“It’s that man Dyson. Heavens, Templar’s clever! You were there when he warned me about Dyson, weren’t you? And we took it just the way the Saint meant us to take it Dyson’s done the double-cross.”
“And Pinky?”
“Pinky’s a back number.”
The girl admitted the fact grimly. She was calm about it.
“Why do you think the Saint is in this, Jill?”
“Who knows why the Saint does anything? You’ve read the stories in the newspapers—he was pardoned, and now he seems to be working right in with the police…But you’re right. This isn’t like any ordinary racket of the Saint’s.”
“What are we going to do?” asked Weald tremblingly.
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” she said. “Keep quiet, and don’t bother me.”
She drew at her cigarette, looking out of the window at the darkening scenery. It was some time before she looked at Weald again.
Then she said, “We go on, of course!”
Weald’s mouth fell open.
“But Templar’s on the train. I’m not being funny—”
“Neither am I. The Saint’s expecting to scare us off Donnell, but we aren’t going to be scared. If he’s on the train, we haven’t a way out, anyway. The only thing for us to do is to go on. We may be able to deal with him at Donnell’s, but we can’t here, that’s certain. The train’s packed, and we’d never get away with it.”
“He’ll have a posse at Donnell’s.”
She laughed a hard little laugh.
“That posse’s another of the Saint’s fairy tales. I don’t believe a man like that would dream of using one. He’s got too darn good an opinion of himself. Don’t you see that it amuses him to go about alone like this and get away with it? He gets twice as much kudos for the job as he would if he went round with a bodyguard. But this time he isn’t going to get away with it. That’s my answer. If you know anything better I’ll hear it.”
Weald said nothing. The train ran on.
He avoided her eyes. Picking up his cup to drink mechanically, he spilt tea over the table-cloth. But that might have been the jolting of the train. He hoped, she would think it was. He knew she was watching him.
What little colour there could be in his face had not come back since he saw the Saint, for Stephen Weald had seen the jaws of destruction yawning at him at the same time.
It had all happened so quietly and gently up to that point that he had never seen the danger until it was upon him. There had been nothing concrete in the mere knowledge that the Saint was after the Angels of Doom, imposing as the Saint’s reputation was. And though each of Simon Templar’s visits to Belgrave Street had been both an insult and a threat, none of them had been sufficiently terrifying to rouse an alarm which could not be dissipated with a drink after he had left. And now it seemed as if all that had changed as suddenly as if a charge of dynamite had been detonated under the whole situation. And all through such a simple thing. Before that there had been no evidence against any of them. But now there was. Simon Templar had been held up and bound and locked in a cellar, and now he was free to tell the tale, with Dyson’s evidence to support it.
That might well be the beginning of the end. Weald had always had a wholesome respect for the tenacity of the police when once they got hold of a solid bone to chew. Throughout his career he had made a point of keeping away from any material contact with them. As long as they were working in the dark against him he could feel safe, but once they could make any definite accusation, and thus get a hold on him, there was no knowing where it might end.
But in Jill Trelawney there was no sign of weakening.
“We can still pull through,” she said.
Weald’s thin fingers twitched his tie nervously.
“How can you say that after what we know now?”
“We’re not dead yet. In your way, you’re right, of course. We’ve tripped over about the most ridiculous little thing that we could have tripped over, and if we aren’t careful we’ll go stumbling over the edge of the precipice. But I’m not giving an imitation of a jelly in an earthquake.”
“Nor am I,” said Weald angrily.
The mocking contempt remained in her eyes, and he knew that he was not believed.
With a certain grim concession to her sense of humour she remembered the Saint’s warning before they left Belgrave Street. The Saint had certainly been right. In the circumstances, Weald was likely to be very much less use than a tin tombstone. She saw the way he put a hand to cover the twitching of his weak mouth, and realised that Stephen Weald was going to pieces rapidly.
CHAPTER FOUR:
HOW JILL TRELAWNEY TOLD A LIE AND SIMON TEMPLAR SPOKE NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH
1
Harry Donnell lived in a house on a mean street on the outskirts of Birmingham. It was a curious house, but as soon as he had seen it he had known that few other houses could have fulfilled his requirements so completely, for he had always boasted that if necessary he would resist arrest to the death.
This house had grown up, somehow, in the very inside of a block. Being completely surrounded by the other houses of the block necessarily deprived its rooms of most of the light of day, but Donnell could not see this as a disadvantage. The same fact made the house very difficult to attack, and this to his mind was compensation enough. In fact, the building could only be approached directly through a straight and narrow alley-way between two of the outer houses.
He rarely stirred out of doors except on business, preferring to sleep and drink and smoke at home, and amuse himself with his own inscrutable and animal meditations. He was at home when Jill Trelawney and Stephen Weald arrived, and went down to open the door to them himself when he recognised the signal on the bell which showed that the visitors were friendly.
“Good afternoon, Miss Trelawney,” he said politely, for Harry Donnell prided himself on his accomplishments as a ladies’ man. Her manner, however, cut short any courtesies.
“The Saint’s after you,” she said bluntly. “Where can we talk?”
