Alias the Saint (The Saint Series)

by Leslie Charteris

  “Thank you,” said the Saint. “But you don’t want to be so violent, Basher. One day you’ll break some of the crockery, and then your boss will be very angry. He might even call you a naughty boy, Basher, and then you would go away into a quiet corner and weep, and that would be very distressing for all concerned.”

  Basher Tope was moved to further criticisms of the police force and their manners, but Simon took no further notice of him, and after glaring sullenly at the detective for some moments Tope turned on his heel and shuffled out again.

  The Saint was skinning the top of his second egg when the door opened and a girl came in. She was wearing a plain tweed costume, and Simon thought at once that she must be the loveliest thing that had ever walked into that sombre room. He rose at once.

  “Good morning,” he said politely. “I’m afraid I’ve pinched part of your table, but the cup-smasher who attends to these things couldn’t be bothered to lay another place for me.”

  She came up hesitantly, staring at him in bewilderment. She saw a tall, broad-shouldered young man, with twinkling blue eyes, smooth dark hair, and the most engaging smile she had ever seen in her life. Simon, modestly realising that her amazement at seeing him was pardonable, bore her scrutiny without embarrassment.

  “Who are you?” she asked at length.

  The Saint waved her to a chair, and she sat down opposite him. Then he resumed his own seat and the assault on the second egg.

  “Me?…Professor Smith, at your service. If you want to call me by my first name it’s Rameses. The well-known Egyptian Pharaoh of the same label was named after me.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, at once. “I must have seemed awfully rude. But we—I mean, I wasn’t expecting to see a stranger here.”

  “Naturally,” agreed the Saint conversationally. “One’s never expecting to see strangers, is one? Especially of the name of Smith. But I’m the original Smith. Look for the trade-mark on every genuine article, and refuse all imitations.”

  He finished his egg, and was drawing the marmalade towards him when he noticed that she was still looking at him puzzledly.

  “Now you’ll be thinking I’m rude,” said Simon easily. “I ought to have noticed that you weren’t being attended to. The service is very bad here, don’t you think?”

  He banged the table with his knife, and presently Tope came to answer.

  “The lady wants her breakfast,” said the Saint. “Jump to it again, Basher, and keep on jumping until further notice.”

  The door closed behind the man, and Simon began to clothe a slice of toast with a thick layer of butter.

  “And may one ask,” he murmured, “what brings you to this benighted spot at such a benighted time of year?”

  His words seemed to bring her back to earth with a jerk. She started, and flushed, and there was a perceptible pause before she found her voice.

  “Couldn’t one ask the same thing about you?” she countered.

  “One could,” admitted the Saint genially. “If you must know I shall be strenuously occupied for the next few days with the business of being Professor Rameses Smith.”

  “The famous charlatan, humbug, and imitation humorist?” she suggested.

  Simon regarded her delightedly.

  “None other,” he said. “How ever did you guess?”

  She frowned.

  “You were so obviously that sort.”

  “True,” said the Saint, unabashed. “But in my spare time I am also a detective.”

  He was watching her closely, and he saw her go pale. Her hands suddenly stopped playing with the fork which she had picked up and with which she had been toying nervously. She sat bolt upright in her chair, absolutely motionless, and for the space of several seconds she seemed even to have stopped breathing.

  “A—detective?”

  “Yes.” Simon was unconcernedly providing his buttered toast with an overcoat of marmalade. “Of course, I was sitting down when you came in, so you wouldn’t have noticed the size of my feet.”

  She said nothing. Tope came in with a tray and began unloading it, and Simon Templar went on talking in his quiet, flippant way without seeming to notice either the girl’s agitation or the other man’s presence.

  “Being a detective in England,” he complained, “has its disadvantages. In America you can always prove your identity by clapping one hand to your hip and using the other to turn back the left lapel of your coat, thereby revealing your badge. It’s a trick that always seems to go down very well—that is, if you can judge by the movies.”

