Alias the Saint (The Saint Series)

by Leslie Charteris

  “Running in with Jack Farnberg now?”

  Ardossi shook his head. “I haven’t seen Jack Farnberg for two years. Not since the cops got him.”

  The Saint’s blue eyes seemed to grow even lazier.

  “Is—that—so?…Vittorio, you’d lie the legs off a full-grown elephant! I think it’s time for us to take a little walk, and if I catch you telling any more lies about Jack Farnberg I’ll be damned sure you’re lying about the lady, and by the time I’ve finished with you every bone in your body will be softer than five cents’ worth of Vaseline in a heat-wave.”

  Detective Duncarry had certainly revelled; but he had a tough head, and the Saint hoped to find him not absolutely dead to the world. He took the Italian firmly by the scruff of the neck and jerked him out of the chair; and a glint of fear came into the man’s beady eyes at last.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “You sing when I tell you to sing,” instructed the Saint curtly.

  He led Ardossi along the dimly lighted corridor and on to the second flight of stairs. Half-way up Ardossi stumbled, and as he fell his right hand closed on a loose brass stair-rod and wrenched it away. The savage sidelong lunge which he made with it would have spiked the Saint from eye-socket to occiput if the Saint had not seen the yellow gleam of the polished rod in the very nick of time and jumped back. But in avoiding the thrust he was compelled to release his prisoner, and like a leaping puma, his mouth open and his white teeth showing, the Italian turned and slashed a second vicious blow at him.

  The rod scraped the wall, and that took some of the sting out of it, but it paralysed the Saint’s arm, and the automatic he had whipped from his pocket slipped from his fingers. He aimed an upward kick at Ardossi, but it was inches short, for the Italian went over the banisters like a monkey, and the left-handed blow that Simon slatted down at him with the stair-rod he had abandoned only dented the silk hat and forced it down more firmly on the sleek black head.

  Simon picked up his automatic again. He could have dropped Ardossi as he ran, but he thought it wiser not to make a sticky mess of the Italian in a peaceful London hotel, for the resulting complications might be tiresome.

  Ardossi sprinted for his sitting-room. He had trouble with the door, which had locked itself behind them as they came out, and if the trouble had occupied him another two seconds the Saint’s grip would have been on his collar. He kicked the door to behind him, but Simon sliced the stair-rod in between lock and catch and kept it from fastening.

  The Saint knew that Ardossi would have no qualms about splashing gun lead around, but he took a chance on that and barged in. The sitting-room was empty, and it offered no hiding-place, but the bedroom door was closed. The Saint put his shoulder to the door and made the flimsy bolt look like a bent pin, but that room also was empty. And although the bed looked innocent he stabbed the stair-rod into it without eliciting a squeal.

  The bathroom was also empty, but the window was open, and the Saint peered out into the gloom. A corkscrew staircase, a way of escape from fire for the tenants of the loftier bedrooms, twisted down and slanted away from the bathroom. If Ardossi had jumped the wide gap from sill to staircase, the Saint figured he must have been a world-beater at the jumping game. He looked down and saw a small balcony below him, and a thin stream of light. Lower down still, and too far to drop without inviting the aid of a surgeon to do something with splints and bandages, was a square, paved yard. Then he saw something else, and cursed gently.

  A rope dangled from a staple hammered into the brick wall under the sill, and its lower end might have been tied to the fire escape and cast loose when Ardossi had clawed his way across. Or the Italian might have slid down to the balcony and made the drop into the yard from there.

  The life had returned to Simon’s right arm, and he swung himself over the sill in pursuit with no uncertain enthusiasm. He was a third of the way down the rope when something whipped out of the darkness from the spiral staircase and clattered against the brickwork. The Saint came down with a run and crashed on to the balcony, and a knife with a broken point rebounded from the wall and fell into the yard.

  Simon remained just where he had fallen, crouching on hands and knees and glad to feel that Ardossi was without a gun. He reckoned himself anyone’s equal at the knife-throwing game, but although the hilt of Belle was between his fingertips, he could see nothing upon which to use her. After a moment he glanced round at the window behind him, and then he could not repress a grin at what he saw between a gap in the curtains.

