Prelude For War s-19

by Leslie Charteris

  She shuddered almost imperceptibly.

  "I know, that wasn't very nice. I never was one of those heroines who don't think life is worth living unless bullets are whizzing past their ears and ships sinking under them and houses crashing in ruins about their heads and all that sort of thing. Personally I'm all for a life of selfish self-indulgence, and I don't care who knows it. If I could get a decent offer for those papers, I'd take it like a shot and skip off to Bermuda or somewhere and enjoy it. The trouble is, I don't know what they're worth. What do you think?"

  She looked at him with limpid brown eyes big with art­lessness.

  "I'll give you a shilling for them," he said.

  "Oh, I wasn't thinking of selling them to you," she said innocently. "What I was thinking was that if I went to a fairly decent pub tonight—the Carlton, for instance, where I should be perfectly safe—and then I rang up Algy and told him he could have the papers for fifteen thousand pounds, he'd most likely do something about it. I mean, after what's happened tonight, he ought to consider himself damned lucky to get them for fifteen thousand. Don't you think so?"

  "Very lucky," said the Saint, with fine-drawn patience. "Where are these papers at the moment?"

  She smiled.

  "They're in a cloakroom all right. I've got the ticket somewhere, only I forget exactly where. But I expect I'll remember all right when I have to."

  "I expect you will," he said coldly. "Even if somebody like Dumaire has to help you."

  Suddenly he got up and went over to her and took both her hands. The coldness fell out of his voice.

  "Valerie, why don't you stop being an idiot and let me get into the firing line?"

  She looked at him speculatively for a while, for quite a long while. Her hands were small and soft. He kept still, and heard a taxi rattle past the end of the street. But she shook her head.

  "I'd like to," she said sadly. "Especially after what you've done for me tonight—although if it comes to that, I expect you simply love dashing about rescuing people and doing your little hero act, so perhaps you ought to be a bit grateful to me for giving you such a good chance to do your stuff. And after all, if I just handed over the papers to you, that wouldn't do much good, would it ? Of course, if you wanted to buy them——"

  "To hell with buying them! Haven't you found out yet thai there are some things in life that you can't measure in money? Haven't you realized that this is one of them? I don't know what there is in those papers—maybe you don't know either. But you must know that things like you've seen tonight don't get organized over scraps of paper with noughts and crosses on them—that men like Bravache and Fairweather and Luker don't take to sys­tematic murder to stop anybody reading their old love letters. These men are big. Anything that keeps them as busy as this is big. Ana I know what kind of bigness they deal in. The only way they can make what they call big money, the only way they can touch the power and glory that their perverted egos crave for, is in helping and schooling nations to slaughter and destroy. What hellish graft is at the back of this show called the Sons of France I don't know; but I can guess plenty of it. However it works, the only object it can have is to turn one more country aside from civilization so that the market can be kept right for the men who sell guns and gas. Or else Luker wouldn't be in it. And he must know that there's an odds-on chance of bringing it off, or else he still wouldn't be in it. This may be the last cog in a machine that will wipe out twenty million lives, and you might have the knowledge that would break it up before it gets going. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

  She stood up slowly. And she freed her hands. "I think I'll be getting along now," she said, and her voice was quite steady in spite of the reluctance in it. "It's been a lovely party, but even the best of good times have to come to an end, and I need some sleep. Do you think you could move those men out of the bedroom while I put on some clothes?"

  Simon looked at her.

  The fire that had gone into his appeal was a glowing; ingot within him. It was a coiled spring that would drive him until it ran down, without regard for sentiment or obstacles. It was a power transformer for the ethereal vibrations of destiny. Earlier in the evening, the atmosphere of the Berkeley had defeated him; but this was not the Berkeley. He knew that there was only one solution, and there was too much at stake for him to hesitate. He was amazed at his own madness; and yet he was utterly calm, utterly resolute.

  He nodded.

  "Oh yes," he said. "I was going to move them anyway. I didn't think you'd want to keep them for domestic pets."

  He went over and opened the bedroom door.

