The Saint's Getaway

by Leslie Charteris

  "What you boys and girls have got to remember, now and for evermore," he said, "is that the bushiest false whiskers on earth won't help you unless you can put on the authentic pride of whiskeredness. The hair has got to enter into your soul."

  He was working in front of the open bonnet of the lorry while he talked, rubbing a judicious blend of grease and grime into his hands and finger-nails and smearing artistic stains of it across his face. It seems a simple thing to write, and yet the bare truth of it is that when he turned round again he had literally annihilated Simon Templar—he was a German truckdriver, with a past and a present and a future and an aged aunt in Frankfort to whom he faithfully sent a card every Christmas.

  Monty Hayward was just securing the last button of his own overalls, and the Saint lugged him boisterously over and smudged his immaculate face and hands with half a dozen similarly rapid master-strokes.

  "Sit quiet and blow your nose on your sleeve occasionally," he said, "and we can't go wrong."

  He ran a hawk-like eye over the details of his protégé's at­tire; and then he grinned boyishly and smote Monty a deto­nating blow between the shoulder blades.

  "C'mon! Let's push these birds out of the way."

  They carried the two unconscious men into the wood and hid them in a thicket, after the Saint had bound and gagged them with strips of their own clothing. Simon's departing flour­ish was to pin a hundred-mark note to each of their shirt-fronts—the assault on their persons had been a regrettable ne­cessity, but it was one of those little debts which the Saint never forgot. And in the corner of each note he sketched the quaint little haloed figure which had been the signature of more rol­licking outrages than Scotland Yard could discuss in polite lan­guage. It was a long time since the Saint had last used that flippant symbol, and the chance appealed to him as an omen that could not be passed by.

  He returned jauntily to the road, and saw that Patricia and the Evening Gazette had already taken up their positions. Si­mon pulled up the starting handle and vaulted into the driv­ing seat.

  As they lumbered clangorously round the next bend a car that was speeding towards them swerved peremptorily across their path and stopped broadside on. An officer in field grey climbed out and marched authoritatively over to the Saint's side. The stamp of his commission was branded all over him, and the flap of his revolver holster was unstrapped and turned back into his belt.

  "Woher kommen Sie, bitte?" he demanded curtly; and the Saint drew a grubby hand across an even grubbier forehead.

  "Aus Ingolstadt, Herr Hauptmann."

  "So. Haben Sie auf diesem Wege nicht zwei Männer und eine Frau gesehen? Der grössere Mann trägt einen hellgrauen Anzug, die Frau ist ganz hübsch und gut gekleidet——"

  "Doch!"

  "Kolossal!" The officer whipped out a notebook and sig­nalled vehemently to his men. "Welche Richtung haben sie eingeschlagen?"

  Simon took one hand from the wheel and pointed back over the fields.

  "Sie sind soeben dort über die Wiesen gegangen. Ich be greife es jetzt noch immer nicht, doss ich das Mädchen nicht überfahren habe, denn sie ist mir gerade aus der Hecke unter die Vorderräder gelaufen ——"

  "Ihr Name?"

  "Franz Schneider."

  "Adresse?"

  "Nürnberg, Juliusstrasse, seibzehn."

  The police car rushed up alongside, and the officer stepped on the running board and called out a volley of instructions. He turned and shouted to Simon as the driver let in the clutch.

  "Wenn wir diese Verbrecher fangen, behommen Sie viel­leicht eine hohe Belohnung!"

  Simon slewed round in his seat and watched the police car vanishing in a cloud of dust.

  And then, very gravely, he leaned forward and engaged the gears. ...

  They had travelled less than a quarter of a mile up the road before Monty Hayward could contain himself no longer. He sat forward on his perch, that imperturbable and law-abiding gentleman, and flung the bruised fragments of his conscience over the horizon with a stentorian bellow of jubilation that drowned even the ear-splitting racket of the six-wheeler's en­trails.

  "Kolossal!" he bawled ecstatically. "Tremendous affair! They legged it over the fields, they did, and we nearly ran over one of them. Tally-ho! And if they're caught we may qualify for a reward. Yoi!" Monty let out another whoop of rhapsody that should have made the welkin turn pale. "Well, dear old sports­man and skipper—where shall we go and file our claim?"

  "Treuchtlingen is the next stop, dear old mate and bloke," said the Saint, raising his voice more modestly above the up­roar of the engine. "They must have kept Marcovitch there to get his statement, but the train wouldn't wait for him. He'll have to wait for another—and we might be in time to buy him a bouquet!"

  2

  The lorry crashed on to the northwest at a sonorous twenty-five miles an hour; and Simon Templar settled himself as com­fortably as he could on the hard seat and pondered the prob­lem of the two girls behind.

