Alias the Saint (The Saint Series)

by Leslie Charteris

  “Friste seems to have been some hater,” he said. “He’d lost the girl that he wanted more than anything else in the world, and it was Charles Barringer who had beaten him to it. He must have known that even if he killed Barringer he’d still have no chance himself, and perhaps he had a feeling that life wasn’t worth living without that one thing that he wanted and couldn’t have. But even then, for a fellow to hate hard enough to blow out his own brains in the loving hope and belief that someone would swing for it, and thereby solve two problems at once, is something new and strange and wonderful.”

  Chief Inspector Teal tilted back the bowler hat that he had not troubled to remove, and scratched his head. He gazed at the Saint with a kind of reluctant admiration in his eyes.

  “Did you say you weren’t a detective?” he asked.

  “I did,” said the Saint.

  “I’m not sure that I couldn’t run you in for perjury,” said Mr Teal, and the Saint laughed.

  He lighted one of his own cigarettes, and adjusted his wide-brimmed hat at its jauntiest angle.

  “Do we move on to this lunch?” he suggested insinuatingly.

  But it was never noted in the official records of the case that, as they sat at lunch, the Saint saw a look in Duncarry’s keen eyes which suggested that a curious medley of thoughts and emotions were seething within the American. And to say that Simon Templar was surprised when Duncarry called round at Upper Berkeley Mews alone at six o’clock would be a blatant lie.

  “I’ve always heard you were some thinker, Saint,” said Duncarry. “And now I know it.”

  “Why?” asked the Saint innocently.

  Duncarry reverently deposited an inch of ash from one of the Saint’s cigars in an ashtray.

  “Did you kill Friste?” he asked.

  For a moment Simon Templar looked at him thoughtfully, and then the Saintly smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.

  “I’m afraid I’d never heard anything about your brain, Dun,” he said. “But you can have a testimonial from me any time you want it.”

  “You did kill him, then?”

  “Of course I did,” said the Saint. “Didn’t I tell you he was a nasty man? I tapped on the door just after the last of the staff had gone, and he let me in himself. He was closing the windows and preparing to lock up, and he dropped the pole where it was found when he saw my gun. I rigged myself up to look like him at a casual glance and went past the doorkeeper next morning just to make it more mysterious; on the first landing I changed back into my usual beautiful self and went out again.”

  Duncarry nodded.

  “And I suppose it’s occurred to you that Teal may have the river under those windows dragged to prove your theory?”

  “Naturally it has,” said the Saint calmly. “I made a special trip out there last night to plant the whole outfit for him to find.”

  Duncarry trickled some smoke through his nostrils and frowned.

  “That dragon’s still worrying me,” he confessed. “It’s the one thing I haven’t been able to figure out.”

  “Oh, that!” said the Saint. “That’s easy. After the shooting I was drifting through a selection of Friste’s private papers for some time, and that dragon got on my nerves. The sight of it offended me. So I simply heaved it through the window. But the time I spent figuring out a spare way of fitting all the facts together is neither here nor there.” The Saint sighed, the sigh of a mind wearied after much righteous labour. “And now, what do you say we go and beat up the Jericho?”

  THE NATIONAL DEBT

  1

  On a certain day in November, three men sat over the remains of dinner in the Italian Roof Garden of the Elysion Restaurant.

  Outside, a thin drizzle of sleet and rain was falling. It lay like glistening oil on the streets, and made the hurrying throngs of pedestrians turn up the collars of their coats against the cold, and huddle numbed hands deep into their pockets. But in the Roof Garden all was warmth and light and colour. In the high, dim glass roof overhead, softly-tinted lights gleamed like artificial stars, and an artificial moon shone in the centre of the dome. Vine-decked loggias surrounded the room, and the whole of one wall was covered with a beautifully executed fresco of a Mediterranean panorama, bathed in sunshine. The Elysion had a reputation for luxury, and its Italian Roof Garden was the most elaborately comfortable of all its restaurants.

