Featuring the Saint (The Saint Series)

by Leslie Charteris

  “You’re a goo’ feller, Ole Man,” Mr Lemuel was proclaiming, towards eleven o’clock. “You stick to me, Ole Man, an’ don’ worrabout wha’ people tell you. You stick to me. I gorra lotta money. Show you trick one day. You stick to me. Give you a berra job soon, ole man. Pallomine…”

  When at length Mr Lemuel announced that he was going to bed, the Saint’s affable “Sleep well, sir!” would have struck a captious critic as unnecessary, for nothing could have been more certain than that Mr Lemuel would that night sleep the sleep of the only just.

  The Saint himself stayed on in the bar for another hour, for the landlord was in a talkative mood and was not unique in finding Simon Templar very pleasant company. So it came to pass that, a few minutes after the Saint had said good night, his sudden return with a face of dismay was easily accounted for.

  “I’ve got the wrong bag,” he explained. “The other two were put in Mr Lemuel’s room, weren’t they?”

  “Is one of them yours?” asked the publican sympathetically.

  Simon nodded.

  “I’ve been landed with the samples,” he said. “And I’ll bet Mr. Lemuel’s locked his door. He never forgets to do that, however drunk he is. And we’d have to knock the place down to wake him up now—and I’d lose my job if we did.”

  “I’ve got a master key, sir,” said the landlord helpfully. “You could slip in with that, and change the bags, and he wouldn’t know anything about it.”

  Simon stared.

  “You’re a blinkin’ marvel, George,” he murmured. “You are, really.”

  With the host’s assistance he entered Mr Lemuel’s room, and emerged with the key of the door in his pocket and one of Lemuel’s bags in his hand. Mr Lemuel snored rhythmically through it all.

  “Thanks, George,” said the Saint, returning the master key. “Breakfast at ten, and in bed, I think…”

  Then he took the bag into his own room, and opened it without much difficulty.

  Its weight, when he had lifted it out of the aeroplane, had told him not to expect it to contain clothes, but the most superficially interesting thing about it was that Mr Lemuel had not possessed it when he left England, and it was simply as a result of intensive pondering over that fact that the Saint had arrived at the scheme that he was then carrying out. And, in view of his hypothesis, and Mr Lemuel’s reaction to the magic word “Croydon,” it cannot be said that the Saint was wildly surprised when he found what the bag actually held. But he was very, very interested, nevertheless.

  There were rows and rows of neatly-packed square tins, plain and unlabelled. Fishing one out, the Saint gently detached the strip of adhesive tape which sealed it, and prised off the lid. He came to a white, crystalline powder…but that had been in his mind when he opened the tin. Almost perfunctorily, he took a tiny pinch of the powder between his finger and thumb, and laid it on his tongue, and the Saintly smile tightened a little.

  Then he sat back on his heels, lighted a cigarette, and regarded his catch thoughtfully.

  “You’re a clever boy, Francis,” he murmured.

  He meditated for some time, humming under his breath, apparently quite unmoved. But actually his brain was seething.

  It would have been quite easy to dispose of the contents of the bag. It would have been quite easy to dispose of Mr Lemuel. For a while the Saint toyed with the second idea. A strong solution of the contents of one of the tins, for instance, administered with the hypodermic syringe which Simon had in his valise…Then he shook his head.

  “Try to remember, Old Man,” he apostrophised himself, “that you are a business organisation. And you’re not at all sure that Uncle Francis has left you anything in his will.”

  The scheme which he ultimately decided upon was simplicity itself—so far as it went. It depended solely upon the state of the village baker’s stock.

  Simon left the “Blue Dragon” stealthily, and returned an hour later considerably laden. He was busy for some hours after that, but he replaced Lemuel’s grip looking as if it had not been touched, opening the door with Lemuel’s own key.