  The colour was slowly ebbing back into the girl’s face, but her hands were trembling on the table. She seemed to become conscious of the way they were betraying her, and began twisting her fingers together in a fever. In the silence that followed, Tope shambled out of the room, but this time he did not quite close the door. The Saint had no doubt that the man was listening outside, but he could see no reason why Basher Tope should be deprived of the benefits of a strictly limited broadcasting service. As for the girl, it was plain that the Saint’s manner had started to convince her that he was pulling her leg, but he couldn’t help that.

  “Is there any reason,” he said, “why I shouldn’t be a detective? The police force is open to receive any man who is sufficiently sound of mind and body. I grant you I have a superficial resemblance to a gentleman, but that’s the fault of the way I was brought up.”

  She had no time to frame a reply before there came the sound of voices approaching outside, and a moment later the door swung open and three men came in.

  Simon Templar looked up with innocent interest at their entry, but he also spared a glance for the girl. Obviously she was one of their party, but she did not strike Simon as being the sort of girl he would have expected to find in association with the men he was after, and he had some hopes of getting a clue to her status with them by observing the way in which she greeted their arrival. And he was not unpleasantly surprised to find that she looked up furtively—almost, he would have said, in terror.

  The three men, as the Saint might have foreseen, showed no surprise at finding him at their table. They came straight over and ranged themselves before him, and Simon rose with his most charming smile.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  The tallest of the three bowed.

  “Our table, I think, Professor Smith?”

  “Absolutely,” agreed the Saint. “I’ve just finished, and you can step right in.”

  “You are very kind.”

  Simon screwed up his napkin, dropped it on the table, and took out his cigarette-case. His eyes focused thoughtfully on the man who stood on the left of the tall man who appeared to be the leader.

  “Mr Gregory Marring, I believe?”

  “Correct.”

  “Six months ago,” said the Saint, “a special messenger left Hatton Garden for Paris, with a parcel of diamonds valued at twenty thousand pounds. He travelled to Dover by the eleven o’clock boat-train from Victoria. He was seen to board the cross-Channel packet at Dover, but when the ship arrived at Calais he was found lying dead in his cabin with his head beaten in, and the diamonds he carried have not been heard of since. I don’t want you to think I am making any rash accusations, Marring, but I just thought you might be interested to hear that I happen to know you travelled on that boat.”

  His leisurely gaze shifted to the man on the extreme right.

  “Mr Albert Edward Crantor?”

  “Thasso.”

  “The Court of Inquiry could only find you guilty of culpable negligence,” said the Saint, “but the Special Branch haven’t forgotten the size of the insurance, and they’re still hoping that it won’t be long before they can prove you lost your ship deliberately. The case isn’t ready yet, but it’s tentatively booked for the next Sessions. I’m just warning you.”

  The man in the centre smiled.

  “Surely, Professor Smith,” he remarked, “you aren’t going to leave me out of your series of brief
biographical sketches?”

  “For the moment I prefer to,” answered the Saint steadily. “At any moment, however, I may change my mind. When I do, you’ll hear from me soon enough. Good morning, my lovely ones.”

  He turned his back on them, and walked quietly to the door, but he opened the door with an unexpectedly sudden jerk, and the movement was so quick that Basher Tope had no time to recover his balance and fell sprawling into the room. Simon caught him by the collar and yanked him to his feet.

  “This reminds me,” said the Saint, turning. “There was another man skulking around when I came down this morning. I know him, too.”

  The other three were plainly surprised.

  “Everyone here of importance is present in this room,” said Raxel. “You must be suffering from a delusion.”

  “The man I saw was no delusion,” Smith replied. “His name is Duncarry. He’s a much-wanted American gun artist who’s come to England for his health. We still don’t know how he slipped into the country, but he’s one of the men I’m taking back to London with me when I go. There’s a seat reserved for him in the hot chair at Sing Sing, and if you see him loafing around here again you can tell him I said so!”

  With that parting shot he left them, and as he closed the door softly behind him he began to whistle.

