Alias the Saint (The Saint Series)

by Leslie Charteris

  “Shake, Betty,” said the Saint gently, and she took his hand.

  He looked down at her, still smiling in that particularly nice way.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said. “But it’s no use, though—I’m staying here as long as the job takes. If you’ll adopt me as a sort of honorary uncle and take my advice, you’ll get out of this as quick as you can. Pack your bag tonight, and hike for the station first thing tomorrow morning. That’s a straight tip. And if you do decide to get out, and the other tumours cut up queer, just blow me the wink, and I’ll see you through. That’s a promise.”

  He opened the door for her, and he had to let go her hand to do it.

  “Goodnight,” said the Saint.

  “Goodnight,” she said with quivering lips and an ache in her throat.

  He closed the door on her, and she heard the key turn in the lock.

  5

  He rolled back into bed again, blew out the lamp, snuggled down, and he was asleep in a few minutes. The prospect of being the object of the attentions of other nocturnal visitors not so kindly disposed towards him failed to disturb his slumbers, for he knew exactly how far he could trust his powers of sleeping as lightly as he wished to.

  His confidence was justified; for when, three hours later, the door began to swing open under the impulse of a steady hand, the almost inaudible ting! of the little bell he had attached to it was sufficient to rouse him, and in an instant he was wide awake.

  He pushed back the blankets and slid soundlessly out of bed, taking with him the electric torch and automatic pistol which were under his pillow.

  The room was in pitchy darkness. The Saint waited a moment until he judged that the intruder was right inside the room, and then switched on his torch. It picked up the figure of Basher Tope, advancing cat-footed towards the bed, and in Basher Tope’s right hand was the instrument which had won him his nickname—a wicked-looking blackjack.

  “Hullo, Basher!” said the Saint brightly. “Come to hear a bedtime story from Uncle Rameses?”

  For answer Tope leapt, swinging his bludgeon, but the blinding beam of light that concentrated in his eyes was extinguished suddenly, and he struck empty air. He felt his way round cautiously, and found the bed empty. Then he heard a mocking laugh behind him, and spun round. The torch was switched on again, and focused him from the other side of the room.

  “Blind Man’s Buff,” said the Saint’s cheery voice, out of the darkness. “Isn’t it fun?”

  Then Simon heard a sound from the door on his left, and whirled the beam round. The door had opened and closed again, and now Professor Bernhard Raxel stood with his back to it, and in his hand was an automatic pistol with a silencer screwed to the muzzle.

  Raxel fired six times all round the light, and it was quite certain that in whatever contorted position Simon Templar had been holding that torch one of the bullets would have found its mark. But Simon Templar was not holding the torch at all; and when Raxel’s automatic was empty Simon struck a match and revealed himself in the opposite corner of the room—revealed, also, was the electric torch lying on its side on the table where he had put it down.

  “That’s a new one on you, I’ll bet!” said the Saint.

  He lighted the lamp, put on his dressing-gown, and ostentatiously dropped his gun into a pocket. Tope looked inquiringly at the Professor, and Raxel shook his head.

  “You can go, Basher.”

  “You can go also, Raxel,” said the Saint. “It’s two o’clock in the morning, and I want to get some sleep. Run away, and save up your little speech for breakfast.”

  Raxel inclined his head.

  “Tonight was intended to be a warning to you,” he said. “It was purely on the spur of the moment that I resolved to turn the warning into a permanent prohibition. It was clever of you to think of leaving your torch on the table. It is even flattering to remember that you did me the honour of crediting me with having heard before of the time-honoured device of holding the torch at arm’s-length away from you. But next time I may be a little cleverer than you.”

  “There won’t be a next time,” said the Saint. “You ought to know that it was a fool thing to do, to come to my room and try to put me out tonight, but it was no more than I expected. Now be sensible about it, sonny boy. I’ve got a little more to learn about you yet, and so you can carry on until I’ve learnt it. But you can’t kill me, and you needn’t think I’m afraid of being killed. You made a bad break when you overlooked the railway ticket to Llancoed in Henley’s wallet. That makes you hop!”

  “You’re talking in riddles,” said Raxel coldly.

  “You know the answer to ’em,” said Simon. “I could run you in now for attempted murder, but I’m not going to because I want you for something much bigger. I’m going to give you just enough rope to hang yourself. Meanwhile, you will leave me alone. Everyone at Scotland Yard knows that I’m here and you’re here, and if I happen to die suddenly, or do a mysterious disappearance, they’d have you in about two shakes of a sardine’s trailing edge. Now get out—and stay out.”

  Raxel went to the door.

  “And finally,” Simon called after him, as a parting shot, “tell Basher not to put any more butyl in my beer. It kind of takes the edge off my thirst!”

