“The honour of the British Secret Service!” drawled the Saint, with a mildness that only emphasised the biting sting of his contempt.
“The truce is over,” said Harding dourly. “You’d do the same in my place. Bring me those papers!”
The Saint lowered Norman Kent gently, and Norman rested, half-standing, half-sitting, on the high arm of the settee. And Simon tensed himself to dice the last foolhardy throw.
Then a shadow fell on him, and he looked round and saw that the number of the congregation had been increased by one.
A tall, soldierly figure in grey stood in the opening of the window. A figure utterly immaculate and utterly at ease…And it is, of course, absurd to say that any accident of breeding makes a man stand out among his fellows, but this man could have been nothing but the man he was…
“Marius,” spoke the man in grey, and Marius turned.
“Back, Highness! For God’s sake—”
The warning was rapped out in another language, but the man in grey answered in English.
“There is no danger,” he said. “I came to see why you had overstayed your time-limit.”
He walked calmly into the room, with no more than a careless glance and a lift of his fine eyebrows for Gerald Harding and Gerald Harding’s two circling guns.
And then the Saint heard a sound in the hall, beyond the door, which still stood ajar.
He reached the door in a reckless leap, and slammed it. Then he laid hold of the heavy book-case that stood by the wall, and with a single titanic heave toppled it crashing over to fall like a great bolt across the doorway. An instant later the table from the centre of the room had followed to reinforce the book-case.
And Simon Templar stood with his back to the pile, breathing deeply, with his head thrown back defiantly. He spoke.
“So you’re another man of honour—Highness!”
The Prince stroked his moustache with a beautifully manicured finger.
“I gave Marius a certain time in which to make my offer,” he said. “When that time was exceeded, I could only presume that you had broken the truce and detained him, and I ordered my men to enter the house. They were fortunate enough to capture a lady…”
The Saint went white.
“I say ‘fortunate’ because she was armed, and might have killed some of them, or at least raised an alarm, if they had not taken her by surprise. However, she has not been harmed. I mention the fact merely to let you see that my intrusion is not so improvident as you might otherwise think. Are you Simon Templar?”
“I am.”
The Prince held out his hand.
“I believe I owe you my life. I had hoped for an opportunity of making your acquaintance, but I did not expect that our meeting would be in such unpropitious circumstances. Nevertheless, Marius should have told you that I am not insensitive to the debt I owe you.”
Simon stood where he was.
“I saved your life, Prince Rudolf,” he answered in a voice like a whip-lash, “because I had nothing against you. But now I have something against you, and I may take your life for it before the end of the day.”
The Prince shrugged delicately.
“At least,” he remarked, “while we are discussing that point, you might ask your friend to put away his weapons. They distress me.”
Captain Gerald Harding leaned comfortably against the wall, and devoted one of his distressing weapons entirely to the Prince.
“I’m not Templar’s friend,” he said. “I’m a humble member of the British Secret Service, and I was sent here to get Vargan. I didn’t arrive in time to save Vargan, but I seem to have got here in time to save something nearly as valuable. You’re late, Your Highness!”
19
HOW SIMON TEMPLAR WENT TO HIS LADY, AND NORMAN KENT ANSWERED THE TRUMPET
For a moment there was an utter silence, and then Marius began to speak rapidly in his own language.
The Prince listened, his eyes narrowing. Apart from that attentive narrowing of the eyes, neither his attitude nor his expression changed at all. The man had an inhumanly sleek superiority to all ordinary emotion.
Simon made no attempt to interrupt Marius’s recital. Someone had to explain the situation, and, since Marius had assumed the job, Marius might as well go on with it. The interval would give the Saint another welcome breather. And the Saint relaxed against his barricade and took out his cigarette-case, and began to tap a cigarette thoughtfully against his teeth.
Then the Prince turned to him, and spoke in his sleek velvety voice.
“So! I begin to understand. This man caught you, but you came to an agreement when you found that you were at least united against me. Is that right?”
“But what a brain Your Highness has!” murmured the Saint.
“And he has ended the armistice in his own way without giving you notice?”
“I’m afraid so. I think he got some sort of stag fever when he saw the papers. Anyway, he forgot the spirit of the Eton Boating Song.”
“And you have no influence with him?”
“None.”
“But your friend”—the Prince indicated Norman Kent—“has the papers?”
“And I’ve got the friend,” said Harding cheerfully. “So what do you all do about it?”
In that instant he stood absolutely alone, dominating the situation, and they all looked at him. He was young, but he had the spirit, that boy! And the Saint understood that Harding could not have helped breaking his parole, even where an older man might have hesitated.
And then Harding no longer stood alone, for in the next instant Norman Kent had usurped the limelight with a compelling movement of his hand that drew every eye.
“I should like to have something to say about this,” said Norman Kent.
His voice was always low and measured. Now it was quieter than ever, but every syllable was as sure as a clarion.
“I have the papers,” he said, “and Captain Harding has me. Perfectly true. But there is one thing you’ve all overlooked.”
“What is that?”