  “Now I guess I’ve rubbed the menagerie right on the raw!” Simon Templar thought cheerfully. “If my after-breakfast speech doesn’t make those gay birds hop, I wonder what will?”

  4

  Simon spent the morning reading and drinking beer. The three men and the girl sat late over breakfast, and he guessed that his arrival had been the occasion for a council of war. When they came out of the dining-room, however, they walked straight past him without speaking, and ignored his existence. They went upstairs, and none of them even looked back.

  They did not appear again for the rest of the morning, but at about twelve o’clock Detective Duncarry was ushered upstairs by Basher Tope. He was there twenty minutes, and when he came down again he was peeling off his coat and generally conveying the impression of being there to stay. Simon shrewdly surmised that the congregation of the ungodly was now increased by one, but Basher Tope took no notice of the Saint, and led Duncarry round in the direction of the public bar without speaking a word. It must be recorded that Simon Templar took a notably philosophic view of this sudden passion for ignoring his existence.

  He lunched early, and Basher Tope returned exclusively monosyllabic replies to the cheerfully aimless conversation with which Simon rewarded his ministrations. After about the fourth unprofitable attempt to secure the observation of the conversational amenities, the Saint sighed resignedly and gave it up as a bad job.

  After lunch he put on his hat and went out for a brisk walk, for he had decided that there was nothing he could do in broad daylight as long as the whole gang were in the house. With characteristic optimism, he refused to consider what particular form of unpleasantness they might be preparing for his entertainment that night, and devoted himself whole-heartedly to the enjoyment of his exercise. He covered ten miles at a brisk pace, and ended up with a ravenous appetite at the only other inn which the village boasted.

  They were clearly surprised by his demand for a meal, but after first being met with the information that they were not prepared to cater for visiting diners, he successfully contrived to blarney the proprietor and his wife into accommodating him. The Saint thought that that was only a sensible precaution to take, for by that time no one could tell what curious things might be happening to the food at the Beacon.

  He ate simply and well, stood the obliging publican a couple of drinks, and went home about ten o’clock.

  As he approached the Beacon he took particular note of the lighting in the upstairs windows. Lights showed in only two of them, and these were two of the three that had been lighted up on the night he arrived. There were few lights downstairs—since the change of management, the Beacon had become very unpopular. The Saint had gathered the essential reasons for this from his conversation with the villagers in the rival tavern. The new proprietor of the Beacon was clearly running the house not to make money, but to amuse himself and entertain his friends, for visitors from outside had met with such an uncivil welcome that a very few days had been sufficient to bring about a unanimous boycott, to the delight and enrichment of the proprietor of the George on the other side of the village.

  The door was locked, as before, but the Saint hammered on it in his noisy way, and in a few moments it was opened.

  “Evening, Basher,” said the Saint affably, walking through into the parlour. “I’m too late for dinner, I suppose, but you can bring me a pint of beer before I go to bed.”

  Tope shuffled off, and returned in a few moments with a tankard.

  “Your health, Basher,” said the Saint, and raised the tankard.

  Then he sniffed at it, and set it carefully down again.

  “Butyl chloride,” he remarked, “has an unmistakable odour, with which all cautious detectives make a point of familiarising themselves very early in their careers. To vulgar people like yourself, Basher, it is known as the knock-out drop, and one of the most important objections that I have to it is that it completely neutralises the beneficial properties of good beer.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that beer,” growled Basher.

  “Then you may have it,” said the Saint generously. “Bring me a bottle of whisky. A new one—and I’ll draw the cork myself.”

  Basher Tope was away five minutes, and at the end of that time he came back and banged an unopened bottle of whisky and a corkscrew down on the table.

  “Bring me two glasses,” said the Saint.

  Basher Tope was back in time to witness the extraction of the cork, and Simon poured a measure of whisky into each glass and splashed water into it.

  “Drink with me, Basher,” invited the Saint cordially, taking up one of the glasses.

  Tope shook his head.

  “I don’t drink.”