  Obviously the night porter had blundered, and Duncarry’s number was not twenty-eight. For there inside Simon saw the American himself, who had apparently gone to sleep in his chair after shedding his overcoat and one shoe.

  The hammering of knuckles on the pane shook the drowsiness out of Duncarry’s eyes, and he saw the Saint’s features through the glass. He shot back the catch and raised the window, and the Saint jumped in.

  “Ardossi himself,” said the Saint briskly. “He may have shunted up the fire escape and be prancing about on some distant roof by this time, or he may not. Get your gun and watch for me from here, Dun.”

  “Sure,” said Duncarry as unconcernedly as though he had been asked for a match.

  The Saint ran down the stairs and through the hall where the night porter was nodding in a chair, and took cover in the shelter of a pillar at the end of the steps. His hunch was that the Italian had not lingered on the fire escape for the mere pleasure of slinging a knife at him, but was waiting for some further incident—possibly the arrival of Jack Farnberg himself.

  And the Saint was right, for within thirty seconds he saw Ardossi again, sidling round from the side entrance.

  Suddenly the Italian darted into the road. Expecting that he would try to climb the railings and vanish into the obscurity of the gardens, the Saint chanced the wrath of Scotland Yard and all the vials of fury that might be poured hissing hot upon his head, and fired low. Ardossi squealed, rocked on one leg, and tumbled into the gutter, and his silk hat rolled off.

  Then headlights flashed, and a car turned into the square. The Saint took one look at the blue-black object that protruded from a window of the car, and dropped flat on the muddy pavement. The next moment a stammer of shots turned the silent square into a clamour of noise. The door behind the Saint opened, someone grunted throatily, and the night porter came rolling down the steps and lay still at the bottom, gazing up glassy-eyed at the dark drizzling sky.

  Rising on one knee, the Saint emptied his automatic at the tyres of the retreating car, but it turned the next corner on two wheels, and the only souvenir that remained was a flattened silk hat.

  Windows were open and police whistles were shrilling.

  The Saint bent over the night porter, saw that he was beyond human help, and ran up the steps to meet Duncarry. The New Yorker was still minus one shoe, and his left trouser-leg, pulled up to the knee, revealed a silk sock anchored by a sock-suspender of dazzling blue embroidered with golden rosebuds.

  “I heard the fireworks,” he said. “Am I too late?”

  “Sorry—you are.” The Saint clapped him on the shoulder. “And I really think this is the end of tonight’s festival. So you can pull down the shutters on that leg and find your other shoe.”

  “Did you get him?” asked the American with a yawn.

  “I don’t know. He squealed and dropped, but that may have been a bluff. Then a car came, and they lifted him in. I couldn’t see who was working the machine-gun, but I’ll bet ready money it was Jack Farnberg, Vittorio’s certainly unlucky with tall hats—this is the second time he’s been stung.

  In spite of the late hour a crowd was already gathering in the square, and the police were arriving thick and fast. The Saint paused to give the police sergeant the number of the car, and spent some time answering questions before Duncarry was able to secure his release.

  They went back to the American’s room at last. Duncarry dispensed whisky, and the Saint
gazed at his gun moodily.

  “I never was the hell of a shot with these things,” he said. “Next time I ever get a sight of either of those bright lads, I’ll use my knife or my bare hands—and when that day comes, Dun, you’re going to see something you can take home and tell the children. And the day is coming soon!”

  7

  AMAZING BATTLE IN LONDON SQUARE

  NIGHT PORTER SHOT DEAD

  MACHINE-GUNS AND REVOLVERS

  The Saint had no more than glanced at the headlines in the newspaper, for he was not curious to know what the Press had made of the little carnival in Elmbury Square in the early hours of that morning.

  After that casual glance he dropped the newspaper into the waste-paper basket and made for the bathroom in his dressing-gown and slippers. He had risen towards noon, as was his pleasant custom, and his breakfast followed at an appropriate hour. He was treating a plateful of bacon and eggs with anything but gentleness when Detective Duncarry drifted in.

  The American’s lean face and keen eyes did not suggest that on the previous night he had been looking upon much champagne when it was bubbly.