  The Saint breakfasted alone the next morning, but he waited about the inn for some time afterwards in the hope of seeing the girl. Crantor and Marring came down, and the cheerful “good morning” with which he greeted each of them was replied to in a surly mutter. Raxel followed, and remarked that it was a nice day. The Saint politely agreed. But the girl did not come down, and half an hour later he saw Basher bearing a tray upstairs, and gave it up and went out. His walk did not seem so satisfying to him that morning as it had the previous afternoon, for he was honestly worried about his first visitor of the night before. He made a point of being late for luncheon but although the three men were sitting at their usual table (the Saint found that a separate table had been prepared for himself) the girl was not with them. He took his time over the meal, having for the moment no fear that his food might have been tampered with, and sat on for an hour after the other three had left, but Betty Tregarth failed to make an appearance.

  When he had at last been compelled to conclude that she was lunching as well as breakfasting in her room, he went upstairs to his own room to think things out. There, as soon as he opened the door, a scene of turmoil met his eye. The suitcase he had brought was open on the floor, empty, and all its contents were strewn about the place in disorder. The search had been very comprehensive—he noticed that even the lining of the bag had been ripped out.

  “Life is certainly very strenuous these days,” sighed the Saint mildly, and began to clear up the mess.

  When he had finished, he lighted the fire and sat down in a chair beside it to smoke a cigarette and review the situation.

  He ended up exactly where he started, for everything there was to say had been said at two o’clock that morning. His entry had been staged with a deliberate eye to its effect—it would have been practically impossible to pretend to be an entirely innocent tourist for long, in any case, even if the first man he met had not put into his head the old trick of posing as a detective. And if he had to introduce himself flatly as a detective, the obvious course was to do it with a splash, and the Saint was inclined to congratulate himself on having made a fairly useful splash, as splashes go. But there it ended. Having made his splash he could only sit tight and wait.

  Simon Templar was prepared to back himself against all comers in a patient-waiting competition. That decided, he raked some magazines out of his bag and sat down to read.

  At half-past seven he washed, brushed his hair carefully, and went down to dinner full of hope. But once again he was unrewarded by a glimpse of the mysterious Betty Tregarth.

  He sat out the other three, but they rose and left the table at last, and the girl had not joined them. The Saint stopped Raxel as he passed on his way to the door.
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  “I hope you have not suffered a bereavement,” he said solicitously.

  Raxel seemed puzzled.

  “Miss Tregarth,” explained the Saint.

  “You mean my secretary?” said Raxel. “No, she has not been with us today.”

  A flicker of hope fired up deep down inside Simon Templar.

  “Unfortunately,” volunteered Raxel smoothly, “she has been indisposed. Nothing serious—a severe cold, with a slight temperature—but in this weather I thought it advisable to keep her in bed.”

  Simon watched the three men go with mixed feelings. The Professor had been just a little too aggressively plausible. His manner had indicated quite clearly that whether Simon Templar chose to believe that Betty Tregarth was indisposed or not, his interest in her was not appreciated and would be discouraged.

  Not that that worried the Saint.

  When he went up to bed that night he made a careful search of the more obvious hiding-places in his room, and found what he had expected to find, tucked into the pocket of his pyjama-coat. It was a rough plan of the upper part of the house, and each room was marked with initials to indicate the occupant. One room was marked with a cross, and against this was a scrawled note.

  “Kept locked. R., M., and C. go in occasionally.

  T. is there nearly all day.”

  The Saint studied the plan until all its details were indelibly photographed on his brain, and then dropped it on the fire and watched it burn. Then he went to bed.

  He woke at four o’clock, got up, and dressed. He slipped his automatic into his hip pocket, took his torch in his hand, opened the door silently, and stole out into the corridor.

  6

  His first objective was the room which had been marked “T” on the plan. Trying the handle with elaborate precautions against noise, he found, as he expected, that the door was locked. But the locks on the doors were old-fashioned and clumsy, as he had discovered by some preliminary experiments in his own room, and it only took him a moment to open that lock with a little instrument which he carried. He passed in, and closed the door softly behind him. The ray of his torch found the bed, and he stole across and roused the girl by shining the light close to her eyes. She stared, and the Saint switched out the light and clapped a hand swiftly over her mouth.

  “Don’t scream!” he whispered urgently in her ear. “It’s only me—Smith.”

  She lay still, and Simon took his hand from her lips and switched on the torch again.

  “Talk in a whisper,” he breathed, and she nodded understandingly. “Listen—have you really been ill?”

  She shook her head.

  “No. They’re keeping me here—I was caught coming back from your room last night. How did you get in?”

  Simon gave her a glimpse of the skeleton key which he had spent part of the afternoon twisting out of a length of stout wire.

  “Have you thought of getting away?” he asked, “I’ll smuggle you out now, if you care to try it.”

  “It’s no good,” she said.

  Simon frowned.

  “You’re being kept here a prisoner, and you don’t want to escape?” he demanded incredulously.

  “I’m not a prisoner,” she replied. “It’s just that they found out I’d got enough humanity in me to risk something to save you. If you went away I’d be free again at once.”

  “And you’d rather stay here?”

  “Where could I go?” she asked dully.

  Instantly he was moved to pity. She seemed absurdly young, like a child, lying there.

  “Haven’t you any—people?”