  “You’re a liar, Basher,” said the Saint calmly. “You drink like a particularly thirsty fish. Look at your nose!”

  “My nose is my business,” said Tope truculently.

  “I’m sorry about that,” said Simon. “It must be rotten for you. But I want to see you have a drink with me. Take that glass!”

  “I don’t want it,” Tope retorted stubbornly.

  Simon put his glass down again.

  “I thought the lead cap looked as if it had been taken off very carefully, and put back again,” he said. “I just wanted to verify my suspicions. You can go. Oh, and take this stuff with you and pour it down the sink.”

  He left Basher Tope standing there, and went straight upstairs. The fire ready laid in his bedroom tempted him almost irresistibly, for he was a man who particularly valued the creature comforts, but he felt it would be wiser to deny himself that luxury. Anything might happen in that place at night, and Simon decided that the light of a dying fire might not be solely to his own advantage.

  He undressed, shivering, and jumped into bed. He had locked his door, but he considered that precaution of far less value than the tiny little super-sensitive silver bell which he had fixed into the woodwork of the door by means of a metal prong.

  He had blown out the lamp, and he was just dozing when the first alarm came, for he heard the door rattle as someone tried the handle. There followed three soft taps which he had to strain to hear.

  With a groan, Simon flung off the bedclothes, lighted the lamp, and pulled on his dressing-gown. Then he opened the door.

  The girl he had met that morning stood outside, and she pushed past him at once and closed the door behind her. The Saint seemed shocked.

  “Don’t you know this is most irregular?” he demanded reprovingly.

  “I haven’t come here to be funny,” she flashed back in a low voice. “Listen to me—were you talking nothing but nonsense this morning?”

  “Not altog
ether,” replied Simon cautiously. “Although I don’t mind admitting—”

  “You’re a detective?”

  “Er—occasionally,” said Simon modestly.

  The girl bit her lip.

  “Who are you after?” she asked.

  Simon’s eyebrows went up.

  “I’m after one or two people,” he said. “Marring and Crantor, for instance, I hope to include in the bag. But the man I’m really sniping for is Bunnywugs.”

  “You mean Professor Raxel?”

  “That’s what he calls himself now, is it? I’ve heard him spoken of by a dozen different names, but he’s best known as the Professor. He has a certain reputation.”

  The girl nodded.

  “Well,” she said, “you gave the gang some pretty straight warnings at breakfast. Now I’m warning you. If the Professor’s got a reputation, you can take it from me he’s earned it. You’ve bitten off a lot more than you can chew, Smith, and if you go on playing the fool like this it’ll choke you!”

  “Rameses is rather a mouthful, I grant you, so my friends usually call me Simon,” said the Saint wistfully.

  The girl stamped her foot.

  “You can be funny at breakfast tomorrow, if you live to eat it,” she shot back. “For God’s sake—can’t you see what danger you’re in?”

  “Now I come to think of it,” murmured the Saint, “you must have a name, too.”

  “Tregarth’s my name,” she told him impatiently.

  “It must have been your father’s,” said the Saint with conviction. “Tell me—what else do the family call you to distinguish you from him?”

  “Betty Tregarth.”

  Simon held out his hand.

  “Thanks, Betty,” he said seriously. “You’re rather a decent kid. I’m sorry you’re mixed up in this bunch of bums.”

  “I’m not!” she began hotly, and then suddenly fell silent with her face going white, for she realised how impossible it would be to tell him the true circumstances.

  And the realisation cut her like a knife, for Simon Templar was smiling at her in a particularly nice way; and she knew at once that if there was one man in the whole world whom she might have trusted with such a story as hers, it was the smiling young man with the hell-for-leather blue eyes who stood before her arrayed in green pyjamas and a staggering silk dressing-gown that would have made Joseph’s coat look like a suit of deep mourning. And by the cussedness of Fate it had had to so happen that he was also one of the few men in the world in whom she could not possibly confide. She felt hot tears stinging her eyelids—tears that she longed to shed, and could not.