Alias the Saint (The Saint Series)

by Leslie Charteris

  “You don’t say!” he sneered. “And what were you scared of, Friste?”

  “I—I don’t quite know. Sit down, Farnberg—have a cigar. If we’re going to talk business—”

  “This is business! What were you scared of?”

  “I—well, I’ve been threatened a couple of times, but—”

  “But?”

  “I didn’t think much of it—”

  “And so you just jump around sticking irons in my chest—just to help stop you thinking. And what next? Haven’t you always told me no one could ever get a line on you?”

  Friste shuffled back to the desk.

  “I thought it was true,” he said nervously. “No one ever has had a line on me. But something’s happened—I’ve had two letters…I’m glad you’re here, Farnberg.”

  “Who were these letters from?”

  “You wouldn’t have heard of the man—”

  Farnberg turned and jerked open the door. He pointed to the card that he had been inspecting before he entered.

  “Is that him?” he snapped, and Friste went dead white.

  Farnberg put out his hand and twitched the card away. It was the size of an ordinary postcard. On it had been sketched an absurd little spidery figure surmounted by a symbolical halo, and underneath was one short line of writing.

  With the Compliments of the Season.

  “Is that the man?” snapped Farnberg again, and Friste nodded dumbly.

  Farnberg shredded up the slip of pasteboard and hurled the scraps across the room.

  “That—”

  “Did you—did you know about him?”

  “Know about him?” Farnberg slammed the door and dropped into a chair. “I’d like to know anyone who knows more about him than I do. I know that he’s the slimiest double-crosser that was never taken for a ride. He’s the guy that helped the bulls to put me away last time. He—”

  Farnberg continued the history at some length.

  Then he returned to cross-examination.

  “He’s got on to you, has he? What were those letters he sent you?”

  “Just cards—the same as that other one.”

  “Didn’t you tell the police?”

  “The police?” Friste cackled hoarsely. “That’s one thing you don’t know about the Saint. The police may have been aching to get him for themselves once, but they’ve never forgotten what was behind his record. I should think there are plenty of juries that would hang you just for getting one of his cards. They’d know there was some good reason for the Saint having noticed you.”

  Farnberg reached out one powerful hand and took a cigar from the box on the desk. He bit off the end and spat.

  “The Saint will have to be bumped,” he said, and he said it with a gentleness that was surprising after his introductory outburst. “I’ve been wanting him for a whole year—it didn’t need this to happen for me to make up my mind about that. It was one of the things I came over here to do anyway.”

  “How long will you be over for?”

  “Till I’ve fixed the Saint and loaded the cargo I came for—however long that takes. It can’t be a long time, because I’ve had the wire that Duncarry’s on his way over looking for me. What else has been happening?”

  Friste shrugged. His first scare was sliding back from his mind, and he was comparatively calm again. Farnberg’s virile, confident presence had something to do with that.

  “Everything else has been all right,” he said. “The Saint’s the only one who knows anything. The Cabaret Ship sailed again last week—the usual passenger list. I’ve got another boat berthing tonight with about thirty pounds of heroin on board—it’ll come through the Customs in the usual way.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m waiting for it now—they’ll be bringing the case in at any minute.”

  “Distribution O.K.?”

  “There’s never been any difficulty about that. I do it all myself—the orders come through by post, and the parcels go out by return.”

  “And what about my cargo?”

  “That’s ready for you in the warehouse by Deepsands Wharf—all except the champagne. That’ll be through at the beginning of next week. The rest is all in, exactly as you ordered it—there’s plenty for you to start lading. What ship are you using, by the way?”

  Farnberg grinned.

  “Got my own—a dandy floating palace provided by Ardossi. He came over with me. We’re both running in with Kellory now. Didn’t you ever think to ask how I got over? I could never have made any of the regular boats. We came over on that yacht, like a coupla princes. I got off at Southampton, and Ardossi’s seeing her through to Deepsands. She ought to be in by tomorrow evening, so if you have your men ready to start work—”

  He was interrupted by a ring on the bell over Friste’s chair, and Friste smiled.

