The situation remained just about as complicated as it had been before the incident. Now Hermann would be racking his brains for lies, and Conway would be racking his brains for lies, and both of them would have the single purpose of covering their leaders at all costs, and they'd both inevitably be contradicting each other right and left, and both inevitably ploughing deeper and deeper into the mire. And neither of them could tell the truth. ...
But could neither of them tell the truth?
The idea shattered the groping darkness of Roger's dilemma like the sudden kindling of a battery of Kleig arcs. The boldness of it took his breath away.
Could neither of them tell the truth?
As Roger would have prayed for the guidance of his leader at that moment, his leader was there to help him.
Wasn't the dilemma the same in principle as the one which the Saint had solved an hour ago? The same deadlock, the same cross-purposes, the same cataleptic standstill? The same old story of the irresistible force and the immovable object? . . . And the Saint had solved it. By sweeping the board clear with the one wild move that wasn't allowed for in the rules.
Mightn't it work again—at least, to clear the air—and, in the resultant reshuffling, perhaps disclose a loophole that had not been there before—if Roger did much the same thing— did the one thing that he couldn't possibly do—and told the truth?
The truth should convince Teal. Roger could tell the truth so much more convincingly and circumstantially than he could tell a lie, and it would be so easy to substantiate. Even Hermann would find it hard to discredit. And——
"Anyway," said Teal, "I'll be taking you boys along to the Yard, and we can talk there."
And the departure to the Yard might be postponed. The truth might be made sufficiently interesting to keep Teal in Brook Street. And then Norman Kent might arrive—and Norman was a much more accomplished conspirator than Roger. ...
"Before we go," said Roger, "there's something you might like to hear."
Teal raised his eyebrows one millimetre.
"What is it?" he asked. "Going to tell me you're the King of the Cannibal Islands?"
Roger shook his head. How easy it was! Teal might have been the one man in the C.I.D. who would have fallen for it, but he at least was a certainty. Such a lethargic man could not -by any stretch of imagination be in a hurry over anything— least of all over the prosaic task of taking his prisoners away to the station.
"I'll do a squeal of my own," said Roger.
Teal nodded.
As if he had nothing to do for the rest of the night, he settled himself in a chair and took a packet of chewing-gum from his pocket.
With his jaws moving rhythmically, he prompted: "Well?"
"If it's all the same to you," said Roger, to waste time, "I'd like to sit in a chair. This floor isn't as soft as it might be. And if I could smoke a cigarette——"
Teal rose again and lifted him into an armchair; provided him also with a cigarette. Then the detective resumed his own seat with mountainous patience.
He made no objection to the delay on the grounds that there were men waiting for him outside the building. Which meant, almost certainly, that there weren't. Roger recalled that Teal had the reputation of playing a lone hand. It was a symptom of the man's languid confidence in his own experienced ability —a confidence, to give him his due, that had its justification in his record. But in this case. . . .
"I'm telling you the truth this time," said Roger. "We're in the cart—Simon Templar included—thanks to some pals of Hermann there—only Templar doesn't know it. I don't want him to be pinched; but if you don't pinch him quickly something worse is going to happen to him. You see, we've got Vargan. But we weren't the first raiders. They were Hermann's pals——"
"Another lie!" interposed Hermann venomously. "Do you have to waste any more time with him, Inspector? You have already caught him in one lie——"
"And caught you sneaking about with a gun," snapped Roger. "What about that? And why the hell am I tied up here? Go on—tell him you're a private detective, and you were just going out to fetch a policeman and give me in charge!"
Teal closed his eyes.
"I can't listen to two people at once," he said. "Which of you is supposed to be telling this story?"
"I am," said Roger.
"You sound more interesting," admitted Teal, "even if Hermann does prove it to be a fairy-tale afterwards. Go on, Conway. Hermann—you wait for your turn, and don't butt in again."
Hermann relapsed into a sullen silence; and Roger inhaled deeply from his cigarette and blew out with the smoke a brief prayer of thanksgiving.
"We went down to Esher to take Vargan," he said. "But when we got there, we found Vargan was already being taken. He seemed very popular all round, that night. However, we were the party that won the raffle and got him away."
"Where did you take him?"
"You follow your own advice, and don't butt in," said Roger shortly. "I'll tell this story in my own way, or not at all."
"Go on, then."
"We took Vargan—somewhere out of London. Then Templar and I came back here to collect a few things . . .How did you find this place, by the way?"
"I went to Brighton, and found your motor agent," said Teal comfortably. "All motor agents spend Sunday in Brighton and the most expensive cars out of their showrooms. That was easy."
Roger nodded.
He went on, slowly, with one eye on the clock:
"Hermann's pals knew we were interested in Vargan before the fun started. Never mind how—that's another story. . . . No, it isn't—now I come to think of it. You remember the first stunt at Esher?"
"I do."
"Two people escaped past Hume Smith's chauffeur—a man and a woman. They were Templar and a friend of his. They stumbled on the place by accident. They were driving past, and they saw a light and went to investigate. The alarm that scared them off was the second man—the giant whose footprints you found. I'll tell you his name, because he's the leader of Hermann's gang——"
Hermann cut in: "Inspector, this will be another lie!"