He looked at her, and then led the way upstairs without a word.
They went up two flights of dingy, creaking stairs, for the first and ground floors were devoted to the sleeping accommodation of his gang. On the second floor he opened a door and showed them into a big, bare room, of which the principal articles of furniture appeared to consist of a rough deal table and a case of whisky. This room, like most of the others in the house, was lighted only by a small and dirty window which admitted hardly any light, and the gloom was made gloomier by the fog of stale tobacco smoke which hung in the air.
Donnell closed the door behind them.
“Did you say the Saint?”
“I did. Do you know him?”
Donnell drew back his lips from a row of black and broken teeth.
“I met him—once.”
“You look like meeting him again,” said the girl shortly.
Donnell was not immediately impressed. He took a pipe from his pocket and began to fill it from a tin on the table.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s after you for that show at Essenden’s. He came and told me that he was going to take you himself. We shut him up in the cellar and came to warn you ourselves. But he got away somehow and caught the same train as we did. Weald saw him. We didn’t see him again at the other end, but he can’t be far behind. In fact, I know how far behind he is. He knows I’m coming here and he’s hanging just far enough behind to get me into the trap as well. He’s after me, too.”
Donnell looked from her to Weald.
“Is this a joke?” he demanded.
And Weald’s face told him it was not a joke. He turned to the girl again.
“Why didn’t you get me on the telephone?” he asked harshly. “Isn’t that what it’s here for?”
“The Exchange told me the trunk line was out of order,” said Jill quietly. “And don’t talk to me like that. I don’t like it
.”
Donnell faced her cold gaze three seconds and then dropped his eyes.
“No offence,” he muttered.
“Forget it,” said the girl briskly. “We’ve got about three or four minutes, I should say, before Templar turns up. I’d like him to have a welcome. He’ll be alone—I’m certain of that. What can you do about it?”
“There are half a dozen of the boys downstairs.”
“Can you stop him getting in?”
Donnell grinned.
“I could stop an army,” he bragged.
“Can you stop the Saint?”
“Haven’t you seen round this house?” asked Donnell. “I’ve had it ready for years, just for something like this. I’ll take you round, if you like, and you can see for yourself.”
Jill tightened the belt of her coat.
“I’ll look round on my own, if you don’t mind,” she said. “I know what to look for, and it probably isn’t what you’d show me. Give Weald a drink while I’m gone—I guess he needs it.”
She went out, and Donnell picked up a bottle and a glass. He poured out four good fingers of the spirit, and Weald grabbed it and drank it neat. Then he turned to Donnell; the fire-water had steadied him up a bit—in a way.
“You believe it isn’t a joke?” he said.
Donnell nodded.
“Yes, I believe it now.”
“I’m up against it,” panted Weald flabbily. “I’m up against it much more than you are. They can only get you for a bashing, but they can get me for a lot more.”
“Ever beat up a ’tec?”
“More than that I can’t tell you. They might…Donnell, you’ve got to get us out of this!”
Donnell’s eyebrows came down.
“What do you mean, get you out of it? What about me?”
Weald clutched his arm.
“You don’t understand. I’ve got to get away. I’ve got to take the girl with me. Is there any back way out of this—any bolt-hole you’ve prepared? I’ve got money—”
Donnell thrust him roughly into a chair and pushed the whisky towards him. Weald helped himself greedily to another half-glassful.
“Now you’re talking,” said Donnell. “How much?”
Weald dragged a note-case from his pocket. It bulged. Donnell’s eyes fastened on it hungrily.
“A thousand, Donnell. It’s all I can spare. I’ve got to leave myself some money to get clear.”
“Let’s see it.”
Feverishly Weald counted out the notes with shaking fingers and put them on the table. Donnell moistened his thumb and counted them deliberately. Then he put them in his pocket.
“That cupboard behind you,” he said. “The back of it’s a sliding door. You’ll find some stairs. Go right down. There’s a tunnel under the block and the street, and it comes up in the cellar of a house on the other side.”
“But you’ve got to hold Templar up.”
Donnell struck his chest with a huge fist.
“Me? I’ll hold the Saint up. I don’t run away from anyone—but you can clear out when you want to. You’d be more trouble than use, anyway.”
Weald swallowed the taunt without a protest.
“All right. As soon as the girl comes back you get out and say you’re going to warn your gang. I’ll look after the rest.”
Donnell sat down heavily on a truckle-bed in one corner. He took a massive revolver from his pocket, spilled the cartridges into his hand, and squinted up the barrel. He spun the cylinder with his fingers, tested the hammer action to his satisfaction, and re-loaded the gun methodically.
“What’s the idea?” he asked laconically. “You sweet on her?”
Weald nodded, with the bottle in his hand.
“That’s not the half of it; I’ve been wanting her for months. I thought I’d do it gradually, working with her and making her like me. But there isn’t time for any more fooling about. If the police are going to get me I’m going to get her first. I don’t care if it’s the last thing I do. Donnell—on the train—she was sneering at me!”
“Anyone would,” said Donnell unemotionally, “a white-livered rat like you!”
Weald wiped his mouth. The whisky was going to his head.