  "Bring out the zoo," he said.

  He stood there while the captives filed out, followed by Peter and Hoppy, and waited until the door had closed again behind the girl. For a few seconds he paced up and down the small room, intent on his own thoughts. Then he picked up the telephone and dialled the number of his apart­ment in Cornwall House.

  Patricia answered the ring.

  "Hullo, sweetheart," he said. His voice was level, too certain of its words to show excitement. "Yes. . . . No trouble at all. Everything went according to plan, and we're all sitting pretty—except the deputation from the ungodly. Now listen. I've got a job for you. Call Orace and tell him to expect you. Then get out the Daimler, and tell Sam Outrell to pull Stunt Number Three. As soon as you're sure yon aren't followed, come over here. Hustle it. . . . No, I'll tell you when you arrive. There are lis­teners. . . . Okay, darling. Be seein' ya."

  He put down the phone and turned to Bravache. The pupils of his eyes were like chips of flint.

  "So you were going to kill Lady Valerie and blame it on to me," he said with great gentleness. "That was as far as we'd got, wasn't it ? The Sons of France avenge the murder of one of their sympathizers, and all sorts of high-minded nitwits wave banners. Do you see any good reason why you shouldn't take some of your own medicine ?"

  "You daren't do it!" said Bravache whitely. "The Sons of France will make you pay for my death a hundred times!"

  Dumaire's face was yellow with fear. Simon took him by the scruff of the neck and heaved him over to the window. He parted the curtains and pointed downwards.

  "I suppose you came here in a car," he said. "Which of those cars is yours?"

  The man shook like a leaf but did not answer.

  Simon turned him round and hit him in the face. He held him by the lapels of his coat and brought him back to the window.

  "Which of those cars is yours?"

  "That one," blubbered Dumaire.

  It was a small black sedan, far more suitable for the transport of unwilling passengers than the open Hirondel.

  Simon released his informant, who tottered and almost fell when the Saint's supporting grip was removed. The Saint lighted another cigarette and spoke to Peter.

  "You can use their car. Take them to Upper Berkeley Mews."

  He looked up to find Hoppy Uniatz' questioning eyes upon him. There were times when Mr Uniatz had a ten­dency to fidget, and these times were usually when he felt that a very obvious and elementary move had been delayed too long. It was not that he was a naturally impatient man, but he liked to see things disposed of in the order of their importance. Now he grasped hopefully for the relief of the problem that was uppermost in his mind.

  "Is dat where we give dem de woiks, boss?"

  "That's where you give them the works," said the Saint. "Will you come outside for a minute, Peter?"

  He took Peter out into the hall and gave him more de­tailed instructions.

  "Did you hear enough while you were waiting to convince you that I haven't been raving?" he said.

  "I always knew you couldn't be," Peter said sombrely, "because you sounded so much as if you were. I'm damned if I know how you do it, but it always seems to be the way."

  "You'll see it through?"

  "No," said Peter. "I'm going home to my mother." His face was serious in spite of the way he spoke. "But aren't you taking an unnecessary risk
with Bravache and friend? Of course I'm not so bloodthirsty as Hoppy——"

  The Saint drew at his cigarette.

  "I know, old lad. Maybe I am a fool. But I don't see my­self as a gangster. Do it the way I told you. And when you've finished, bring Hoppy back here and let him pick up the Hirondel and drive it down to Weybridge. You can stay in town and wait for developments—I expect there 'll be plenty of them. Okay?"

  "Okay, chief."

  Simon's hand lay on Peter's shoulder, and they went back into the living room together. The Saint's new sureness was like a steel blade, balanced and deadly.

  3

  "You can't do this!" babbled Bravache. Little specks of saliva sprayed from his mouth with his words. "It is a crime! You will be punished—hanged. You cannot commit murder in cold blood. Surely you can't do that!" His manner changed, became fawning, wheedling. "Look, you are a gentleman. You could not kill a defenceless man, any more than I could. You have misunderstood my leetle joke. It was only to frighten you——"

  "Put some tape on his mouth, Hoppy," ordered the Saint with cold distaste.

