The Saint glanced at his watch again.
“Twenty-three minutes exactly. I’m not going to try and work out what rate of pay that averages per minute, because it might put ideas into your head. But let’s help ourselves. Hold the glim, will you?”
She found herself with the flashlight in her hand, watching him scoop up the jewels in handfuls and pour them into his pockets. It was like seeing a pantomime come to life, watching somebody empty an Aladdin’s cave and yet knowing that the fabulous collection of jewels was not merely a few quarts of pieces of coloured glass. Simon went on until every shelf was bare and his pockets were heavy and swollen. At the last he picked up a lone emerald the size of a bantam’s egg.
“Here—you have this for a souvenir. I’ll keep the rest, because you’ll be able to buy all you want with the Spanish government’s money—”
He stopped speaking abruptly, and she saw the grim fighting steel creep back into his averted eyes. An instant later he had taken the torch out of her hand and switched it off. The last thing she saw was that he was smiling again.
Then the darkness was back again, seeming doubly black after the temporary light, and in the darkness she heard what the Saint had heard a few seconds earlier—the sound of soft footsteps on the stairs outside.
Instinct made her stretch out her hand again for the comforting human contact of the Saint’s body, but he was not where he had been when she last saw him. Her hand met nothing but the air.
The Saint was halfway across the room by then.
With hardly a check in his swift silent passing, he lowered himself for a moment to see what light there was under the door. By the brilliance and steady swing of it, he learned that it was not a candle…and he went on, with only that minor item of information to prepare him for what might be coming. At any rate, the blow-up was coming now, whichever of the ungodly had been deputed to come and investigate the attic. The men downstairs had had time enough to decide that the prolonged failure of the electrical system might be due to something more than natural causes—the Saint knew that he was lucky to have been left so long. And the one question in his mind was concerned with how much longer a margin would have to be allowed for Hoppy Uniatz to receive his message and act upon it.
The footsteps had stopped outside the door—he couldn’t be sure yet whether they belonged to one man or more. But somebody was out there, listening.
“I wish they’d hurry up and do something about these lights,” said the Saint, clearly and conversationally, and as if the sound of his voice had reassured the man outside, the handle rattled and the door was flung open.
The searchlight beam of a big torch blazed into the room, covering the open and empty safe before it jerked slightly to the side to catch Christine Vanlinden full in the centre of its light. The Saint was near the door, almost at right angles to the direct beam, and enough of the light was reflected back from the walls and ceiling to show him the shape of the man who held it. It was Palermo, and Simon saw the silhouette of the automatic rising in his hand.
Palermo’s guttural exclamation practically coincided with the Saint’s spring, and because there was about six feet between them Simon launched his knife ahead of him.
The knife was meant for the wrist behind Palermo’s gun, and it flew towards its mark as straight as an arrow. It was unfortunate that the mark moved. Palermo had started to turn, his torch pivoting round, probably with the idea of locating the Saint—but concerning Mr Palermo’s mental reactions at that time the historian must remain conscientiously agnostic. The only person who could speak of them with authority would be Mr Palermo himself, and this is not a spiritualistic séance. The only thing we are sure about is that Palermo started to move as the knife left the Saint’s hand. He gave a queer little cough, and then Simon’s flying tackle caught him around the thighs and brought him down with a thump. Palermo’s gun went off at about the same time, like a clap of thunder, and in a flash Simon was grappling for it. He had got hold of the barrel when he realised that Palermo was not fighting, that Palermo was lying quite still and not resisting at all. Simon took the gun away, and held Palermo down with a knee in his stomach while he picked up the torch. He turned the light downwards and understood…
He looked up to see Christine staring at the same thing, reaching the same understanding.
“Is he…is he dead?”
“Let’s say he has been taken from us,” said the Saint piously. He recovered his knife and wiped it quickly and neatly on the late Mr Palermo’s shirt before he returned it to its sheath. “And let’s keep moving, because hell will now start to pop.”
