The only merit he could see in that breakneck pace was that it approximately halved the duration of the agony. And by some miracle he found himself still alive when the precipitous track began to level itself out for the run down to Schwaz.
With a wry grin of triumph, the Saint moistened his dry lips and eased the tension on his crippled thews.
The car was slowing up doubtfully. Simon squeezed his ear against the roof, and heard the prince speaking impatiently.
“Go on further, blockhead! He drives like the devil, but we must be close behind him. The road to Jenbach—”
Simon crooked his toes and fingers and clung on, and the car lurched round a corner and raced on towards the east.
On another furlong of straight road he convoluted himself round again to peep in at the prince, and what he saw made him flop limply down in a renewed paroxysm of mirth.
The prince was sitting tensely forward in his seat, staring fixedly along the road ahead. One hand was clutching something in his pocket, while the other beat a monotonous tattoo on his left knee. Apart from that regular tapping of his fingers he was as motionless as a painted statue, and his pale finely modelled face was as expressionless as ever, and yet the contrast between him as he was sitting then, and the inscrutable exquisite whom the Saint knew so well, was as inconsistent a transfiguration as the Saint had ever seen. It was not really funny—it was perhaps the most ominous possible reminder of the dour realities that had been glossed over so smoothly with the sheen of airy badinage—but it was only the fantastic bathos of the whole performance which appealed to him.
“Oh, go down Moses!” he hallooed. “That’s the stuff to give ‘em. Stamp on the gas, Adolphus—don’t let him get away! Yoicks!”
He restrained himself with difficulty from thumping the roof in his excitement, and turned his mind to the amazing awakening of Monty Hayward.
Monty had acquitted himself like an old stager, but the breaks had been against him. In spite of everything he had done, a malicious fluke had dented the polish of their alibi. Their reputations were tarnished beyond repair. The thwarted spleen of the entire Austrian police force would be thrown into the international ill-wind that trailed behind them. The righteous wrath of one more country would be thirsting for their blood…And strangely enough the Saint laughed again.
He took the time from his watch and made a rapid mental calculation. If Monty had wasted no unnecessary minutes, he should be less than a quarter of an hour behind them—so long as the car he had chosen hadn’t elected to break down. Given luck and a warm engine, he might be even closer than that, and it was essential for the Saint to be waiting for him when he caught up. Simon looked at the road on either side hurtling beneath him at sixty miles an hour, and decided against any attempt to step quietly off and send the prince his compliments by post. But he glimpsed a milestone skimming by which indicated only two kilometres to Jenbach, and he realised that, much as he was still enjoying his little joke, the time had come to share its beauties with the prince.
He drew the gun from his pocket, wriggled to the edge of the roof, and took leisurely aim at the centre of the near-side rear mudguard. The rap of his gun was drowned in the explosive flattening of the tyre, and the car listed over and lost speed bumpily.
Simon dropped lightly off behind it just before it stopped. He coiled himself down in the shadow of the hedge two yards away, and watched the chauffeur run round and peer at the pancaked wheel. The chauffeur felt it and prodded it, and went back to describe its devastating flatness to the prince. The prince climbed out. He also peered at the wheel and prodded it. It was indubitably flat.
“It must have been a nail in the road, Hoheit,” said the chauffeur.
The prince stood absolutely still, looking down the road along the bright beam of headlights. For a time he made no answer. It was in that time that a lesser man would have been fuming and cursing impotently, but the prince might have been a man carved in stone. There was something terrifying in his inhuman immobility.
When he spoke, his voice was perfectly level—as level and measured as a flow of molten lava.
“Change the wheel.”
The words fell through the air like glistening globules of acid, and then the Saint judged that a few lines of cheery chatter might relieve the tenseness of the dialogue.
He stepped out into the dim glow of the tail light, with his automatic ostentatiously displayed, and cleared his throat.
The two men by the car whirled round as if they had been stabbed with electric needles. And the Saint smiled his most winning smile.
“Dear me!” he murmured. “Isn’t it odd how we keep running up against each other? You know, if we go on like this, you’ll begin to think I’m following you about.”
Slowly the prince relaxed. For the moment even his tempered nerves must have been shaken by the uncanny promptness of the Saint’s return. But even while he relaxed, his face remained set in a stony mask in which only the eyes seemed alive.
“I cannot think how we missed you, my dear Mr Templar,” he said quietly. “Has your car also met with an accident?”
“My car is yours,” said the Saint lavishly. He grinned gently at the prince’s moveless puzzlement. “To tell you the truth, old dear, it always was. And while we’re on the subject, in case you should be thinking of giving me a lift some other time, I wish you’d have something done about that roof. A couple of good strong coffin-handles would make a heap of difference, and if you had enough money left after that to stand me an air-cushion—”
“So!” There was a gleam like the lustre of white-hot metal in the prince’s narrowed eyes, and the same lustrous malignity in his soft utterance of that trenchant syllable. “Do I understand that you have been with us all the time?”