Teal lifted one eyelid.
"How do you know?" he inquired mildly.
"He knows I'm telling the truth!" cried Roger triumphantly. "He's given himself away. Now I'll tell you—the man's name was Dr. Rayt Marius. And if you don't believe me, get hold of one of his shoes and see how it matches the plaster casts you've got of the footprints!"
Both Mr. Teal's chins were sunk on his chest. He might have been asleep. His voice sounded as if he was.
"And these people traced you here?"
"They did," said Roger. "And on the way they got hold of the girl who was with Templar that first night—the girl he's in love with—and Marius came to say that he would exchange her with Templar for Vargan. But Templar wasn't swapping. He wanted 'em both. We were able to find out where the girl was being taken, and Templar went off to rescue her. I was left to guard the prisoners—Marius and Hermann and another man called Otto. They tricked me and got away —Marius and Otto—and Hermann was left to guard me. I was to be an additional hostage against Templar. Marius and Otto went off in pursuit—they'd already arranged for an ambush to stop Templar on the road. Marius did that by telephone, from here—you can ring up the exchange and verify that, if you don't believe me. And Templar doesn't know what he's in for. He thinks he'll take the men in the house on the hill off their guard. And he's gone blinding off to certain death——"
"Half a minute," said Teal. "What house on the hill is this you're talking about?"
The tone of the question indicated that the authentic ring of truth in the story had not been lost on Teal's ears; and Roger drew a deep breath.
Now—what? He'd told as much as he'd meant to tell—and that was a long and interesting preface of no real importance. Now how much could he afford to add to it? How great was the Saint's danger?
Roger knew the Saint's fighting qualities. Would those qu
alities be great enough to pull off a victory against all the odds? And would the arrival of the police just after that victory serve for nothing but to give the Saint another battle to fight? . . . Or was the Saint likely to be really up against it? Might it be a kind treachery to spill the rest of the beans—if only to save Pat? How could a man weigh a girl's safety against the peace of the world? For, even if the betrayal meant the sacrifice of the Saint and himself, it would leave Vargan with Norman Kent. And, in case of accidents, Norman had definite instructions. ...
But where was Norman?
Roger looked into the small bright eyes of Chief Inspector Teal. Then he looked away, to meet the glittering, veiled eyes of Hermann. And, in the shifting of his gaze, he managed to steal another glimpse of the clock—without letting Teal see that he did so.
"What house on what hill?" demanded Teal again.
"Does that matter?" temporised Roger desperately.
"Just a little," said Teal, with frightful self-restraint. "If you don't tell me where Templar's gone, how am I going to rescue him from this trap you say he's going into?"
Roger bent his head.
Unless Norman Kent came quickly, now, and outwitted Teal, so that Roger and Norman could go together to the relief of the Saint, there would be nothing for it but to tell some more of the truth. It would be the only way to save the Saint— whatever that salvation might cost. Roger saw that now.
"Get through on the phone to the police at Braintree first," he said. "Templar will pass through there. Driving an open Hirondel. I'll go on when you've done that. There's no time to lose. ..."
All at once, Teal's weary eyes had become very wide awake. He was studying Roger's face unblinkingly. "That story's the truth?"
"On my word of honour!"
Teal nodded very deliberately.
"I believe you," he said, and went to the telephone with surprising speed.
Roger flicked his cigarette-end into the fireplace, and sat with his eyes on the carpet and his brain reeling to encompass the tumult unleashed within it.
If Norman was coming, he should have arrived by then. So Norman had decided not to come. And that was that
The detective's voice came to Roger through a dull haze of despair.
"An open Hirondel . . . probably driving hell-for-leather. . . . Stop every car that comes through to-night, anyway. . . . Yes, better be armed. . . . When you've got him, put a guard in the car and send him back to London—New Scotland Yard —at once. . . . Ring me up and tell me when he's on his way. ..."
Then the receiver went back on its hook.
"Well, Conway—what about this house?" Something choked Roger's throat for a moment.
Then:
"We only know it as 'the house on the hill.' That was what it was called in the letter we found on Marius. But it's at——"
Zzzzzzing . . . zzzzzing!
Teal looked at the door. Then he turned sharply.
"Do you know who that is?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
Zzzzzzzzzzing!
Again the strident summons; and Roger's heart leapt crazily. He never knew how he kept the mask of puzzlement on his face, but he knew that he did it: the fading suspicion in Teal's stare told him that. And he had put everything he knew into his lie. "I haven't the faintest idea. . . ."
But he knew that it could only be one man out of all the world;
Hermann also knew.
But Roger gave no sign, and never looked at the man. It remained a gamble. With Roger telling the truth—and intending, for all Hermann knew, to go on telling the truth—the man was in a quandary. The story that Roger was building up against himself was also giving Hermann a lot to answer. . . . Would Hermann be wise and swift enough to see that he would have a better chance with his unofficial enemies than with the police? . . .
Hermann never spoke.
Then Teal went out into the hall; and Roger could have cried his relief aloud.