He took her hand and rushed her down the stairs. At the bottom he checked her again, before they turned the corner onto the veranda. Beyond the corner someone else was moving, and he saw a dim flicker of light.
He left Christine under cover, and turned the corner alone.
From the range of a yard he looked into the gaping pop-eyed face of the servant whom he had seen at breakfast, made even more ghoulish by the upward lighting of the candle which the man held in one hand. Simon smiled at him in the friendliest way.
“Buenas noches,” he remarked, remembering the example of dignified politeness which had been shown to him in another place not long before.
The servant was not so ready to take the hint. He let out a bronchial wheeze and turned to run. Simon’s foot shot out and tapped the man’s heels together, sending him down in a sprawling slide. The candle spilled over and went out. Simon switched on his torch and hit the man twice on the back of the head with Palermo’s gun, very hard…
He grasped the man under the arms and hauled him up again, holding him in front of his own body as a shield. As the beam of his flashlight swerved upwards with the movement, it flashed over the figure of Aliston, rising head and shoulders over the other flight of stairs at the end of the veranda.
“Don’t shoot,” advised the Saint considerately, “or you’ll have to fix your own breakfast tomorrow.”
It is possible that Aliston was too flustered to grasp the hint, or perhaps the light of the torch on his face was too dazzling for him to be able to appreciate the situation. For a second or two he stood frozen in open-mouthed bewilderment, while the Saint advanced quickly towards him, with the servant locked in front of him by the encircling strength of one arm. Then Aliston yelled and began to shoot. Once, twice…four times he snatched at the trigger, and Simon could hear the bullets buzzing around him like angry hornets. He kept moving forward. At the fifth shot it felt as though the man he was holding had collided with a brick wall. Simon hitched him up and pushed on. A sixth and a seventh shot went wide as Aliston’s aim became wilder; then Aliston’s gun was empty. He looked at it stupidly for an instant, and then flung it hysterically at the steadily advancing light in the Saint’s hand. The gun clattered along the veranda, and Aliston turned to bolt down the stairs. Simon felt a warm dampness on his left hand where it was clutched around the servant’s waist.
“Hey!” he called out. “Look what you’ve done, Cecil. I warned you!”
Aliston did not stay to look, and Simon pressed the trigger of his own gun for the first time.
The hammer clicked on a faulty cartridge.
The Saint’s smile brightened recklessly. He dropped the automatic and gripped the body of the servant with both hands. He was at the head of the stairs now, and halfway down, Aliston in his headlong flight had become entangled with Graner, who was halfway up. They were clutching each other in a frantic effort to regain their balance, and Simon lifted his burden well off the ground.
“After all, it’s your breakfast, boys,” he said, and hurled his human cannonball downwards at them.
Then he hitched himself onto the banister and slid downwards himself after the flailing welter of arms and legs and bodies. It seemed to him that he heard another shot, further away than it should have been to have come from Graner’s gun, but in the excitement he scarcely noticed it. He reached the ground level just af
ter the tumbling tangle of humanity hit it with a corporate thud, and he seized Graner by the scruff of the neck and lifted him out of the mess like a kitten. The Saint’s smile glinted like sunshine before Graner’s blazing eyes.
“You slapped me once,” said the Saint reminiscently.
He slapped Graner on the left cheek, then on the right, and then he drew back his fist and punched him on the nose. He thought that he heard the bone splinter, and the jar of the blow ran exquisitely up his arm.
Graner reeled back as if he had been flung from a catapult, until he smacked into the opposite wall and slithered downwards. The Saint sprang after him joyfully, and as he did so Aliston’s hand grabbed at his ankle.
Simon’s arms windmilled desperately, but the impetus of his own leap was too great. He went over in a heap, bruising his shoulder agonisingly as he fell, and kicked out furiously to free himself. But Aliston’s hand kept its grip with the strength of a drowning man. Simon rolled over, with his other heel scraping savagely at Aliston’s knuckles, but against the far wall, well beyond his reach, he saw Graner lifting his gun again.