Simon nodded.
“Sweetheart, I hope you do.” He smiled again, with captivating sweetness. “Well, well, well—we none of us grow younger, do we? But how the old Borstal boys will chortle over this! Turn round, Rudolf, and let me have your gun—there’s a nasty look in your eye which makes me think you might do something foolish at any moment.”
He whizzed the prince’s automatic neatly from his pocket, and went on to disarm the chauffeur in the same way. With their artillery transferred to his own person, he leaned on the side panel of the limousine and regarded the two men affectionately.
“This has been what I call a really jolly little evening,” he drawled. “I suppose we’ve all lost a certain amount of sleep, but you can’t have it both ways.” He tapped the strong-box which he carried under his left arm. “Would you like me to send you a priced catalogue of the boodle when I’ve had time to look it over? You might like to buy one of the items as a souvenir.”
For a while the prince stared at him in silence. And then he also smiled.
“You win, my dear Mr Templar. Accept my congratulations.” After a moment’s hesitation, he drew a crocodile-skin case from his breast pocket. “If I were not afraid you would laugh at me,” he said apologetically, “I should ask you to accept a cigar as well.”
“Don’t tempt me, Rudolf,” said the Saint amiably. “You know my sense of humour.”
The prince laughed.
“All the same,” he said, “I wish you could believe that there are depths of childishness to which even I have not yet descended.” He extended the case diffidently. “In the circumstances, this is the only sporting gesture I can make.”
Simon glanced down disparagingly.
And in that instant, before he could make a movement to protect himself, a jet of liquid ammonia struck him squarely between the eyes, and everything was blotted out in an agonising intensity of blindness. It seared his eyeballs like the caress of red-hot irons, and his gasp of pain sucked the acrid fumes chokingly down into his lungs. He staggered sideways and fired twice as he did so, and then the gun was torn out of his hand and he was flung to the ground under a crushing weight.
A vice-like constriction of thick powerful fingers fastened
on his windpipe. He struck out savagely and tore at the throttling hands, but he was half paralysed with pain, and his chest seemed to be filled with nothing but the stinging vapour of ammonia. The blood roared in his ears, and he felt everything receding from him…
And then he heard the prince’s infinitely distant voice.
“That will be sufficient, Ludwig.”
Almost imperceptibly, it seemed, the pressure was loosened from his throat, and the air flowed back into his lungs. The weight lifted from his chest, and he rolled away with his hands covering his eyes.
Presently, out of the spangled darkness, he heard the prince speaking again.
“An unfortunate necessity, my dear young friend. I have never felt comfortable in such a position as the one in which you placed me. But your distress, I assure you, is only temporary.”
Simon lay still, with his lungs heaving. He heard the striking of a match, and thought he could distinguish the light of it from the pungent flashes of colour that kaleidoscoped across his optic nerves.
“I think you had better enter the car,” said the prince urbanely—and Simon could visualise him vividly, with his cigarette glowing in the long jade holder and his dark eyes satirically veiled. “I fear that your present attitude might provoke undue curiosity.”
It was the chauffeur who dragged Simon to his feet and hustled him into the limousine.
The Saint went without assistance. He knew the futility of squandering any more of his strength at that moment, while he was still half-blinded and unarmed. He allowed himself to be bundled roughly into a corner, and felt the prince’s weight sinking on to the cushions beside him and the muzzle of the prince’s gun thrusting into his ribs. And then the Saint managed to open one of his twinging eyes, and saw the lights of a car coming down the road.
2
“I need not bother to tell you,” murmured the prince’s velvety intonation “what would happen if you were so unwise as to endeavour to attract attention.”
Simon said nothing.
The headlights of the approaching car shone straight into the limousine, bathing the tableau in a garish blue. Certainly there was nothing whatever about it to arouse suspicion. Prince Rudolf and the Saint, two amicable orphans of the storm, were patiently waiting to continue their fraternal journey; what time their chauffeur, diligently bent double over the hind-quarters of the chariot, was working to repair the mishap that had delayed them. A mournful and pathetic scene, no doubt, but by no means so uncommon that it should have imbued the innocent wayfarer with anything but thankfulness for his own better fortune…And yet the other car was slowing up as it went past them, and through the rear window of the limousine they could see it pull in to the side of the road a few yards farther on…
Prince Rudolf looked at the Saint again, and spilled a short cylinder of ash deliberately into the tray beside him.
“If this should be your friend,” he said, “your actions will have to be extraordinarily discreet.”
A man was walking towards them from the other car. As he drew nearer, a glint of light shimmered on his helmet and flickered over the trappings of his uniform. He came to the side of the limousine and opened the door, standing stiffly in the opening. His face was in the shadow.