  The three men sat at dinner in an alcove. The curtains of the window beside them were drawn, and they could look out on to Piccadilly Circus, a striking contrast to the sybaritic warmth of the room in which they were, with gaily coloured electric sky-signs flashing and scintillating through the wet.

  The meal was over, and in front of each man was a cup of coffee, and a glass of the 1875 brandy of which the Elysion is justly proud, served in the huge-bowled bottle-necked glasses which such a brandy merits. They smoked long, thin, expensive cigars.

  The man at the head of the table spoke.

  “By this time,” he said, “you are justly curious to discover how many of my promises I have fulfilled. It gives me great satisfaction to be able to tell you that I have fulfilled them all. Every inquiry has been made, and every necessary item of information is docketed here.” He tapped his forehead with a thin forefinger. “My plans are complete; and now that you have tasted the brandy, which I trust you find to your liking, and your cigars are going satisfactorily, I should like your attention while I outline the details of my project.”

  He was tall and spare, with a slight stoop—you would have taken him at first glance for a retired diplomat, or a University professor, with his thin, finely cut face and mane of grey hair. He looked to be about fifty-five years of age, but the very pale blue eyes under the shaggy white eyebrows were the eyes of a much younger man.

  “I’m waiting to hear the story, Professor,” said the man on his left.

  He was squat, bull-necked, and blue of chin, and his ready-made evening clothes seemed to cause him considerable discomfort.

  The third man signified his readiness to listen by a silent expressive gesture with the hand that held his cigar. This third man was small and perky, his hair muddily grey and in the state tactfully described by barbers as “a little thin on top.” A long, scraggy neck protruded from a dress collar three sizes too large.

  “It is quite simple,” said the man who had been addressed as “Professor,” and leaned forward.

  The other two instinctively drew closer.

  He spoke for three-quarters of an hour, and the other two listened in an intent silence which was broken only by an occasional staccato query, a request for a repetition, or a demand for more lucid explanation of a point which arose in the recital. The Professor dealt smoothly with each question, speaking in a low, well-modulated voice, and at the end of the forty-five minutes he knew that the alert brains of the other two had grasped the essential points of his plan and adjudged it for what it was—the scheme of a genius.

  “That is the method I propose to adopt,” he concluded simply. “If either of you has any criticism to make you may speak quite freely.”

  And he leaned back with a slight smile, as though he was convinced that there could not possibly be any valid criticism.

  “There’s one thing you haven’t told us,” said the man on his right. “That is—where are we going to get hold of the stuff?”

  “It cannot be bought,” answered the Professor. “Therefore we shall make it.”

  The man appeared to continue in doubt.

  “That’s easy to say,” he remarked. “Now consider it practically. Neither Crantor nor I know anything about chemistry. And you’re clever in many ways, I know, but I don’t believe you can do that.”

  “That is quite true,” said the Professor. “I can’t.”

  “A chemist must be bought,” said Crantor.

  The Professor shook his head.

  “No chemist will be bought,” he said. “We cannot afford to buy anybody. Bought men are dangerous. The man who
can be bought by one party can be bought by another party if the price is big enough, and I never take risks of that sort. We will compel a chemist to do what we require, and it will be so arranged that we shall be insured against betrayal. I have already selected the agent. Her name is Betty Tregarth. She is very young, but she has taken a degree with honours, and she is a fully qualified analytical chemist. At present she is on the staff at Coulter’s, the artificial silk people. I have made all the necessary inquiries, and I know that she has all the qualifications for the task.”

  The man with the long neck turned, and took his cigar out of his mouth.

  “Do you mind telling us how you are going to make her do it, Professor?” he asked.

  “Not at all, my dear Marring,” answered the Professor, and proceeded to do so.

  This plan also they were unable to criticise, but Gregory Marring remained dissentient on one point.