  “That’s the heroin. If you’ll excuse me—I suppose you closed the door after you when you came in?”

  “Yeh! And if you’d closed it before I came in, and let me ring, you’d have saved yourself a fright. What’s the idea, anyway, being so damned hospitable? You just trying to make it easy for the Saint to wring your neck?”

  “I didn’t want to keep you waiting—” Farnberg pulled up out of his chair.

  “I guess I won’t wait now,” he said. “I’ll go down with you and see this case in—just to avoid accidents.”

  He led the way down the stairs, his hands back in his pockets, and stood aside while Friste turned the spring lock. Outside, the dim shape of a Ford delivery van blocked the streetscape, and just beyond the doorway two men in overalls leaned on a coffin-shaped packing-case.

  As the door opened, they picked up the case between them and entered without a word. They toiled up the stairs with it, and Friste and Farnberg followed.

  “Does it take two Englishmen now to carry thirty pounds up three stories?” asked Farnberg sardonically, when the men paused on the second landing for a rest.

  Friste shook his head.

  “That case is full of canned peaches—most of it,” he said.

  The case was dumped into the office, and Farnberg stayed there with it while Friste supervised the departure of the porters.

  He was back in a few minutes.

  “Those are the only two men resident in this country who know anything about my business,” he said. “They’ve been with me for five years, and I’d trust them with anything.”

  The successful negotiation of another item of business-as-usual had completed the revival of his spirits. He rubbed his hands together in blatant self-satisfaction, but Farnberg’s eyes did not light up in response. They merely glanced over the packing-case with professional indifference.

  “That canned-fruit trick is an old one, but it’s good enough if it gets by,” he said. He turned away and relighted his cigar.

  “Now—what’s the bill?” he asked. “I’ll square it and get out—I feel like some beauty sleep tonight.”

  Friste sat down at the desk, unlocked a drawer, and drew out a bulky ledger. He extracted some loose sheets and handed them over.

  “There are the accounts. You can check them up yourself.”

  Farnberg skimmed briefly through the papers.

  Then he nodded.

  “Looks O.K.,” he said. “One thousand nine hundred and thirty pounds—that’s about nine thousand bucks.”

  “About nine thousand, two hundred and sixty-four dollars,” said Friste carefully; and Farnberg, with a bulging wallet in his hands, stopped counting to stare at him.

  “Are you sure you haven’t forgotten the odd thirteen cents?” he inquired.

  Friste spread out his hands in a noncommittal gesture.

  And then a surprising thing happened.

  To Jack Farnberg, it seemed as if a third hand—a lean, brown, ruthlessly capable and yet curiously sensitive hand—materialised out of thin air and made contact with the wad of bills from which he was making his selection. And then, before even his lightning-like brain could adjust itself to t
hat amazing interruption, a total quantity of twenty-two thousand, four hundred and twenty-five dollars vanished completely from his ken.

  Jack Farnberg was a practical man. He was only hypnotised for an instant; and, then, with a searing oath, he spun round, his right hand flying accurately towards the butt of his gun.

  “Oh, please!” said the Saint—almost apologetically.

  2

  He stood there, a bare two yards away, the perfect picture of insured innocence. His left hand, upraised in peaceable protest, was worth exactly twenty-two thousand, four hundred and twenty-five dollars cash. His right hand was travelling unhurriedly towards his pocket.

  “Stop that!”

  Farnberg’s voice broke the momentary stillness with a bark of command that would have made a sergeant-major jump three feet into the air. The Saint had never been a sergeant-major. He raised one eyebrow three millimetres.

  “Why?” he asked mildly.

  “Unless you want me to fill you up with lead right now—”

  “Oh, but you can’t do that! Ask Reginald.” The Saint nodded languidly in the direction of Friste. “This, brother, is not Chicago. People are hanged for murder in this country. It’s most distressing. Isn’t it, Reginald?”

  Friste gulped.