The blood from Graner’s flattened nose streamed down over his long upper lip and painted crimson into the thin lips drawn back snarling from his teeth. Simon Templar saw death reaching out for him, and smiled at it with all his old sardonic mockery. It had still been a grand last fight…
Crack!…Crack!
He felt nothing, nothing at all, no pain, not even the impact of the bullets. He was aware of no change in himself, and his thoughts went on uninterrupted. The only difference was that the clutch on his ankle seemed to have gone—but that was probably because his soul could not feel such material things. It occurred to him that if death was like that, it was a very simple process.
And then he saw that Graner’s hand, with the gun still grasped in it, had sagged down, until it rested on the floor. Graner’s chin had sunk forward on his chest; his eyes were open, but the dark flame had died out of them. While Simon watched him, Graner’s head slipped sideways…His body went down with it, grotesquely slowly, as if it was crumpling under the weight, going down sideways to the ground…
The Saint looked up.
Framed in the front doorway stood a solid and bull-necked figure, beaming like a gargoyle, with its Betsy raised in one bearlike paw. As Simon stared at it in speechless gratitude, the happy beam faded gradually into a look of gloomy apprehension.
“Did I bop de wrong guys again, boss?” asked Mr Uniatz anxiously.
3
The siren of the Alicante Star boomed its last warning over the harbour. A steward walked round the deck, beating the last “All Ashore” on his little gong. The last belated tourists panted up the gangway, laden down with their last purchases of junk, and looking as ridiculous and repulsive as tourists always look, no more and no less. The last Hindu merchants waved their lace tablecloths and shawls on the wharf and bawled the praises of their expensive last-minute bargains. The last guardia at the head of the gangway settled his belt and gazed arrogantly around him, and the last rich snort and gurgle and splash with which he economised on the laundry bills of his pocket handkerchiefs resounded juicily over the mingled sound effects.
The Saint shifted himself unwillingly off the rail.
“I’ll have to be on my way,” he said.
“You’re not staying here?” Christine said falteringly.
He smiled.
“I shouldn’t have time to get the car on board. And besides, Hoppy and I are booked for a boat on Monday. I’ve promised to go and see a young godson tomorrow.”
“You won’t be safe—the police will be looking for you—”
“My dear, they’ve been looking for me for years. I’ve been chased by bigger and better cops than they’ll ever grow on this island, and it never did me much harm.”
She could believe it. He was invincible. She had watched him in battle for twenty-four hours, and it made all the legends about him simple to understand.
“But what’s going to happen to us—to Joris and me?”
“Nothing,” said the Saint. “I’ll send a cable tonight to a friend of mine in London to fly out and meet you at Lisbon with a couple of brand-new passports ready to fill up in any names you like. You get off the boat at Lisbon, when everybody else gets off for an excursion, and you just forget to get on again. Then you travel overland to the Riviera, or wherever you want to settle down, and so long as you behave yourselves no one will ever bother you. The hunt for Joris has probably got tired of itself by this time, anyhow. And any bank will collect your lottery prize for you. It hasn’t any name on it, and there’s nobody left to make a fuss. By the way, I nearly forgot to give you the ticket.”
He fished it out from among the ballast of jewels in one of his pockets. It had a slight tear in one corner and a smudged stain on the back of it, for it had been in Reuben Graner’s breast pocket when Mr Uniatz used his Betsy, and the girl’s hand shook a little as she took it.
“Some of this is yours,” she said.
He shook his head.
“I got my share out of the safe.”
“But I promised you—”
“I know. But I’ll be honest with you. At the beginning of things, I wasn’t at all sure that I wasn’t looking for the ticket just for myself. So that makes us all square.”
A steward poked his nose between them.
“Hixcuse me, sir,” he said. “Har you going with us?”
“I wish I were,” said the Saint.
“You’d better ’urry up, then, sir. They’re going to take horf the gangway.”
“Go and sit on a nail, will you?” said the Saint patiently.
The vague bustle on the deck was rising in a formless crescendo.