  It is quite easy to lock a door from the outside and leave the key in the lock on the inside—if you know the trick. You tie a string to the end of a pencil, slip the pencil through the hole in the key, and pass the string underneath the door. A pull on the string turns the key and the pencil drops out, and can be pulled away under the door.

  And after that the Saint slithered into his pyjamas and rolled into bed as the first greyness of dawn lightened the sky outside his bedroom window, and slept like a child.

  In the morning they flew on to Hanworth, where Lemuel’s car waited to take them back to London.

  The Saint was dropped at Piccadilly Circus and he walked without hesitation into the Piccadilly Hotel. Settling himself at a table within, he drew a sheet of the hotel’s note-paper towards him, and devoted himself with loving care to the production of a Work of Art. This consisted of the picture of a little man, drawn with a round blank head and straight-lined body and limbs, as a child draws, but wearing above his cerebellum, at a somewhat rakish angle, a halo such as few children’s drawings portray. Then he took an envelope, which he addressed to Francis Lemuel and omitted to embellish with a stamp. He posted his completed achievement within the hotel.

  At half-past one he burst in upon Patricia Holm, declaring himself ravenous for lunch. “With beer,” he said. “Huge foaming mugs of it. Brewed at Burton, and as stark as they make it.”

  “And what’s Francis Lemuel’s secret?” she asked.

  He shrugged.

  “Don’t spoil the homecoming,” he said. “I hate to tell you, but I haven’t come within miles of it in a whole blinkin’ week.”

  He did not think it necessary to tell her that he had deliberately signed and sealed his own death-warrant, for of late she had become rather funny that way.

  5

  There are a number of features about this story which will always endear it—in a small way—to the Saint’s memory. He likes its logical development, and the neat way in which the diverse factors dove-tail into one another with an almost audible click. He likes the crisp precision of the earlier episodes, and purrs happily as he recalls the flawless detail of his own technique in those episodes, but particularly is he lost in speechless admiration when he considers the overpowering brilliance of the exercise in inductive psychology which dictated his manner of pepping up the concluding stages of the adventure.

  Thus he reviewed the child of his genius:

  “The snow retails at about sixty pounds an ounce, in the unauthorised trade, and I must have poured about seventy thousand pounds’ worth down the sink. Oh, yes, it was a good idea—to fetch over several years’ supply at one go, almost without risk. And then, of course, according to schedule, I should have been quietly fired, and no one but Uncle Francis would have been any the wiser. Instead of which, Uncle’s distributing organisation, whatever that may be, will shortly be howling in full cry down Jermyn Street to ask Uncle what he means by ladling them out a lot of tins of ordinary white flour. Coming on top of the letter, which will be shot in by the late post tonight, this question will cause a distinct stir. And, in the still small hours, Uncle Francis will sit down to ponder the ancient problem: What should ‘A’ do?”

  This was long afterwards, when the story of Francis Lemuel was ancient history. And the

  Saint would gesture with his cigarette, and beam thoughtfully upon the assembled congregation, and presently proceed with his exposition:

  “Now, what should ‘A’ do, dear old strepsicocco?…Should he woofle forth into the wide world, and steam into Scotland Yard, bursting with information?…Definitely not. He has no information that he can conveniently lay. His egg, so to speak, had addled in the oviduct…Then should he curse me and cut his losses and leave it at that?…Just as definitely not. I have had no little publicity in my time and he knows my habits. He knows that I haven’t finished with him yet. He knows that, unless he get
s his counter-attack in quickly, he’s booked to travel down the drain in no uncertain manner…Then should he call in a few tough guys and offer a large reward for my death-certificate?…I think not. Francis isn’t that type…He has a wholesome respect for the present length of his neck, and he doesn’t fancy the idea of having it artificially extended in a whitewashed shed by a gentleman in a dark suit one cold and frosty morning. He knows that that sort of thing is frequently happening—sometimes to quite clever murderers…So what does he do?”