  “None that I can go back to,” she said pitifully, desperately. “You don’t know how it is…”

  “I guess I do,” said the Saint gently, even if he was wrong. “But maybe I could find you some friends who’d help you.”

  She smiled a little.

  “It wouldn’t help,” she said. “It’s nice of you, but I can’t tell you why it’s impossible. Go on with what you’ve got to do, if you’re too reckless to get out while there’s time. Don’t think anything more about me, Mr Smith.”

  “Simon.”

  “Simon.”

  “I never knew how revolting ‘Mr. Smith’ sounded until you said it just now,” he remarked lightly, but he was not thinking of trivialities.

  Presently he said, “There’s another room I was meaning to visit tonight, but maybe you can save me the trouble. I’m told it’s kept locked, but you spend best part of the day there. What’s inside?”

  Her eyes opened wide, and she shrank away from him.

  “You can’t go in there!”

  “I hope to be able to,” said the Saint. “The little gadget that let me in here—”

  “You can’t! You mustn’t! If Raxel knew that you knew what’s in there he’d take the risk—he’d kill you!”

  “Raxel need not know,” said the Saint. “I shall try not to advertise the fact that I’m going in there, and I shan’t talk to him about it afterwards—unless what I find in there is good enough to finish up this little excursion. Anyhow,” he added, watching her closely, “what can there be in that room that you can spend every day with, and yet it would be fatal for me to see it?”

  “I can’t tell you…but you mustn’t go!”

  Simon looked straight at her.

  “Betty,” he said, “as I’ve told you before, you’re heading for trouble. I’ve heard of real tough women who looked like angels, but I’ve never really believed in them. If you’re that sort, I’ll eat the helmet off every policeman in London. I don’t know why you’re in this, but even if you are as free as you say, you don’t seem to be enjoying it. I’m giving you a chance. Tell me everything you know, help me all you can, and when the crash comes I’ll guarantee to see you through it. You can take that as official.”

  She moved her head wearily.

  “It’s useless…”

  “You mean Raxel’s got some sort of hold over you?”

  “If you like.”

  “What is it?”

  “I can’t tell you,” she said hopelessly.

  The Saint’s mouth tightened.

  “Very well,” he said. “On your own head be it. But remember my offer—it stays open till the very last moment.”

  He rose, and found her hand clutching his wrist.

  “Where are you going?” she asked frightenedly.

  “To unlock that door, and find out what’s in this mysterious room,” said the Saint, a trifle grimly. “I think I told you that before.”

  “You can’t. These locks are easy, but there’s a special lock on that door.”

  “And right next door is an empty room, and there’s nobody else but myself on that side of the house. Also, there’s plenty of ivy, and it looks pretty strong to me. I don’t think the window will keep me waiting outside for long.”

  He disengaged her hand, and stepped away a little so that she could not grab him again.

  “I’ll lock your door when I go out,” he said.

  He went out, and she had not tried to call him back. It was the work of a few moments only to re-lock the door from the outside, and then he stole across the corridor to the door of the room which he had marked down because of its window, which was separated by no more than a couple of yards from the window of the locked room.

  The ivy, as he had guessed, was strong; and as he had said, there was no one but himself sleeping on that side of the house, so that the noise he made was of no consequence. Better still, the Professor, when fitting the special lock to the door of the mystery room, had clearly overlooked the possibilities that the ivy-covered walls presented to an active young man, and the catch of the window was not even secured.

  Simon slid up the sash cautiously, and slithered over the sill. Then he switched on his torch, and his jaw dropped.

  The centre of the room was occupied by a rough wooden bench, and on this was set up a complicated arrangement of retorts, condensers, aspirators, and burners. They see
med to form a connected chain, as if they were intended for the distillation of some subtle chemical substance which was submitted to various processes of blending and refinement during the course of its passage through the length of the apparatus. The chain terminated in a heavy cylinder such as oxygen is supplied in.

  Simon studied the arrangement attentively; but he was no chemist, and he could make nothing of it. In his cautious way, he decided not to touch any of the components, for he appreciated that any chemical process which had to be surrounded with so much secrecy might possibly be pregnant with considerable danger for the ignorant meddler, and the association of Bernhard Raxel with the mystery would not have encouraged anyone to imagine that all those elaborate precautions had been taken to protect the secret of the manufacture of some new kind of parlour fireworks to amuse the children. But the Saint did take the liberty of peering closely at the apparatus, and the result was somewhat startling—so startling that it was some time before he was in a condition to pass on to the examination of the rest of the room.

  On another bench, against one wall, was a row of glass bottles, unlabelled, containing an assortment of crystals, powders, and liquids, none of which had an appearance with which the Saint was familiar.

  This, then, was the secret. A comprehensive tour revealed nothing more, and Simon, his object accomplished, prepared to go. He lighted a cigarette and hesitated over his departure for a few moments, but he could think of nothing that a longer stay might achieve, and presently he accepted the inevitable with a shrug. Yet that delay had certain consequences—he was so absorbed with his problem that he did not visualise those consequences that night.