Alias the Saint (The Saint Series)

by Leslie Charteris

  Another taxi came prowling up beside them, and the Saint waved his hand and opened the door.

  “What have you got to tell me?” asked Duncarry as they settled back and the cab moved forward.

  “Only that I made one little tiny mistake a day or two ago,” said the Saint. “And that was when I thought Eileen Wiltham had been taken in mistake for Pat. Didn’t you say those lads made the cheap stuff on their own premises?”

  “I did.”

  “Then everything is going to be quite all right,” said the Saint comfortably, and lighted another cigarette.

  9

  From Sir Enoch Wiltham the Saint had gathered a few facts. The cargo that he had sold to the Kellory gang was to be picked up at sea by a ship lying three miles off Brest—the Missolonghi. The ship might have taken on the cargo more conveniently in a French port, and there was no law against it, but there was always the danger that a local American consul with a suspicious eye and an inquisitive nose might have queried the deal. It might have soaked into his head that the Missolonghi, registered at Sourabaya and flying Dutch colours, might not be travelling straight back to Java with so much throat oil on board. He might even, in his nastiness, have cabled across the Atlantic and advised the U.S. revenue cutters to sit up and take notice—and that would not have fitted in with Kellory’s plans at all.

  Simon Templar spent an idle day, and he was yawning over a book when two telegrams were delivered by the same messenger. The first was from Patricia Holm, who had been spending a couple of days with friends in Sussex, announcing that she would return about six that evening. The second telegram was more cryptic, but it only took him a second or two to absorb its meaning.

  “L. S. D. O. K. K. B. K.”

  The Saint gathered that Sir Enoch Wiltham’s L.S.D. was O.K., and that was the information that he had been waiting for all day.

  He rose thankfully, lighted a cigarette, and for a few moments paced the room in thought. Patricia would be driving her own car, and since she was a careful driver and the car was a good one she would probably arrive about the time she had promised. Simon wrote a note and propped it up conspicuously on the mantelpiece. Then he went to his bedroom, and remained there for some time.

  In the gathering dusk, he slipped like a shadow into the street and hurried away.

  The man who guarded the gate leading to Deepsands Wharf looked out of his box.

  “In Plymouth town there lived a maid, (Bless you, young woman!)

  In Plymouth town there lived a maid,

  (O mind what I do say!)

  In Plymouth town there lived a maid,

  And she was mistress of her trade;

  I’ll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid—”

  The man who trolled out the old sea shanty had a good voice, though at this time it was slightly disturbed by occasional diaphragmatic spasms. He was tall, unshaven, unwashed, and not too steady on his feet.

  “Who are you, and where do ye think you’re going?” demanded the gate-keeper.

  “Me? Wotcher mean?” The dirty stranger took a couple of inches of black clay pipe out of his mouth. “I’m a dustman, a bleedin’ stoker on the Miss—something. Never can remember the name. Something Irish.”

  “The Missolonghi?”

  “That’s right. Miss O’Longhi. Where is she?” The gate-keeper pointed.

  “Down along there.” “Thanks, mate.”

  The Saint continued his erratic passage. He crossed a single line of railway and saw his objective. The Missolonghi was made fast to the wharf bollards, and a crane with a noisy spluttering engine was swinging wooden cases into her—apparently Jack Farnberg and Vittorio had been making some other purchases besides the one in which the Saint had a deputy interest.

  “For if that hooker isn’t Vittorio’s,” figured the Saint, “my name is also Bobblibobblio.”

  She was a craft of about 1,600 tons, and had recently been painted a dirty drab tint over her original white. She was on the narrow side for carrying cargo, but the Saint knew that it did not require a Bremen to carry a large consignment of wines and spirits in cases that pack handily away.