  “Was I canned?” he demanded, extending a cool, steady set of fingers. “Did I burble and bleat, Saint?”

  “Not a bit. Gay and festive, and developing symptoms of sleeping-sickness towards the close—but those symptoms were only the natural outcome of a long day of toil and tribulation.”

  “I must have shifted a thankful,” grinned the American impenitently. “And corning from an arid and boozeless land, you must admit I’m a good amateur at pulling round. Cigar?”

  The Saint shook his head.

  “Not yet, old son. Do you know, I’ve an idea that show last night isn’t going to be anything like the end of the fun.”

  Duncarry nodded.

  “I’m not arguing,” he said.

  The Saint clicked over a switch, and when the coffee was bubbling in the glass bulb of the machine he turned the tap and handed a steaming and fragrant cup to the New Yorker.

  “There’s a bottle of Biscuit ’15 in the corner,” he said. “If you’ve got a heavy feeling, spray your coffee with it and you’ll be ready to drop into the deep end of the next course like a penguin off a high springboard.” He fetched the bottle over and regarded his guest whimsically. “Damn you, Dun, I’m afraid I’m beginning to like you!”

  Duncarry gave one of his curt nods.

  “I’ll say the same to you. We’ve fought on different sides, but that’s all over now. I’m staying here for another eighteen days, and if there’s any trouble around, and you want a willing volunteer, you can count me in. I mayn’t be so decorative, but in a wild corner you won’t find me squeal or quit.”

  “Maybe I’ll be taking you at your word,” said the Saint. “The trouble will be coming sure enough.”

  They sat and yarned for a while longer, and then the Saint rose and flicked a cigarette-end out of the window.

  “Let’s get out of here before the phone rings again and we hear some more grousing from Teal,” He smiled gently, smoothing his hair, with his eyes on the ceiling. “Know anything about spiders, Dun?”

  It was a most disconnected question to have jerked at him without any warning, but Duncarry never blinked.

  “Not much,” he answered. “I did once read a book about ’em by a guy named Fabre. Lady spiders, it seems, eat their husbands, so I gather their divorce courts have a thin and hungry time.”

  “I don’t know at what time of the year spiders are in season,” said the Saint meditatively, “but there’s a very fine specimen hanging from the electrolier right now. It looks ominous. Jack Farnberg will have to go for a ride, Dun, but I don’t want Teal to get me hanged for it.”

  “Do it quick, and I’ll help you and chance the hanging,” said Duncarry recklessly.

  The Saint laughed, and then a ring on the front-door bell interrupted his reply. He slipped to the window and peered out cautiously.

  “It’s Charles Barringer’s employer, backer, and prospective pa-in-law,” he said, turning to find Duncarry pushing back his chair. “Sir Enoch Wiltham, K.B.E. Don’t bother to buzz off.”

  He went out and admitted the visitor, and a couple of minutes later Sir Enoch Wiltham entered the sitting-room. His legs were short, his body had a prosperous bulge, and his few remnants of hair were divided equally into two parts. His round, red face was founded upon more chins than were strictly necessary.

  “Mr Templar?” he asked huskily.

  “My name. This is Mr Duncarry, of the New York Detective Bureau.”

  “I wish to speak to you on a rather delicate matter,” said Wiltham, and Simon turned to the New Yorker with a shrug.

  “Sorry, Dun. I’ll see you at the Piccadilly in about half an hour.”

  Duncarry nodded and picked up his hat; and Sir Enoch lowered himself into a chair.

  “Barringer has spoken of you in terms of great admiration,” said Sir Enoch. “He gave me to understand that you were assisting the police in the Gaydon’s Wharf case, and I wondered—could you tell me, or would it be exceeding your duty to say—whether he is still under suspicion?”

  “I’m afraid he is. Personally, I think it’s ridiculous—”

  “And I’m certain of it. Why, I myself can account for every moment of his time during the period when the murder is supposed to have been committed! The suggestion is preposterous.”

  Simon Templar spread out his hands.

  “Nobody knows that better than I do,” he said. “In fact, I have very good reason for knowing that Charles is indisputably innocent.”