It was the Prince who spoke, but Norman Kent answered them all. He took one glance out of the window, at the sunlight and the trees and the green grass and a clump of dahlias splashed against the hedge like a wound, and they saw him smile. And then he answered.
“Nothing is won without sacrifice,” he said simply.
He looked across at the Saint.
“Simon,” he said, “I want you to trust me. Ever since we came together I’ve done everything you ordered without question. We’ve all followed you, naturally, because you were always our natural leader. But we couldn’t help learning something from your leadership. I’ve heard how you beat Marius in Brook Street last night—by doing the one thing you couldn’t possibly do. And I’ve heard how Roger used the same principle, and helped us to beat Teal with it—by doing the one thing he couldn’t possibly do. It’s my turn now. I think I must be very clever today. I’ve seen how to apply the principle to this in my own way. Because now—here—there is something that no one could do. And I can do it. Will you follow me?”
And Norman’s dark eyes, with a queer fanatical light burning in them, met the Saint’s clear, sea-blue eyes. For a second’s tense stillness…
Then:
“Carry on,” said the Saint.
Norman Kent smiled.
“It’s easy,” he said. “You’ve all appreciated the situation, haven’t you?…We have you, Prince, and you, Marius, as hostages, but you have as a counter-hostage a lady who is very dear to all but one of us. That in itself would be a deadlock, even if it were not for Captain Harding and his guns.”
“You express it admirably,” said the Prince.
“On the other hand, Captain Harding, who for the moment is in command, is in a very awkward situation. He is by far the weakest party in a three-cornered fight. Whether the fact that you hold a friend of ours as a hostage would weigh with him is open to doubt. Personally, I doubt it very
much. He’s never met the lady—she’s nothing more than a name to him—and he has to do what he believes to be his duty. Moreover, he has already given us an example of the way in which his sense of duty is able to override all other considerations. So that we are in a very difficult predicament. As Englishmen, we are bound to take his part against you. As mere men, we would rather die than do anything to endanger the lady whom you have in your power. These two motives alone would be complication enough. But there’s a third. As the Saint’s friends, who hold to his ideals, we have set ourselves to accomplish something that both you and Captain Harding would do anything to prevent.”
“You could not have made a more concise summary,” said the Prince.
Again Norman Kent smiled.
“So you will agree that the deadlock only exists because we are all trying to win without a sacrifice,” he said. “And the answer is—that the situation doesn’t admit of a victory without sacrifice, though there are plenty of means of surrender without the sacrifice of more than honour. But we dislike surrenders.”
He took from his pocket three sheets of paper closely written in a small, neat hand, folded them carefully, and held them out.
“Captain Harding—you may take these.”
“Norman! Damn you—”
The Saint was crossing the room. His mouth was set in a hard line, and his eyes were as bleak as an arctic sky. But Norman Kent faced him without fear.
“You agreed to let me handle this, Saint.”
“I never agreed to let you surrender. Sooner than that—”
“But this isn’t surrender,” said Norman Kent. “This is victory. Look!”
Harding was beside him. Norman turned, the papers loosely held in his fingers. And Norman looked straight at Roger Conway.
“Roger,” he said slowly, “I think you’ll understand. Take the papers, Harding!”
Harding dropped one gun into his pocket, and snatched…
And then the Saint understood.
Harding was, as Norman had said, alone among many enemies. And for a moment he had only one automatic with which to hold them all. The gun was aimed at Roger Conway, who was nearest, but in order to take the papers Harding had to glance away at right angles to his line of aim, towards Norman Kent and the Saint. Just for a sufficient moment.
And Norman let go the papers as Harding touched them, but then, instead of going back, his hand went forward. It had closed upon Harding’s wrist in a flash, fastened there like a vice. And it jerked—one sudden heave into which Norman put all the strength at his command.
The gun in Harding’s hand exploded once, but the shot smacked harmlessly up into the ceiling. For Roger Conway had understood in time. He had pounced on Harding’s left hand and wrenched away the automatic in the instant of time that was given him, and he had the Prince safely covered with it even as Gerald Harding, yanked off his balance by Norman Kent’s superhuman effort, stumbled slap into the Saint’s left.
It was all over in a split second, before either the Prince or Marius could have realised what was happening and taken advantage of it.
And then Roger’s gun was discouraging the movement of the hand towards the hip that Marius had started too late, and Norman Kent, white to the lips with the agony his supreme attempt had cost him, was leaning weakly against the arm of the sofa. And Gerald Harding was stretched out on the floor like a log, with the Saint stooping over him and collecting the second automatic with one hand and the fallen papers with the other.
“That looks better,” said Roger Conway contentedly.
But Norman Kent had not finished.
He was saying, through clenched teeth, “Give me back those papers, Simon!”
The Saint hesitated, with the sheets crumpled in his hand.
“But—”
“At once!” rang Norman’s voice imperatively, “You’ve trusted me so far, and I haven’t let you down. Trust me a little more.”
He took the papers almost by force, and stuffed them into his pocket. Then he held out his hand again.
“And that gun!”