  “It oughtn’t to have been a woman,” he declared with conviction. “You never know where you are with women.”

  The Professor smiled.

  “That remark only demonstrates the crudity of your intelligence,” he said. “My contention is that with a woman one can always be fairly certain where one is, but men are liable to be obstinate and difficult.”

  The point was not argued further.

  “I may take it, then,” suggested the Professor, “that we are prepared to start at once?”

  “There’s nothing to stop us,” said Marring.

  “Thasso,” said Crantor.

  The Professor turned and gazed thoughtfully out of the window. It looked very cold and bleak outside, but what he saw seemed to please him, for he smiled.

  Three nights later, at about nine o’clock, Betty Tregarth was roused from the book she was reading by the ringing of the telephone.

  “Is that Miss Betty Tregarth?”

  “Yes. Who is that?”

  “I am speaking for your brother, Miss Tregarth. My name is Raxel—Professor Bernhard Raxel. Your brother was knocked down by a taxi outside my house a little while ago, and he was carried in here to await the arrival of an ambulance. The doctors, however, have decided against moving him.”

  The girl’s heart stopped beating for a moment.

  “Is he—is he in danger?”

  “I am afraid your brother is very seriously injured, Miss Tregarth, but he is quite conscious. Will you please come at once?”

  “Yes, yes!” She was frantic now. “What address?”

  “Number seven, Cornwallis Road. It is only a few hundred yards from your front door.”

  “I know. I’ll be round in five minutes. Good-bye.”

  She hung up the receiver and dashed for a hat and coat.

  Only an hour ago her brother had left the flat which they shared, having declared his intention of visiting a West End cinema. He would have passed down Cornwallis Road on his way to the tube station. She dared not think how bad his injuries might be. She knew the significance of these quietly ominous summonses, for her father had been fatally injured in a street accident only three years before.

  In a few minutes she was ringing the bell of number seven, Cornwallis Road, and almost immediately the door was opened by a butler.

  “Miss Tregarth?” he guessed at once, for there was no mistaking her distress. “Professor Raxel told me to expect you.”

  “Where’s my brother?”

  The man threw open a door.

  “If you will wait here, Miss Tregarth, I will tell the Professor that you have arrived.”

  She went in. The room was furnished as a waiting-room, and she wondered what the Professor’s profession was. There were a couple of armchairs, a book-case in one corner, and a table in the centre littered with magazines. She sat down, and strove to possess herself in patience, but she had not long to wait.

  In a few moments the door opened, and a tall, thin, elderly man entered. She sprang up.

  “Are you Professor Raxel?”

  “I am. And you, of course, are Miss Tregarth.” He took her hand. “I am afraid you will not be able to see your brother for a few minutes, as the doctor is still with him. Please sit down again.”

  She sat down, struggling to preserve her composure.

  “Tell me—what’s happened to him?”

  Before answering, the Professor produced a gold cigarette-case and offered it. She would have refused, but he insisted.

  “It doesn’t take a Professor to see that you are in a bad state of nerves,” he said kindly. “A cigarette will help you.”

  She allowed him to light a cigarette for her, and then repeated her demand for

  information.

  “It is difficult to tell you,” said Raxel slowly, and suddenly she was terrified.

  “Do you mean—”

  He placed the tips of his fingers together.

  “Not exactly,” he said. “In fact, I have no doubt that your brother is in perfect health. I must confess, my dear Miss Tregarth, that I lured you here under false pretences. I have not seen your brother this evening, but I have been told that he went out a little over an hour ago. There is no more reason to suppose that he has met with an accident tonight, than there would be for assuming that he had met with one on any other night that he chose to go out alone.”

  She stared.

  “But you told me—”

  “I apologise for having alarmed you, but it was the only excuse I could think of which would bring you here immediately.”

  At first he had been geniality itself, but now, swiftly and yet subtly, a sinister element had crept into his blandness. She felt herself go cold, but managed somehow to keep her voice at its normal level.