  “I—I should wait a minute, Farnberg. You don’t know what he’s got up his sleeve—”

  This was quite true. The Saint had a knife up his sleeve, and Farnberg did not know it. He turned on Friste with his lips twisting up contemptuously.

  “You moron—”

  “That’s right,” murmured the Saint affably. “Moron and Mack. Shall we do our stuff? But who wants a worm, anyhow?”

  Farnberg’s gun levelled accurately at the pit of the Saint’s stomach.

  “How did you get here?” he rasped, and the Saint actually simpered.

  “Don’t you think I’m a peach?” he said.

  The eyes of the other two ranged behind him, to the packing-case that stood against the wall. The lid was open, and it was beautifully empty.

  “Of course, I’m not canned,” said the Saint, in his earnestly conversational way. “That’s very important. And I’m full of heroism, but absolutely void of heroin. Perhaps she arrives in the next chapter. You haven’t by any chance got a sister, have you, Jack?”

  Farnberg showed his teeth.

  “I have not got a sister,” he said, and the Saint shook his head sympathetically.

  “I was afraid you hadn’t,” he remarked. “Naturally, your parents could never have done it again. And now, may I smoke?”

  Farnberg tossed over a cigar from the table.

  “Make the most of it,” he said, with venomous geniality. “I’ve been waiting a whole year to see you smoke it—your last cigar!”

  Simon Templar sighed.

  “This is not quite the reunion I was expecting,” he said, “but I suppose it will have to do.” He lighted the cigar, and drew upon it approvingly, “You have a nice taste in these matters, Reginald. How can I reward you? Perhaps by setting your mind at rest. Shall I assure you that the two varlets who carried me up are still to be trusted? I was peachifying long before they took charge. In fact, I had a very jolly voyage, though the hold was a trifle stuffy. I dropped the peaches and other things over the side before we were out of sight of Rotterdam, and all the rest of the trip was free for philosophy and meditation. I grant you they dropped me with a bit of a bump at this end, but that was my fault. I should have marked myself ‘FRAGILE.’”

  He propped his elbow on the tail of a bronze Chinese dragon that ornamented the top of a filing cabinet beside him, and surveyed it with some repugnance. The dragon was inextricably entangled with the more distant portions of its own anatomy, and clawed limbs protruded from diverse parts of its person with a charmingly simple lack of system, but its head rose clear and solitary above the mess. That head was the most hideously evil thing the Saint had ever seen—a creation without rhyme or reason, without relation to anything human or animal, a fantastic nightmare in metal, and yet it possessed an uncannily living malevolence.

  Simon Templar glanced again at Friste, and indicated the graven horror with a wave of his hand.

  “George is not unlike you,” he remarked pleasantly.

  “Now, see here!” Farnberg’s jaw went out, and his forefinger tightened dangerously on the trigger. “What game are you playing?”

  “Mah Jong,” said the Saint.

  “If you think you’re—”

  “Oh, but I know I am,” said the Saint lazily.

  And then he straightened up.

  “I came here this evening,” he said quietly, “to give myself the inestimable pleasure of wringing Reginald’s neck. Having a useful pair of hands, and a cake of carbolic soap waiting for me at home, I didn’t trouble to bring a gun. I admit, Jack, that I wasn’t expecting to meet you—you slightly disorganised my very complicated espionage system by coming overland from Southampton. But the difference you make is really immaterial. I shall simply postpone the bouncing of Reginald to a more convenient opportunity. And meanwhile, I shall be able to amuse myself with the charitable distribution of some of these here berries—I think I’m quite a deserving case myself,” he added reflectively. “No—don’t interrupt me for a moment.”

  He had dropped his mask of flippant banter as easily as he had put it on, and something in the quiet gentleness of his voice held the other two silent.

  For the Saint had stated the circumstances exactly, and it is quite worth recording that everything he had said was perfectly true. He had not been expecting Jack Farnberg. The Saint was blessed with the priceless gift of always knowing exactly how far he could go; and he had also, at one stage of his career, acquired a certain insight into the mentality of the American gunman in general, and of Jack Farnberg in particular. Furthermore, he had taken his Honours Degree in Bluff and Allied Sciences at the age of nine.