  He knew exactly what he had taken on, even if he refused to allow the knowledge to depress him. Hairbreadth odysseys had been made through hostile country before—by desperate men whose superlatively virile strength and speed and cunning kept them moving in a tireless rush that never let up until sanctuary was reached. He could remember no similar in­stance in which a woman had taken part. It had been tried often enough, and always it had been the woman who had proved the fugitive's undoing. Always it had been the woman's inferior wieldiness that had damped the spark of ruthless prim­itive momentum without which no such enterprise could ever succeed. It was she who negatived all the man's resources of strength and speed and left him with cunning as his only asset; and every time his wits had failed to carry the load.

  Simon Templar reckoned himself something unique in the way of outlaws, and his restless imagination was bearing around the handicap as optimistically as if it had been thrust upon him in a friendly game of hide-and-seek. One thing at least was certain, and that was that Patricia Holm couldn't ride into Treuchtlingen on the lorry. Quite apart from the risk that they might be stopped again and subjected to a search, the rare spectacle of a Bond Street three-piece crawling out from under the tarpaulin of a six-wheeler in the middle of the main street could scarcely escape attention. Marcovitch would doubtless have given a photographic description of her in which the musical-comedy American disguise that had sailed her through the barriers at Munich Hauptbahnhof must have received due credit; therefore it was time for something bright and new to be thought up, and the Saint drove with one eye on the road and the other questing for his opportunity.

  From time to time the gentle undulations of the scene gave him a vista of the Altmühl winding like a silver snake be­tween the meadows; and twelve miles farther on it was that same river which provided him with his solution. It caught his wandering eye through a girdle of trees that ringed round a sheltered fold in the broad valley, and if he had not been in Germany he might have believed for a moment that some sorcery had transported him into a pastoral of Ancient Greece. The glimpse lasted for less than a second, but it looked prom­ising enough. He ran the truck another hundred yards up the road, kicked it out of gear, and jumped lightly down to the tarmac.

  "Hold the fort for a minute, Monty," he said. "I've just seen a girl."

  Monty Hayward rolled over and grabbed the wheel. The elevation of his eyebrows was a five-furlong speech in itself.

  "You've just seen a what?" he blurted, and the Saint chuck­led.

  "A girl," said the Saint. "But she's much too nice for a mar­ried man like you."

  He flagged Monty a debonair au revoir, and slipped hope­fully off the road down a shallow bank that led round towards the hollow where he had seen his vision. It really was a very charming little scene; and in any other circumstances, not being afflicted with the Teutonic temperament, he could have waxed poetic over it for some time. It says much for his stern devotion to duty that he was back within ten minutes, sad­dened to think that the serpent
of Eden would probably have viewed such vandalism as his with loathing, but bringing with him nevertheless a large bundle which he tossed into Monty's arms before he climbed back into the cockpit.

  The lorry groaned in its intestines and moved on; and Monty Hayward gazed at the trophies on his lap and appeared to sigh.

  "You don't mean to say these are her clothes?" he croaked, and felt that the difficulty of making himself heard robbed the utterance of much of its delicacy.

  "I'm afraid they are," answered the Saint, with similar emo­tions. "And her girl friend's as well. You see, she wasn't using them. . . . And Greta was divine, Monty. It'd be worth taking up this Freikörperkultur just on the chance of meeting her again."

  Another three miles nearer Treuchtlingen, when he decided that they were temporarily safe from any immediate pursuit, he braked the lorry again beside a small spinney and hopped out. The road was clear; and he threw back the tarpaulins and lifted Patricia down to the grass verge. Nina Walden followed her unconcernedly, and the Saint reclaimed his booty and dumped it into Patricia's hands.

  "You two are going to be a couple of Wandervögel with great open faces," he said. "Take this stuff into the jungle and get on with it. The things you're wearing will go in the ruck­sacks. And don't carry on as if you were dressing to go to a dance—we can't stay here more than a week."

  His lady stared suspiciously at the collection of garments which he had thrust upon her.

  "But where did you get these things from?" she demanded; and Simon propelled her towards the coppice with a laugh.

  "Now don't waste time asking indiscreet questions. I found them lying in a field, and the actress never told the bishop a smoother one than that."

  He paced up and down beside the lorry, smoking a ciga­rette, while he waited for the girls to return. An open touring car jolted past with its springs labouring under the avoirdupois of a healthy Prussian commercial traveller and his Frau, but beyond that the prospect had no reason to complain that only man was vile. It was an almost miraculous stroke of for­tune for the Saint, and he rendered thanks accordingly. The accident which had enabled him to misdirect the pursuit had been a bonanza in itself: it meant that the plight of the truck's crew might not be discovered for several hours, and meantime the hue and cry would be spreading away at right angles to the course he was taking. The last place in which any policeman would expect to see him was Treuchtlingen—the very town from which the alarm had emanated. The hunt would be de­ploying westward to intercept him at the French frontier, but Simon Templar was not going that way.