“Entschuldigen Sie mich, mein Herr—”
The Saint never moved a muscle, and yet the whole of his inside was singing. For the stilted accent was impeccable, but the voice was Monty Hayward’s.
“Excuse me, sir, but do you know this man?”
He addressed the prince, and indicated Simon with a curt movement of his head.
The prince smiled faintly.
“I cannot say,” he answered, “that he is a friend of mine.”
“Your name, please?”
The prince took out his wallet and extracted a card. Monty carried it to one of the side lamps and studied it. When he came back, he clicked his heels.
“I beg your Highness’s pardon. Perhaps your Highness does not know the identity of his guest?”
“I should like to be informed.”
“He is a desperate criminal who calls himself the Saint. He is wanted on many charges. He has already tonight thrown three detectives into the river.”
For the fraction of a second the prince paused.
And then, with a deprecatory shrug, he showed his gun.
“I am not surprised,” he said calmly. “As a matter of fact, he has also attempted to rob me.” He placed one hand on the strong-box which lay on the seat beside him. “I have some family heirlooms with me which would naturally attract a thief of his calibre. But happily my chauffeur and myself were able to overpower him. We were about to take him to the Polizeiamt, but possibly you could save us the trouble.”
Simon had to admire the consummate skill with which the part was played. It was an accomplished feat of impromptu histrionics which won the unstinted applause of his artistic soul. The prince was a past master. His unruffled frankness, his engaging modesty, his felicitous rendering of the whole poise of royalty accidentally embroiled in the sordid excitements of common lawlessness—every delicate touch was irreproachable.
Again Monty clicked his heels. The Saint knew that he had had three years at Bonn in which to perfect his German, but this performance revealed a new Monty Hayward, in the guise of yet another gifted actor lost to the silver screen.
“I shall be honoured to relieve your Highness of further inconvenience.”
And then the Saint pushed himself forward.
“It is nothing but lies!” he protested furiously. “His Highness is attempting to rob me. That box is mine. I can take you to his Highness’s castle and show you things that will make you believe me—”
“Silence!” thundered the policeman magnificently. “It will not help you to insult the nobly born.” He turned to the prince. “Your Highness shall not be troubled any longer.”
The prince produced a couple of notes from his wallet.
“You will understand,” he said, “that I do not wish for any vulgar publicity.”
The policeman bowed.
“It is understood. Your Highness’s name need not be mentioned. I am proud to have assisted your Highness.” He turned again to the Saint. “Outside, you scum!”
“But, for God’s sake, listen!” cried the Saint desperately. “Will you not understand that if you let his Highness go, I shall never see my property again? At least you must take him to the Polizeiamt with me, so that the ownership of the box can be properly settled—”
“The ownership of the box is settled to my satisfaction,” said the policeman stoically.
Simon clenched his fists.
“But that is only right!” he said, with savagely direct emphasis. “You cannot take me without the box. I have risked everything to keep it!”
“It will be no use to you in the prison,” replied the policeman imperviously. “Will you come outside or must I take you?”
“I refuse—”
Simon stopped short. The policeman’s revolver was pointed menacingly at his chest.
“Heraus!”
The Saint grabbed the gun and hurled the policeman back. And then the chauffeur’s muscular arms wound round his own below the elbows. While they swayed and struggled in the road, he felt two bands of steel snapped on his wrists. Then he was released. He stood wrestling with the handcuffs while the policeman went back to the door of the limousine.
“Your Highness’s servant.”
The policeman returned. He seized the Saint by the shoulder and pushed him roughly onwards. Fuming and cursing, the Saint suffered himself to be manhandled back to the waiting automobile. He was forced into the front seat. The policeman stepped in beside him and took the wheel. The car, with its engine still running, went into gear and gathered speed.
They had travelled a mile before the Saint spoke.
‘The hell of a fine partner in crime you are,” he said sourly.
Monty kept his eyes on the road.
“
And a hell of a fine crook you are,” he said acidly. “If this is your usual form, it beats me why there’s ever been any fuss about you at all. It’s a wonder they didn’t lock you up the day after you stole your first sixpence. That’s what I think about you. You prance about and get into the most hopeless messes, and expect me to get you out of ’em—”
Patricia leaned over the back seat.
“Don’t you see, boy? We had to get you away somehow, and Monty did the only thing he could. I think he worked it marvellously.”
Simon hammered the handcuffs on his knee in a frenzy.
“Oh, Monty was wonderful!” he exploded bitterly. “Monty was Mother’s Angel Child! Make your getaway at any cost—that’s Monty. Throw up every stake in the game except your own skin. Damn the boodle that we’ve all been chancing our necks for—”
“It’ll do you good,” said Monty. “Next time, you won’t be in such a hurry to get your friends into trouble.”
“But—damn your daft eyes! We had the game in our hands!”
The Saint's Getaway (The Saint Series) Page 8