  Sir Enoch clasped his hands over his prosperous bulge, and went on to explain that he was putting up the money to develop Barringer’s new method of producing commercial alcohol. It all seemed absolutely square and above-board; and although the Saint had a constitutional dislike for men with multitudinous chins and husky voices, he made one of his intuitive decisions that Sir Enoch Wiltham did not belong to the ancient and crowded order of grafters.

  “Charles is a good boy—I’m immensely fond of him. He’ll be a rich man one day, and—”

  “And he’s going to marry your daughter. Isn’t that it?”

  “There’s no one I’d be happier to see her marry.”

  Simon nodded, and lighted another cigarette.

  “I think we shall find a way of clearing him before very long,” he said.

  “If you can do that, I shall be deeply in your debt.” Sir Enoch gazed at his feet and appeared to hesitate. Presently he added, jerkily, “I had another question to ask—”

  “Shoot.”

  “I wondered if you could give me any information.…The fact is…well, to tell you the truth I’ve been invited to embark in the American bootleg business.”

  Simon’s eyebrows lifted faintly.

  “I’m afraid I’m not the greatest authority in the world on that game,” he said. “Duncarry could tell you more about it than I can. Would you like to meet him again?”

  “Is he in the business?”

  “On the contrary, his job is to stop it—but he should know pretty well all there is to know about it. The risks are big, but the profits are in proportion. Naturally, you can’t insure your cargo, and so you may be badly stung. Come along to the Piccadilly with me and talk it over with Duncarry. The morality of it won’t worry him as long as you don’t propose to butt into his area.”

  Wiltham seemed doubtful, but the Saint was curious. He pressed Sir Enoch irresistibly, and won his point. They were at the door when the telephone-bell began ringing, but with the sure and certain knowledge that it was Chief Inspector Teal butting in again, the Saint ignored the call. Sir Enoch’s car and chauffeur were in attendance, and they were quickly wafted to the portals of the Piccadilly.

  Detective Duncarry cared considerably less than a hoot about bootlegging, provided it was not carried on in the placid and law-abiding district of New York which he controlled, but when the Saint gravely presented Sir En
och as a gentleman eager to enter the booze racket, even the unemotional American betrayed mild surprise. But when, after lunch, Sir Enoch ordered a bottle of Napoleon brandy and half a dozen cigars listed at a guinea each, Duncarry’s heart softened. Sir Enoch Wiltham, it appeared, had a good many irons in the financial fire. He had purchased a large quantity of second-hand champagne, some vitriolic whisky, and a reservoir of French brandy that would have served admirably as fuel for spirit stoves if the quantity of water it contained had not rendered it completely fireproof.

  “And you got the bright idea of shoving this stuff over to the land of the thirsty and free?” said the Saint.

  “As a matter of fact, I was only wondering how to make a fair profit out of the stuff when this offer came,” answered Sir Enoch, “and I was promised that a ship would be found if I would provide the cargo.”

  “What did the guy who made this offer know about the game?” inquired Duncarry lazily.

  “He said he knew it inside-out and had his own organisation on the other side to distribute the liquor. He was quite frank about it, in a way—he told me he was in touch with one of the big gangs who were ready to handle and pay for any quantity of genuine wines and spirits.”

  The New Yorker nodded.

  “There’s a market for the genuine article,” he said. “They make the cheap stuff themselves, but they can always find a home for good imports. All the same, my advice to you is to keep out. Sell this guy the stuff in London, and leave the rest to him. Once you let it go over the other side you mayn’t find it so easy to cash their cheque.”

  Having said his piece, which, was unusually long for him, Duncarry relapsed into silence behind his cigar. The eye which came within Sir Enoch’s line of vision was dreamy and impassive, but the eye that the Saint could see had a question in it.

  “I’m afraid I’m too old and fat to be an outlaw,” said Sir Enoch in his throaty voice, “but my mind is sometimes so young and foolish that I had even thought of making the trip myself to enjoy the thrill.”

  “Depends on what you call enjoyment,” said the American, still with that questioning eye on the Saint; and then Simon raised his eyes and saw a vision in the offing that made him cover his brow with a slight groan.