“I’m not a white-livered rat, Donnell!” he blustered.
“You’re a white-livered rat, and a yellow cur at the same time,” said Donnell without heat, testing the sights of his Colt on the whisky bottle.
Weald lurched towards him.
“Donnell, you take that back!”
“Don’t be a blasted nuisance,” said Donnell impatiently.
He took Weald’s shoulder in a huge hand and pushed him away. Then Jill Trelawney came into the room.
“I’ve seen all I want to see,” she said. “Donnell, will you go down and rouse up the boys?”
“I was just going to, Miss Trelawney,” said Donnell heavily.
He went to the door and leered, behind her back, at Weald. Then he went out, and Weald heard him clumping heavily down the stairs.
“I didn’t say you were to drink a whole bottle,” remarked Jill, surveying Weald’s unsteady balance.
“You don’t understand, Jill. I’ve been finding a way out.”
He walked rockily to the cupboard that Donnell had indicated and dragged open the doors. After some fumbling he was able to open the sliding door at the back, and then he found a switch. The light showed a flight of steps leading down into a damp and musty darkness.
“Our way out!” declaimed Weald grandiosely.
“Very interesting,” said the girl, “but we don’t happen to be going that way.”
He stared.
“Not going that way?”
“How the Angels of Doom would miss you!” she said caustically. “Without you, they’d be absolutely helpless. The great brain, always clear and alert in times of crisis.”
“Jill!”
“Oh, be quiet!” Her sarcasm turned to contempt suddenly. “When you’re sober you’re futile, and when you’re drunk you maunder. I don’t know which is worse. Now pull yourself together. Donnell is ready to do his part, and the boys are with him, but he’s looking to you and me to pull him through. The Angels have never failed yet, and they can’t fail now.”
“But Jill—”
“And a little less of the ‘Jill,’ ” she cut in icily. “This place can stand a siege for a week, and we can still get out that way if we have to. But I’m going to let Templar in—right in—and there’s going to be no mistake about him this time.”
He swayed towards her.
“And I say we’re going out this way—now!” he shouted. “I’ve had about enough of being ordered about by you, and being snubbed, and treated like a child. Now you’re going to do what I say, for a change. Come on!”
She regarded him with a calculating eye.
“About one more drink,” she said, “and you’d be dead drunk. On the whole, I think I’d prefer that to your present state.”
“Oh, you would, would you?”
The resentment which Weald had been afraid to let loose before Donnell he had no need to control now. He grasped her shoulders with clumsy hands.
“That’s the sort of talk I’m not standing from you any longer,” he said shrilly. “You’re going to stop it, right now, do you see? From now on I’m going to give the orders and you’re going to obey them. I love you!”
“You’re mad,” she said coldly. But for the first time in her life a little imp of fear plucked at her heart.
He thrust his face down close to hers. She could smell the drink on his breath.
“I’m not mad. I’ve been mad before, but I’m sensible now. I want to take you away—out of here—out of England—out into the world! I’m going to give you jewels, and beautiful clothes. And you’re going to love me, and there’s going to be no one else. You’re going to forget all this nonsense about your father. You’re not going to think about it any more. It’s going to be just you and me, Jill! Lovely Jill—�
�
She flung him off so that he went reeling back against the wall and almost fell. Then she jerked from her bag the little automatic she always carried, but he leapt at her like a tiger and tore it out of her hands.
“No, Jill, that’s not the way. Not like that. Like this.”
His arms went round her. She fought him back desperately, but he was too strong for her. Once she was almost able to tear herself away, but he blundered after her, still clutching her sleeve, and caught her again. His lips were trying to find her mouth.
Suddenly she went limp in his arms. It was the only thing she could do at that moment—to pretend to faint, and thus give herself a chance to catch him off his guard. And for a space Stephen Weald looked down at her stupidly. Then, with a sudden resolution, he swung her off her feet and carried her through the open cupboard.
Hampered by his burden, he could only feel his way down step by step. The direct light above was soon lost, and the stairs grew darker and darker. He went on. Then another light dawned below, and grew more powerful as he proceeded farther downwards; at last the bulb which gave the light was on the level of his eyes. He went down beneath it, and presently found himself on level stone.
A corridor stretched away before him, lighted at long intervals by electric bulbs. He went on down it and felt a faint breath of fresh air on his face. Presently the tunnel forked. Donnell had not told him about that. He hesitated, and then plunged into the right-hand branch. In a few yards it took a turn, and a door faced him. He got it open and went into the darkness. Groping round, he found a switch, and when he had clicked it over he discovered that he was in a dead end—the tunnel did not go on, but stopped in the room into which he had opened the door.
There was a tattered carpet on the floor, and a table and a chair on the carpet. In one corner was a couch, in another were a pile of tinned foods and a beaker of water.
He should have turned back and tried the left-hand branch of the tunnel, but he was not an athletic man, and the effort of carrying even such a light weight as the girl for that distance had taxed his untrained muscles severely. He put her down on the couch and straightened up, mopping his streaming brow and breathing heavily.
The Saint Meets his Match (The Saint Series) Page 7