Simon obeyed. It would have been impossible to refuse. For once, the Saint was not the leader. Perhaps the greatest thing he ever did in all his leadership was to surrender it then, as he surrendered it, without jealousy and without condescension.
But Norman Kent was a man inspired. His personality, which had always been so gentle and reserved, flamed in the room then like a dark fire.
“That’s the first thing,” said Norman. “And there are only two things more.”
The Prince had not moved. Nothing in those few momentous and eventful seconds had provoked the faintest ripple on the tranquil surface of his self-control. He still stood in the position he had taken up when he first entered the room—perfectly at his ease, perfectly calm, perfectly impassive, smoothing his wisp of moustache. Suave and imperturbable, he waited without any visible exertion of patience for the ferment to subside and the embroiled items of it to settle down into their new dispositions. It was not until he appeared satisfied that they had done so that he spoke, with the tiniest of smiles curving his lips.
“Gentlemen,” he remarked, “you do not disappoint me. I have heard much about you, and seen a little. The little I have seen tells me that the much I have heard may not be greatly exaggerated. If you should ever wish to forsake your careers of crime, and take service with a foreigner, I should be delighted to engage you.”
“Thanks,” said Norman curtly. “But this is not a crime. In our eyes, it’s a far, far better thing than you will ever do. We’ll waste no more time. Prince, do you agree that the situation has been simplified?”
The Prince inclined his head.
“I saw you simplify it.”
“And you say that if we give you these papers”—Norman Kent touched his pocket—“we may leave at once, without hindrance?”
“That was my offer.”
“Have we any assurance that you’ll stand by it?”
The thin eyebrows went up in expostulation.
“I have given my word.”
“And apart from that?”
“If the word of a gentleman is not enough for you, may I point out that I have twenty-five men here—some in the garden, some inside the house on the other side of the door which Mr Templar has so adroitly barricaded, and some on the river. I have but to give the signal—they have but to hear my voice—” The sentence ended in a significant shrug. “You are at my mercy. And, after you have given up the papers, what reason could there be for me to detain you further? And, in any case, why should I trouble to offer terms at all, if I did not remember the service you once did me? It is true that Mr Templar has refused to shake hands with me, but I bear him no malice for that. I may be able to understand his feelings. I have already said that I regret the circumstances. But it is the fortune of war. I make the most generous compromise I can.”
“And yet,” said Norman Kent, “I should like to be sure that there can be no mistake. I have the papers. Let my friends go, with the girl, in the car that’s waiting outside. I’ll undertake that they won’t warn the police, or come back to attack you, and I’ll stay here myself, as a hostage, to give you the papers half an hour after they’ve left. For that half-hour you and Marius must remain here as security for the safe-conduct of my friends—at the end of this gun.”
“Highness!”
Marius spoke, standing stiffly to attention.
“Highness, need we have more of this parleying. A word to the men—”
The Prince raised his hand.
“That is not my way, Marius. I owe these gentlemen a debt. And I accept their terms, strange as they seem.” He turned back to Norman. “But I need hardly add, sir, that if I find any cause to suspect you of treachery, I shall consider the debt cancelled.”
“Of course,” said Norman Kent. “That is quite fair.”
The Prince stepped to the window.
“Then, if you will permit me—”
He sto
od in the opening and beckoned, and two men came running. Inside the room, they pocketed their automatics and saluted.
The Prince addressed them briefly, and they saluted again. Then he turned and spoke again in English, with a graceful gesture of his sensitive hands.
“Your car is waiting, gentlemen.”
Both Roger and the Saint looked at Norman Kent puzzledly, doubtfully, almost incredulously, but Norman only smiled.
“Don’t forget that you promised to trust me,” he said. “I know you think I’m mad. But I was never saner in my life. I have found the only solution—the only way to peace with honour.”
Still Simon Templar looked at him, trying to read what was not to be read.
It tore at his heart to leave Norman Kent there like that. And he couldn’t make out what inspiration Norman could be acting on. Norman couldn’t possibly mean the surrender. That couldn’t possibly be called peace with honour. And how Norman could see any way for himself, alone, hurt and lame as he was…But Norman seemed to be without doubt or fear—that was the only thing that could be read in his face, that supernatural confidence and contentment.
And the Saint himself could see no way out, even for the three of them together. The Prince held all the cards. Even if Patricia had been in no danger, and they had shot the Prince and Marius and stood the siege, they must inevitably have been beaten. Even if they had made up their minds to sell their lives in the achievement of their purpose…But Norman had not the air of a man who was facing death.
And the Prince’s man held Patricia, even as Marius had held her the night before. But the same methods could not possibly be applied this time.
Yet the Saint pleaded: “Won’t you let me stay, son? I do trust you, but I know you’re wounded—”
Norman Kent shook his head.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I shall be carried out of here in state.”
“When do we see you?” asked Roger.
Norman gazed dreamily into the distance, and what he saw there seemed to amuse him.
“I shall be some time,” he said.
And he turned to the Prince.
The Saint Closes the Case (The Saint Series) Page 22