But he could not cry out—hot even to warn Norman. That would be no use against Teal, as it would have been of use against Hermann. Norman had got to walk into the snare— and might all the Saint's strange gods inspire him as they would have inspired the Saint himself. . . .
Teal opened the front door. And he kept his right hand in his coat pocket.
Norman hesitated only the fraction of a second.
Afterwards, Norman said that the words came to his lips without any conscious thought, as if a guardian angel had put them unbidden into his mouth.
"Are you Mr. Templar?" asked Norman Kent.
And, as he heard the words that he had not known he was going to speak, he stood appalled at the colossal simplicity and colossal daring of the ruse.
"No, I'm not," said Teal curtly.
"Is Mr. Templar in?"
"Not at the moment."
"Well, is there anything you could do? I've never met Mr. Templar; but I've just had an extraordinary message, and I thought, before I went to the police——"
The word pricked Teal's ears.
"Maybe I can do something for you," he said, more cordially. "Will you come in?"
"Certainly," said Norman.
Teal stood aside to let him pass, and turned to fasten the door again.
Hanging on the walls of the hall were a number of curious weapons, relics of the Saint's young lifetime of wandering in queer corners of the globe. There were Spanish knives, and a matador's sword; muskets and old-fashioned pistols; South Sea Island spears, Malay krises and krambits and parangs; a scimitar, a boomerang from New Zealand, an Iroquois bow, an assegai, a bamboo blow-pipe from Papua; and other things of the same kind.
Norman Kent's eye fell on a knobkerry. It hung very conveniently to his hand.
He took it down.
12. How Simon Templar parted with Anna, and took Patricia in his arms
To attempt to locate, in a strange part of the country and on a dark night, a house distinguished by nothing but the fact of being situated on "the" hill—particularly in a district where hills are no more than slight undulations—might well have been considered a hopeless task even by the most op timistic man. As he began to judge himself near the village, the Saint realised that.
But even before he could feel despair, if he would have felt despair, his hurtling headlights picked up the figure of a belated rustic plodding down the road ahead. The Saint, no stranger to country life, and familiar with its habit of retiring to bed as soon as the village pub has ejected it at ten o'clock, knew that this gift could only have been an angel in corduroys, sent direct from heaven. The Saint's gods were surely with him that night.
"Do you know the house on the hill?" demanded Simon brazenly.
"Ay, that Oi doo!"
Then the Saint understood that in the English country districts all things are possible, and the natives may easily consider "the house on the hill" a full and sufficient address, just as a townsman may be satisfied with "the pub around the corner."
"Throo the village, tourrn round boi the church, an' keep straight as ever you can goo for 'arf a moile. You can't miss ut." So the hayseed declared; and the Saint sped on. But he ran the car into a side turning near the crest of the hill, parked it with lights out, and continued on foot. He might be expected, but he wasn't advertising his arrival unnecessarily.
He had been prepared to break into and shoot up every single house in the district to which the description "on the hill" might possibly have applied, until he came to the right one. But he had been saved that; and it remained to capitalise the godsend.
The gun in his pocket bumped his hip as he walked; and in the little sheath on his forearm he could feel the slight but reassuring weight of Anna, queen of knives, earned with blood and christened with blood. She was no halfling's toy. In blood she came, and in blood that night she was to go.
But this the Saint could not know, whatever presentiments he may have had, as he stealthily skirted the impenetrable blackthorn hedge that walled in the ground
s of the house he had come to raid. The hedge came higher than his head; and impenetrable it was, except for the one gap where the gate was set, as he learned by making a complete circuit. But, standing back, he could see the upper part of the house looming over it, a black bulk against the dark sky; and in the upper story a single window was lighted up. He could see nothing of the ground floor from behind the hedge, so that he had no way of knowing what there might be on three sides of it; but in the front he could see at least one room alight. Standing still, listening with all the keyed acuteness of his ears, he could pick up no sound from the house.
Then that lighted upper window gave him an idea.
On the face of it, one single lighted upper window could only mean one thing—unless it were a trap. But if it were a trap, it was such a subtle one that the Saint couldn't see it.
What he did see, with a crushing force of logic, was that the garrison of a fortified house, expecting an attempt to rescue their prisoner, would be likely to put her as far away from the attacker's reach as possible. Prisoners are usually treated like that, almost instinctively, being ordinarily confined in attics or cellars even when no attempt at rescue is expected. And a country house of that type would be unlikely to have a cellar large enough to confine a prisoner whose value would drop to zero if asphyxiated. Patricia could surely be in but one place —and that lighted window seemed to indicate it as plainly as if the fact had been labelled on the walls outside in two-foot Mazda letters.
The Saint could not know that this was the simple truth— that the same fortune that had watched over him all through the adventure had engineered that breakdown on the long‑distance wire to prevent Marius communicating with the house on the hill. But he guessed and accepted it (except for the breakdown) with a force of conviction that nothing could have strengthened. And he knew, quite definitely, without any recourse to deduction or guesswork, that Marius by that time must be less than ten minutes behind him. His purpose must be achieved quickly if it were to be achieved at all.
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