  And what Francis Lemuel did was, of course, exactly what the Saint had expected. He telephoned in the evening, three days later, and Simon went round to Jermyn Street after dinner—with a gun in his pocket in case of accidents. That was a simple precaution; he was not really expecting trouble, and he was right.

  The instructions which he actually received, however, were slightly different from the ones he had anticipated. He found Lemuel writing telegrams, and the impresario came straight to the point.

  “Einsmann—you remember the fellow who came to dinner—seems to have got himself into a mess. He’s opening a new night club tomorrow, and his prize cabaret attraction has let him down at the last minute. He hasn’t been able to arrange a good enough substitute on the spot, and he cabled me for help. I’ve been able to find a first-class girl, but the trouble is to get her to Berlin in time for a rehearsal with his orchestra.”

  “You want me to fly her over?” asked the Saint, and Lemuel nodded.

  “That’s the only way, Old Man. I can’t let Einsmann down when he’s just on the point of signing a big contract with me. You have a car, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll give you this girl’s address.” Lemuel took a slip of paper, and wrote. “She’s expecting you to pick her up at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. You must go straight to Hanworth…”

  Simon folded the paper and stowed it carefully away in his pocketbook, while Lemuel gave further instructions.

  Lemuel was showing signs of the strain. There was a puffiness about his eyes, and his plump cheeks seemed to sag flabbily. But he played his part with a grim restraint.

  Leaving Jermyn Street, the Saint found himself heading mechanically for the Piccadilly Hotel. There he composed, after some careful calculations with the aid of a calendar, a brief note:

  Unless the sum of £20,000 (Twenty Thousand Pounds) is paid into the account of J. B. L. Smith at the City and Continental Bank, Lombard Street, by 12 noon on Saturday, I shall forward to the Public Prosecutor sufficient evidence to assure you of five years’ penal servitude.

  The note was signed with one of the Saint’s most artistic self-portraits, and it was addressed to Francis Lemuel.

  This was on Thursday night.

  As he strolled leisurely home the Saint communed with himself again.

  “Uncle Francis wanted a disreputable aviator so that if anything went wrong the aviator could be made the scapegoat. But when he deduced that I was the Saint, that idea went west. What should I have done if I’d been Uncle Francis?…I should have arranged for Mr Templar to fall out of an aeroplane at a height of about four thousand feet. A nasty accident—he stalled at the top of a loop, and his safety belt wasn’t fastened…And Uncle knows enough about the game to be able to bring the kite down…And that’s what I thought it was going to be, with a few drops of slumber mixture in my beer before we went up next time…But this is nearly as good. I do my last job of work for Uncle, and doubtless there is an entertainment arranged for my especial benefit in Berlin tomorrow night—or a man hired to file my elevator wires ready for the return journey on Saturday. Yes—perhaps this is even cleverer than my own idea. The commission to take this girl to Berlin is intended to disarm my suspicions. I am meant to think that I’m not suspected. I’m supposed to think that I’m absolutely on velvet, and therefore get careless…Oh, it should be a great little weekend!”

  The only trouble he expected the next morning would not be directly of Lemuel’s making—and in that, again, his deduction was faultless.

  Stella Dornford was surprised to see him. “What do you want?” she asked.

  “I want you to fly with me,” said the Saint dramatically, and she was taken aback.

  “Are you Lemuel’s man?”

  Simon nodded.

  “Extraordinary how I get about, isn’t it?” he murmured.

  “Is this a joke?”

  He shook his head. “Anything but, as far as I’m concerned, old dear. Now, can you imagine anyone getting up at this hour of the morning to be funny?” He grinned at her puzzled doubts. “Call it coincidence, sweetheart, and lead me to your luggage.”

  At the foot of the stairs he paused, and looked thoughtfully round the courtyard.

  “They seem to have scraped Cuthbert off the concrete,” he said, and then, abruptly, “How did you get this job?”