  The Saint refilled his cutty with black shag. He was not sure that Jack Farnberg and Vittorio Ardossi were within a hundred miles of the yacht—they might have eluded Teal’s net and got away to France by boat or aeroplane to board the Missolonghi by the vessel that was to meet her at sea with Sir Enoch Wiltham’s contribution—but somehow the Saint was prepared to bet that his first deduction was right. And there was a very good reason why it should be right, for although Farnberg and Ardossi might have made a slick getaway on their own, they would have found it quite a different proposition to make that getaway with Eileen Wiltham for an unwilling third. Besides which, there was the other little spot of business in which Eileen Wiltham was concerned still to be settled. Farnberg’s note to Barringer had instructed him to meet a car that would be waiting for him at a certain point on the road north of St. Albans at six o’clock. There would be no one there to meet that car—the Saint had arranged for that—and he expected that Farnberg and Ardossi would remain on the north side of the Channel at least until after the time limit they had issued had expired.

  None of the men at work on the wharf took the least notice of him as he sat on a bollard smoking his pipe. He could see the tallyman checking the cases as they swung over on the wire and slid down out of view. In the glare of the electric lights an occasional Lascar moved across the deck, a familiar figure enough in the vicinity of Deepsands Wharf and still more familiar farther down the River where great docks open their water gates to the shipping of the world.

  Still the Saint sat and smoked. The only white man he saw was the checker with his book and pencil. But even if the crew consisted entirely of Lascars, the yacht would be officered by Europeans, for all the navigation Farnberg and Ardossi had learnt would not have steered a paper boat across a puddle.

  There was a shimmer of heat above the funnel, and an upward trail of thin, grey smoke; but suddenly the banked furnaces were stoked and the funnel vomited a black sooty cloud. The craneman’s mate was adjusting the chains to the last of the cases.

  “’Arf a mo,” cried the Saint. “I might as well ride as walk. Right away!”

  He stepped on the cases, and the wire cable slid over the pulley.

  “Don’t forget to put me down in the book,” he said as he sank past the tallyman. “Shove me down as dynamite.”

  The tallyman closed his book and went ashore, and the Saint walked forward along the alley-way. A Goanese boy, who was carrying a pail of steaming rice from the cuddy, looked up at him with a swift, slant-eyed glance. They were busy below, and the Saint could feel the growing heat of the stokehold.

  He went on, humming a tune. The stevedores had been paid off, and the wharf was deserted. A heavy goods train rumbled through from the dockhead with a continuous warning whistle. Farther on, he found that the carpets had vanished from the saloon companion, and the saloon itself was strewn with packing cases.

  The Saint put a match to his pipe, went on deck again, and ran into a stiff little man with a pointed beard and a braided pea-jacket with many buttons.

  “Vot in Himmel you vant here?” he snapped. “You voss not on this ship belong.”

  The Saint’s teeth gleamed in a smile through the grime on his face.

  “I want all sorts of things, dear lad,” he said. “I’m a dustman. I’ve got a ship somewhere, but I’ve lost it.”

  “Then get oud of this, or I kick you oud!”

  “I’m on my way,” said the Saint affably. “It may console you to know that the fact that I don’t like your face has very little to do with it. Also, I wouldn’t sail on your ship for fifty quid a week. And if I have any lip from you, dear heart, I’ll knock those nice whiskers of yours through the back of your neck, and you can use them to fasten your collar.”

  He pushed the flat of his hand into the man’s face and sent him staggering, and wandered over the
gangway before the officer had regained his balance.

  This meeting with the bearded man was unfortunate, for Simon Templar’s brief but effective tour had led him to the conclusion that neither Farnberg nor Ardossi was at present on board the Missolonghi. The question of whether Eileen Wiltham was on board he had not had time to deal with—besides, he wanted to get all his eggs into one basket before the market opened. Somehow or other he would have to board the yacht again, and do his stuff on the high seas.

  And then suddenly Simon Templar met his man under the light of a spluttering arc lamp, and heedless of what it might bring from the ship the Saint raised his voice in a crescendo of joy.

  “Jack Farnberg—my little pet!”

  Like a panther the Saint crouched and leapt, and his hurricane rush swept Farnberg from his feet and brought him crashing down. Though by profession a bootlegger, Farnberg never touched strong drink, and he was as strong as a bull. The Saint’s hands were at his throat. Farnberg managed to get his other hand under him, but Simon Templar’s left hand got there first and whipped the gun from his pocket. The Saint sent it flying through the air with a wide swing of his arm; it clattered on the side of the yacht and splashed down into the water.