“You could stay,” said Christine.
“I can’t, darling.”
She still clung to him.
“I promised you so much.”
His smile was the same, but the habitual mockery had softened in his eyes.
“It’s my fault if I can’t stay to claim it.”
“But I want you to! My dear, don’t you see? I’ve waited…waited all my life…You took me out of that. It was like a miracle. You can—be what you are…I’m no better. There can never be anyone else.”
“You’re young,” said the Saint gently. “There will be.”
“Larst charnce for the shore!” bellowed a brass-lunged steward.
“Never,” she whispered.
His hands held her by the shoulders, as gentle as his voice. He smiled into her eyes.
“This is my life,” he said quietly. “For me, it’s the best there is, but you’ve had too much of it already. You will find better things. One day you’ll meet someone else, and you’ll be glad that I didn’t let you keep your promise. You must let a buccaneer have one big moment.”
He drew her up to him and kissed her, and she closed her eyes and pressed herself against him.
Presently he tore his lips away.
“Good-bye, Christine.”
He unlocked her arms and turned quickly away. She saw him shouldering through the crowd, vaulting the handrail, and running down the half-raised gangway to jump the last six feet to the dock. She saw him walking with his long easy stride across to the shining Hirondel where Hoppy Uniatz sat waiting for him, where he stopped and turned to wave to her, tall and smiling and debonair, one closed hand resting on his hip with all the gay lazy swagger that was the Saint, his other hand raised in farewell. So she would always remember him. And so, thought the Saint, he would always remember her. He stood there for a long time, watching the ship creep away from the mole…
Mr Uniatz took the cigar out of his mouth.
“Dese dames are all de same, boss,” he said sympathetically.
“So are dese guys,” said the Saint.
Hasta la vista!
PUBLICATION HISTORY
This story was originally written specifically for The American Magazine, to whom Charteris was u
nder contract. The bulk of it was researched and written during the winter of 1935–36 when Charteris decamped to Tenerife. With him went a secretary who’d worked for the magazine for a number of years. Her name was Barbara Meyer, also known as Bobbie, and she would eventually become the second Mrs Charteris.
The story first appeared in the May 1937 edition of the magazine. This was an abridged version, cut down for length, completely eliminating Hoppy Uniatz from the proceedings and relocating the action from Tenerife to Haiti. No, we don’t know why either.
British readers would have to wait until October that year to get their chance to read it, when Hodder & Stoughton published the first edition hardback. An American hardback edition arrived in December that year courtesy of the Doubleday Crime Club. Somewhat uniquely for the early adventures of the Saint, both UK and US first editions were published under the same title, Thieves’ Picnic. It was American publishers Triangle who christened the book The Saint Bids Diamonds with their April 1942 reprint and the title was adopted by Hodder & Stoughton in February 1950.
The Brazilians were first off the mark in 1937 with a Portuguese version appearing under the title of O Santo no pic-nic dos ladrões, whilst the Dutch christened it Dievenkermis and published in 1940 (though later reprints from the 1960s onwards unoriginally titled it De Saint in Tenerife). Also published that year was a French edition, Le Saint à Ténériffe, and a Hungarian edition, 400.000 font főnyeremény (400,000-Pound Jackpot).
This was one of the few full-length novels that was used for The Saint with Roger Moore. It was adapted by Jesse Lasky Jr and his wife, Pat, and was first broadcast on 7 August 1965 as “The Saint Bids Diamonds.” George Murcell starred as Abdul Graner with Eunice Gayson as Christine; sadly, they also omitted to include Hoppy Uniatz.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
“I’m mad enough to believe in romance. And I’m sick and tired of this age—tired of the miserable little mildewed things that people racked their brains about, and wrote books about, and called life. I wanted something more elementary and honest—battle, murder, sudden death, with plenty of good beer and damsels in distress, and a complete callousness about blipping the ungodly over the beezer. It mayn’t be life as we know it, but it ought to be.”
The Saint Bids Diamonds (The Saint Series) Page 24