  “Lemuel was in front the other night,” she answered. “He sent his card round in the interval…”

  “Told you he was struck by your dancing, bought you out, signed you up…”

  “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t. But it fits in so beautifully. And to make me the accessory—oh, it’s just too splendiferous for words! I didn’t know Francis had such a sense of humour.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m right, am I? Listen. He said, ‘It’s one of the worst shows I’ve ever seen, old man’…no, I suppose he’d vary that…‘but your dancing, old woman, is the elephant’s uvula.’ Or words to that effect. What?”

  “He certainly said he liked my dancing…”

  “Joke,” said the Saint sardonically.

  She caught him up when he was loading her two suitcases into the back of his car. “Mr. Templar…”

  “My name.”

  “I don’t understand your sense of humour.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “I’d be obliged if you’d leave my dancing alone.”

  “Darling,” said the Saint kindly, “I’d like to maroon it on a desert island. After I’d met you for the first time I made a point of seeing your show, and I must say that I decided that you are beautiful and energetic and well-meaning, and your figure is a dream—but if your dancing is the elephant’s uvula, then I think the R.S.P.C.A. ought to do something about it.”

  Pale with fury, she entered the car, and there was silence until they were speeding down the Great West Road.

  Then Simon added, as if there had been no break in his speech, “If I were you, old dear, I’d be inclined to think very kindly of that nice boy in the bank.”

  “I don’t think I want your advice, Mr. Templar,” she said coldly. “Your job is to take me to Berlin—and I only wish I could get there in time without your help.”

  All the instinctive antagonism that had come up between them like barbed wire at their first meeting was back again. After the accident to the amateur mountaineer there had been a truce, but the Saint had foreseen renewed hostilities from the moment he had read the name and address on the paper which Lemuel had given him, and he had been at no pains to avert the outbreak. Patricia Holm used to say that the Saint had less than no idea of the art of handling women. That is a statement which other historians may be left to judge. The Saint himself would have been the smiling first to subscribe to the charge, but there were times when Simon Templar’s vanity went to strange extremes. If he thought he had any particular accomplishment, he would either boast about it or disclaim it altogether, so you always knew where you were with him. So far as the handling of women was concerned, his methods were usually of the this-is-your-label-and-if-you-don’t-like-it-you-can-get-to-hell-out-of-here school—when they were not exactly the reverse—and in this case, at least, he knew precisely what he was doing. Otherwise, he might have had a more entertaining journey to Berlin than he did, but he had developed a soft spot in his heart for the unknown nice boy who used to take Stella Dornford to the movies—and, bless him, probably used to hold her hand in the sam
e. Now, Jacob Einsmann would never have thought of doing a thing like that…

  There was another reason—a subsidiary reason—for the Saint’s aloofness. He wanted to be free to figure out the exact difference that had been made to the situation by the discovery of the identity of his charge. A new factor had been introduced which was likely to alter a lot of things. And it was necessary to find out a little more about it—a very little more.

  So they travelled between Hanworth and the Tempelhof in a frost-bitten silence which the Saint made no attempt to alleviate, and in the same spirit he took Stella Dornford by taxi to the address that Lemuel had given him.

  This was a huge, gloomy house nearly two miles away from the centre of fashionable gaiety, and anything less like a night club Simon Templar had rarely seen.

  He did not immediately open the door of the taxi. Instead, he surveyed the house interestedly through a window of the cab and then he turned to the girl.

  “I’m sure Jacob Einsmann isn’t a very nice man,” he said. “In fact, he and I are definitely going to have words. But I’m ready to leave you at a hotel before I go in.”

  She tossed her head, and opened the door herself.

  The Saint followed her up the steps of the house. She had rung the bell while he was paying off the taxi, and the door was unbarred as he reached her side.

  “Herr Einsmann wishes to see you also, sir.”

  The Saint nodded, and passed in. The butler—he, like the porter at the Calumet Club, of hallowed memory, looked as if he had been other things in his time—led them down a bare sombre hall, and opened a door.

  The girl passed through it first, and Simon heard her exclamation before he saw Einsmann.