  With an upward jab of his fist at the Saint’s face, and a violent writhe, the gunman managed to free his throat. And then they locked and rolled together, heaving and straining in the coal dust and litter under the arc lamp, with the railway lines gleaming behind them.

  Over the rails of the Missolonghi a little knot of Lascars watched the fight with stolid faces.

  The two men were well matched. The Saint tried half a dozen tricks that had rarely failed him, but though the Saint remained uppermost he failed to smash the grip of the gunman’s thick, steel-muscled arms. Farnberg’s face was smeared with coal-dust and slimy with sweat, and the plaster was peeling from the cut on his chin which the Saint’s uppercut had inflicted at their last meeting; the Saint could see red murder glaring up at him in Farnberg’s eyes, and he laughed softly.

  They lurched over again, and something glinted white over the edge of the Saint’s left sleeve—the ivory hilt of the knife strapped in its sheath to his forearm. He got his teeth to it, bit down until he had a firm grip of the hilt, and drew the knife with a sidelong jerk of his head.

  Farnberg, squinting down, saw it pointed towards his throat, thin and razor sharp, and the dark eyes of the Lascars on the yacht’s deck glinted expectantly. Farnberg’s collar had been torn away, showing his naked throat and bulging windpipe. The knife dipped closer, and Farnberg saw death an inch away, and the horror of it made his mouth sag and froze the glare in his eyes.

  The point of the knife came nearer still. It pricked the skin, drawing a drop of blood, and the watchers on the deck shuffled their feet. And then Simon Templar lifted his head and spun the knife away.

  “I won’t dirty a good knife on you,” he said. “I’ll have you with my hands!”

  The big arc lamp suddenly spluttered more noisily, flamed in unusual brilliance, and then the carbons faded into dull red and the light went out.

  With the menace of the knife gone, Farnberg gathered every ounce of his strength. In the gloom he tightened his grip, dug his heels into the slag and coal-dust, and heaved. Again they rolled over, and the Saint felt a momentary chill on his hand, the touch of polished metal. Then they rested again, gripped fast together, panting.

  Then out of the darkness came a clash of opening gates, and the warning whistle of an approaching train, and the Saint knew the meaning of that chill touch on his hand.

  They were lying on the rails.

  Out of the tail of his eye, Simon saw a red globe of light sweeping forward out of the shadows. Startled by the unaccustomed darkness of the wharf, the engine driver opened the throttle of his whistle with a gush of steam that filled the air with shrieks.

  “The train!” yelled Simon Templar. “We’re in the fairway!”

  Iron grips relaxed and they rolled clear—forced into a moment’s truce by the threat of simultaneous annihilation.

  They staggered up and stood panting. And then, when the train was less than three yards away, Farnberg leapt again. The Saint ducked in the nick of time, stepped back, and sent his fist smashing into Farnberg’s face. The gunman went reeling back. His heel caught against the line, and as he fell he screamed once…

  The Saint searched for a cigarette mechanically. The train was coming to a stop with a grate and scream of overworked brakes, but the engine had already passed him—and passed Farnberg also…

  Then the arc lamp spat, reddened, and glowed again into hissing light, and in the light the Saint saw Ardossi only a yard away with a gun in his hand. He dropped on one knee and shot himself forward almost in the same movement, and as he did so he heard two shots, one on top of the other.

  The Saint was not hit, but Ardossi, tackled low and brought crashing to the ground, lay curiously still. Simon pulled himself to his feet and saw a familiar face.

  “Your prophecies were certainly right,” said the voice of Detective Duncarry. “It’s lucky I came along. You ducked quick enough, but he had his bead on you, just the same.”

  He looked thoughtfully at the silent form of the Italian. “And I guess that was the last bead he’ll ever draw, or my shooting isn’t what it was.”

  The Saint nodded.

  “Jack Farnberg’s another—he had a nasty accident.”

  A moment later Chief Inspector Teal loomed up in his somnambulistic way.