  Pietri and Dumaire were gagged in the same way, and the three men were pushed on out of the flat and crowded into the lift. Simon left them with Peter and Hoppy in the foyer of the building while he went out to reconnoitre the car. It was nearly half-past two by his watch, and the street was as still and lifeless as a graveyard. The Saint's rubber-soled shoes woke no echoes as they moved to their destina­tion. There was a man dozing at the wheel of the small black sedan and he started to rouse as the Saint opened the door beside him, but he was still not fully awake when the Saint's left hand reached in and took hold of him by the front of his coat and yanked him out like a puppy.

  "Have you tried this for insomnia?" asked the Saint con­versationally, and brought up his right hand in a smashing uppercut.

  The man's teeth clicked together; his knees gave; he buckled forward without a sound, and Simon let him fall. He went back to the entrance of the building.

  "All clear," he said in a low voice. "Make it snappy."

  He led the way back to the black sedan and picked up his sleeping patient. There was a board fence on the op­posite side of the road, above which rose the naked girders of another new apartment building under construction. Simon applied scientific leverage, and the patient rose into the air and disappeared from view. There was a dull thud in the darkness beyond.

  Simon crossed the road again. The loading of freight had been completed with professional briskness while he was away. Already Peter Quentin was at the wheel; and Hoppy Uniatz, sitting crookedly beside him in the other front seat, was covering the three men who were bundled together in the back. The engine whirred under the starter.

  Simon looked in at the prisoners, and particularly at the staring cringing eyes of Bravache.

  "It won't hurt much, Major," he said, "and you ought to be proud to be a martyr for the flag. . . . On your way, boys."

  He stood and watched the receding taillight of the car until it turned the corner at the end of the street; and then he strolled slowly back to the entrance of the building. He waited there less than five minutes before a dark Daimler limousine swept into the street and drew up in front of the door.

  The Saint leaned in the open window beside the driver and kissed her.

  "What's been happening?" asked Patricia.

  In a few sentences he let her know as much as he knew himself; and while he was speaking he rummaged in the nearest side pocket of the car. He found what he was look­ing for—a chauffeur's blue cap—and set it at an angle on her curly head.

  "I'll be back in a minute," he said.

  When he re-entered the flat Lady Valerie Woodchester was dressed. She came out of the bedroom carrying a small valise.

  "What's happened to everyone?" she asked in surprise.

  "Peter and Hoppy have removed the exhibits," he said irrepressibly. "They'll get what's coming to them somewhere else. We didn't want to make any more mess for you here."

  The edges of pearly teeth showed on her underlip.

  "Could you call me a taxi?"

  "I could do better. I sent for one of my more ducal cars, and it's waiting outside now. You won't mind if I see you as far as the Carlton, will you ? I don't want you to be put to the trouble of having to call me out again tonight."

  For a moment he thought she was going to lose her temper, and almost hoped that she would. But she turned her back on him and sailed out into the corridor without a word. He followed her into the elevator, and they rode down in supercharged silence. At the door he helped her into the Daimler and settled himself beside her. The car moved off.

  They drove a couple of blocks without a word being spoken. Lady Valerie stared moodily out of the window on her side, scowling and biting her lips. The Saint was bub­bling inside.

  "A penny for them," he said at last.

  She turned on him with sudden fury and looked him wrathfully up and down.

  "You make me sick!" She flared.

  The Saint's eyebrows rose one reproachful notch.

  "Me?" he protested aggrievedly. "But why, at the mo­ment? What have I done now?"

  She shook her shoulders fretfully.

  "Oh . . . nothing," she said. "I'm fed up, that's all."

  "I'm sorry," said the Saint gravely. "Perhaps you've had a dull evening. You ought to get about more—go places, and meet people, and see things. It makes a tremendous dif­ference."