  And all these facts, taken together, directed him at that moment towards precisely one and only one course of action. The Saint might look the picture of insured innocence, but he was not insured, and the money would have been no use to his widow anyway because he would leave no widow.

  Jack Farnberg was showing a lot of gun, and Friste had also begun to do his share since the backchat began. The Saint retired a slight but tactful distance—almost imperceptibly.

  “In a few days, Jack, when you’ve got the lie of the land a bit better,” he said, “we may be able to resume the argument. But for the present you’ll just have to take my word for it, supported by Reginald’s—that it would be highly dangerous for you to bump me off here and now. I’ve always been a cautious sort of bird. When I go out on a jaunt of this kind, I always let a friend of mine know where I’ve gone. And if I didn’t come back, she would be reluctantly compelled to tell the police.” It occurred, sadly, to the Saint, that he was straying a little from the path of strict veracity on which he had entered the scene, but he felt tremendously tactful at that particular moment. “And so, Jack, I’m afraid I can’t die today. Besides, it would spoil the story anyhow. It isn’t till Chapter Fourteen at the very earliest that I’m tied up in a chair with bombs lashed to my suspenders and the slow fuse bubbling across the floor. So, all things considered—”

  Farnberg took a pace forward.

  “Is that what you think? Well, let me tell you—”

  “Farnberg!” Friste’s bleat cut in shakily. “Wait a minute—if anyone knows where he is—”

  The gunman’s lips curled.

  “Aw, hell! I’ll soon find a way of fixing that—”

  “I doubt it,” said the Saint.

  And then he took the chance that he had been manoeuvring for.

  As he backed away, with Farnberg following him, it had so happened that Farnberg completely covered him from Friste’s potential line of fire. And Farnberg’s attention was momentarily distracted.

  The Saint’s left hand knocked the threatening gun aside. His right hand whipped up
into the gunman’s unprotected jaw, and Farnberg’s head clicked back as if his neck had snapped at the base.

  Simon stayed to do no further damage. His left hand had made one jerk at the gun, but Farnberg had held it fast. And the Saint knew that his punch had gone just one inch out of place. If it had been dead accurate, no man living could have retained any further interest for the subsequent proceedings; but even a Simon Templar, seizing one slim split second’s instantaneous flicker of a chance, with an automatic pistol in the hand of a practised operator fourteen inches from his solar plexus, cannot expect to make every single stroke with infallible precision. Wherefore the Saint did not pause.

  He opened the door and ducked through it, and Friste’s shot splintered the glass upper panel as he did so.

  The Saint took the first flight of stairs in one flying leap, rebounded from the wall of the lower landing like an India-rubber ball, and went down the second flight by way of the banisters. Above him he heard the roar of Farnberg’s bull voice, and the more treble yap of Friste. Their feet clattered on the stairs, and the Saint, slipping with elegant rapidity down a second stretch of banister, heard another shot plonk into the rail just behind him, and changed his style of descent abruptly.

  He kept his lead to the ground floor; and then, instead of making for the front door, he spun round in his tracks as his feet felt the last step, and doubled towards the back of the building.

  Here was darkness, till a ray shot out from his little pocket flashlight to pierce it. He opened a door, passed through, and closed it behind him; his torch and fingers together searched swiftly for a key in the lock, or bolts anywhere, but there were none.

  “Now that,” said the Saint, “is a nuisance.”

  He had decided against the front door without a second’s hesitation, for he had no overpowering ambition to sprint down two hundred yards of straight street with one very expert shot and one unknown quantity popping bullets after him. And he knew to one-millionth part of a hair’s-breadth how flimsy was the bluff that he had put up to discourage that possibility. It hadn’t really been a serious attempt at all—it had been nothing but a minor flourish with the object of gaining time and creating a slight dissension among the battalions of the wicked. Which purpose it had served—and that was all.