  “Miss Holm bust a valve spring, and came in a couple of hours late,” he explained. “She found your note and phoned me, and we came right along. Why didn’t you tell me you’d located this ship of Ardossi’s?”

  “I had a promise to keep,” said the Saint. “Did you see me keep part of it? It was a really beautiful bit of accidental death, Claud.”

  “It would be,” said Teal sleepily.

  He was not alone. Charles Barringer came up in the company of a detective-sergeant and joined the group. The youngster’s face was white and strained.

  “What’s happened?” he asked, and the Saint looked at him and grinned.

  “Just a few brief moments of law and disorder,” he said cheerfully. “I guess you’ll find Eileen on that tub all right, if you look long enough. Push on and do the rest of the rescue yourself, son—and make it romantic.”

  10

  Chief Inspector Teal unlocked the door of the offices at Gaydon’s Wharf, and a stale and musty smell emerged to greet him, slightly disinfected by the aroma of Duncarry’s cigar.

  “And now you’ve dragged us here, what have you got to say?” he inquired, without noticeable optimism.

  “Blowed if I know,” said the Saint. “Struggle with it, old dear. I’ve promised Wiltham to clear up the mystery, and I’m relying on you. I’m not a detective.”

  He sat down on the desk.

  “Stuffy,” he said. “An open window would improve matters. Will you oblige, heart’s delight?”

  “Look here, Saint,” said Teal patiently, “I know you’re not altogether the fool you look and sometimes pretend to be. You’ve brought us down here—”

  “And I promised to pay for lunch afterwards, didn’t I?” murmured the Saint sweetly. “Do you want the whole earth for nothing? Didn’t I offer you the best lunch that London could provide?”

  “You certainly did,” said Detective Duncarry. The Saint raised his hat.

  “Got a fag to spare, Teal?”

  Teal threw the cigarette at him, and the Saint caught it adroitly in his mouth.

  “Got a match, beloved?”

  The matchbox came flying through the air with a rattle.

  “Your taste in cigarettes is septic,” said the Saint as he lighted one, and the American grinned.

  The Saint clasped his hands over his knee and leaned back.

  “Have you solved the great dragon mystery that I mentioned last time I was here?” he asked.

  “Friste certainly h
ad a kind of brass dragon ornament,” Teal said. “I’ve verified that. What about it?”

  “Granted that our mysterious murderer slipped in and out through a keyhole, as he apparently did,” said the Saint, “he’d find the trick a bit difficult if he was taking that dragon with him, wouldn’t he?”

  Teal’s eyes opened a little wider.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Do you really give it up?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Then I’ll show you a little trick,” said the Saint.

  From his pocket he took a length of string. A brief inspection of the books in a rack beside the desk produced a bulky Who’s Who, and this the Saint tied firmly to one end of the string. He carried the book over to the window and balanced it precariously on the outside edge of the sill.

  “Can you lend me a gun?” he said, turning to Duncarry.

  The American produced a weapon, and Simon, after cautiously unloading it, tied the other end of the string to the trigger.

  Then he picked up the window pole and backed some distance away from the window without taking up more than half the slack of the string. He rested one end of the pole on the sill, almost touching the book that was balanced there; the other end of the pole he rested against his body. He gripped the automatic firmly between the open palms of his two hands, aiming it at the centre of his forehead, and the watching eyes of the two detectives suddenly gleamed with a wild surmise.

  “So simple, really,” said the Saint, and took one step forward.

  The pole pushed the balanced Who’s Who off the sill, and the book vanished into space. The string tightened with a jerk, and the empty automatic clicked as the jar fired the trigger. Simon dropped his hands, and the gun, towed by the sinking weight of the book, slithered up to the window sill and stuck there.

  As the Saint stepped away, the window pole dropped to the floor inside the room.

  “With a weight like that dragon at the other end of the string, the gun wouldn’t have stuck—it would have gone right out,” he said.

  Chief Inspector Teal drew a deep breath and stared at him, blinking, and the Saint pitched his half-smoked cigarette into the fireplace.