  “Then I fail to see, Professor Raxel, why you should have brought me here,” she remarked icily.

  “You will understand in a moment,” he said.

  He took a small automatic pistol from his pocket, and laid it on the table in front of her. She stared at it in amazement mingled with fear.

  “Please take it,” he smiled. “I particularly want you to feel safe, because I am going to say something that might otherwise frighten you considerably.”

  She looked blankly at the gleaming weapon, but did not touch it.

  “Take it!” insisted the Professor sharply. “You are here in my power, in a strange house, and I am offering you a weapon. Don’t be a fool. I will explain.”

  Hesitantly she reached out and took the automatic in her hand. Since he had offered it she might as well accept it—there could be no harm in that; and, as he had remarked, it was certainly a weapon of which she might be glad in the circumstances. Yet she could not understand why, in those circumstances, he should offer it to her. Certainly he could not imagine that she would make use of it.

  “Of course, it isn’t loaded,” she said lightly.

  “It is loaded,” replied the Professor. “If you don’t believe me, I invite you to press the trigger.”

  “That might be awkward for you. A policeman might be within hearing, and he would certainly want to know who was firing pistols in this house.”

  The Professor smiled.

  “You could shoot me, and no one would hear,” he said. “I ask you to observe that there are no windows in this room. The walls are thick, and so is the door—the room is practically soundproof. Certainly the report of that automatic would not be audible in the street. I can be quite positive about that because I have verified the statement by experiment.”

  “Then—”

  “You may understand me better,” said the Professor quietly, “if I tell you first of all that I intend to keep you here for a few hours.”

  “Really?”

  She was becoming convinced that the man was mad, and somehow, the thought made him for a moment seem less alarming. But there was nothing particularly insane about his precise, level voice, and his manner was completely restrained. She settled back in her chair, and endeavoured to appear completely unperturbed. Then she thought she saw a gleam of satisfaction lig
ht up in his eyes as she took another puff at the cigarette he had given her, and her fingers opened and dropped it suddenly as though it had been red hot.

  “And I suppose the cigarette was doped?” she said shakily.

  “Perhaps,” said the Professor.

  He rose and went quickly to a bell-push set in the wall beside the mantelpiece, and pressed it.

  Betty Tregarth got to her feet feeling strangely weak.

  “I make no move to stop your going,” said Raxel quickly. “But I suggest that you should hear what I have to say first.”

  “And you’ll talk just long enough to give the dope in that cigarette time to work,” returned the girl. “No—I don’t think I’ll stay, thanks.”

  “Very well,” said Raxel. “But if you won’t listen to me, perhaps you will look at something I have to show you.”

  He clapped his hands twice, and the door opened. Three men came in. One was the butler who had admitted her, the other was a dark, heavy-jowled, rough-looking man in tweeds.

  The third man they almost carried into the room between them. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and he was so roped from his shoulders to his knees that he could only move in steps of an inch at a time unaided. His face was divided into two parts by a black wooden ruler, which had been forced into his mouth as a gag, and which was held in position by cords attached to the ends, which passed round the back of his head.

  “Does that induce you to stay?” asked Raxel.

  “I think it means that I am induced to go out at once, and find a policeman,” said the girl, and took two steps towards the door.

  “Wait!”

  Raxel’s voice brought her to a stop. The command in it was so impelling, that for a moment it was able to overcome the panicky desire for light which was rapidly getting her in its grip.

  “Well?” she asked, as evenly as she could.

  “You are a chemist, Miss Tregarth,” said Raxel, “and therefore you will be familiar with the properties of the drug known as Bhang. The cigarette you half-smoked was impregnated with a highly-concentrated and deodorised preparation of Bhang. According to my calculations, the drug will take effect about now. You still have the automatic I gave you in your hand, and there, in front of you, is a man gagged and bound. Stand away, you two!”