  "You think you're very funny, don't you?" she flashed. "You and your blonde girl friend—the world's pet hero and heroine!" She paused, savouring the sting of her own acid. "She is nice looking—I'll give her that," she went on grudgingly. "But I just wish she'd never been born. . . . Oh well, perhaps we can't all be heroines, but there's no reason why the rest of us shouldn't have a pretty decent time. You'll be a bit fed up yourself when Algy and Luker get those papers, won't you ?"

  "Are you quite sure you aren't going to give them to me?" he said.

  She laughed.

  "I suppose you think I ought to give them to you for saving my life," she jeered extravagantly. "With tears of gratitude streaming down my cheeks, I should stammer: 'Here they are—take them.' That's why you make me sick. You go about the place rescuing people and being the Robin Hood of modern crime, and then you go back to your blonde girl friend and have a grand time being told how wonderful you are. So you may be; but it just makes me sick."

  "Well, if you feel sick, don't keep on talking about it— be sick," said the Saint hospitably. "Don't worry about the car—we can always have it cleaned."

  She gave him a withering glare and turned ostentatiously away. She seemed to want to make it quite clear that his conversation was beneath her contempt and that even to endure his company was a martyrdom. She huddled as far away from him as the width of the seat permitted and re­sumed her scowling out of the window.

  The Saint devoted himself to the tranquil enjoyment of his cigarette and waited contentedly for the climax which he knew must come before long.

  It came after another five minutes.

  All at once her eyes, fixed vacantly on the window, froze into a strange expression. She sat bolt upright.

  "Here," she blurted. "What the ... Where are we going? This isn't the way to the Carlton!"

  Obviously it wasn't; they were down at the Chelsea end of the Embankment, heading west.

  "Have you noticed that already?" said the Saint imper­turbably. "How observant you are, darling. Now I suppose I can't keep my secret any longer. The fact is, I'm not taking you to the Carlton."

  She caught her breath.

  "You—you're not taking me to the Carlton? But I want to go to the Carlton! Take me there at once! Tell the chauffeur to turn round——"

  She leaned forward and tried to hammer on the glass par­tition. Quite effortlessly the Saint pushed her back.

  "Shut up," he said calmly. "You make me sick."

  "W-what?" she said.

  She stared at
him with solemn wide-open eyes as if he were some strange monster that she was seeing for the first time.

  "It's no use both of us being sick," he pointed out reason­ably. "It would be a deafening duet."

  "I don't know what good you think this is going to do you," she said haughtily. "If you think you're going to protect me, or anything like that——"

  "Protect you?" he said, with bland incomprehension. "Who—me? Darling, that would never enter my head. I know you can look after yourself. But I want to take care of you for my own sake. You see, it wouldn't suit me at all if you sold those papers to Fairweather or Luker. I want them too much myself. So I just want to keep an eye on you until I get them."

  "You—you mean you're kidnapping me ?" she got out in­credulously.

  But somehow she did not sound quite so indignant.

  "That's the idea," he said equably. "And it's my duty to tell you that if you try to scream or kick up any sort of fuss I shall have to take steps to stop you. Quite gentle steps, of course. I shall just knock you cold."

  "Oh!" she said.

  She was sitting up very straight, one hand on the seat be­side her, the other clutching the armrest at her side. Simon lounged at ease in his own corner, but he was watching her like a hawk and his hands were ready for instant action. He had no wish to use violence, but he would have had no com­punction about it if it became necessary. He was fighting for something bigger than stereotyped chivalry, something big­ger than the incidental hurt of any individual. He was the point of a million bayonets.

  For a long moment she went on staring at him, and there was something in her face that he could not understand.

  Then her muscles relaxed and she sank limply back.

  "I think you're an unspeakable cad," she said.

  "I am," said the Saint cheerfully. "And I fairly wallow in it."

  Her mouth moved slightly, so that by the dim light of passing street lamps it almost looked for one fleeting mo­ment as though she were trying to stifle a smile. He reached over to crush his cigarette in the ash tray so as to glance at her more closely, but she moved further away from him, and the expression on her face was surly and disdainful. He lay back and stretched out his legs and appeared to go to sleep.