alone."
Prelude For War s-19 Page 4