  His cigarette had still half an inch to go when Patricia Holm emerged from the spinney and presented herself for his inspection.

  "If we've got the rest of a week to spare," she said blandly, "I think I might have a smoke too."

  Simon offered his packet. She had put on a brief leather skirt and a plain cotton jumper, and her legs were bare to the rawhide sandals. Her nose was definitely shiny, and the fair hair was pushed carelessly back from her forehead as if the wind had been rumpling it all day. She had even remembered to take off her gold wrist watch; and the Saint noted that touch with a slow smile of appreciation.

  "There isn't much more I can teach you, old Pat," he said.

  Nina Walden joined them a few moments later, and her garb was much the same. Simon showed her how to adjust the rucksack; and then he took her in his arms and kissed her heartily. For at least three seconds she was too thunderstruck to move, and then her voice returned.

  "Are you getting fresh?" she demanded huskily; and Simon Templar laughed.

  "I was just taking off some of your lipstick, darling. It's not being worn on great open faces these days, and it seemed a shame to mess up your hankie."

  He whirled expeditiously up to the cockpit and sat on the edge of it to give his orders, leaning over with one forearm on his knee and his eyes dancing.

  "You two'll have to make it on foot from here—it's under seven kilometres by the milestones, and you couldn't have a better day for a walk. Besides which, this lorry alibi mayn't last forever, and we don't all need to ride in one basket with the eggs. Go into Treuchtlingen and look for the station. Pat goes into the nearest Konditorei and buys herself a cup of chocolate to pass the time; Nina, you shunt into the Bahnhof and take a return ticket to Ansbach. Slide through the door marked Damen and make yourself at home. Change back into your ordinary clothes, wrap the other things into a parcel with some brown paper which you'll get on the way, wait till you hear the next train through, cross the line, and walk out the other side as if you owned the railroad—giving up the return half of your ticket. All clear so far?"

  "I think so," said the American girl slowly. "But what's it all for?"

  "I've got a job for you," said the Saint steadily. "You wanted the complete story of those crown jewels, and this is part of it. Your next move is the police station. You're a perfectly honest American journalist on vacation who's got wind of the at­tempted mail robbery and general commotion. We must know definitely what's happened to Marcovitch and his troupe of performing gorillas, and there's only one way to find out. Some­one's got to jazz into the lion's den—and ask."

  Simon looked down at her quietly; but the hell-for-leather twinkle was still dancing way down in his eyes. Sitting up there beside him, Monty Hayward began to understand the spell which the Saint must have woven around those cynical young freebooters of death who had followed him in the old days— the days which Monty Hayward knew only from hearsay and almost legendary record. He began to understand the fanatical loyalty which must have welded that little band together when they flung their quixotic defiance in the teeth of Law and Un­derworld alike, when every man's hand was against them and only the inspired devilry of their leader stood between them and the wrath of a drab civilization. And it came to Monty Hayward, that phlegmatic and unimpressionable man, in a sudden absurd flash of blind surrender, that if ever that little band should be gathered once more in the sound of the trumpet he would ask for no prouder fate than to be among their company. ...

  "I'm not asking you to do anything disreputable," said the Saint. "As a reporter, it's your job to get all the news; and if you happen to share some of it with a friend—well, who's going to lose their sleep?"

  "I should worry. But when do I get the rest of the story?"

  "When we've got it ourselves. I've promised you shall have it, and I shan't forget. But this has got to come first I told you I'd help you as much as you helped me. I wouldn't give you the run-around for worlds—I couldn't afford to. We need that piece of news. It's the one thing that'll lead us to the only cli­max that's any use to anyone. If we lose Marcovitch, I lose my crown jewels—and your story's up the pole. You're the only one who can save the game. You're a journalist—will you go on and journalize?"

  The others went still and silent in a heart-stopping moment of revelation. The preposterous surmise that had been tapping at the doors of their belief ever since the Saint began speaking burst in on them as an eternal fact. And with it came a real­ization of all that hung from the Saint's madness and that crazy instant of inspiration back in the woods by the railroad.

  The Saint had never been thinking of defeat. With the hunt hard behind him and a price on his head, when he should have been thinking of nothing but escape, he had still been able to play with a madcap idea that fortune had thrown into his path. There was something about it which stunned all logic and all questions—a sense of the joyously inevitable which swept every sane criticism aside. It stirred something in the heart which was beyond reach of reason, like the cheering of a thousand throats or the swing of a regiment moving as one man—something that was rooted in the core of all human impulse, a primeval passion of victory that lifted the head higher and sent the blood tingling through the veins. . . . And the Saint was almost laughing.

  "Will you try it?" he asked.

  And Nina Walden said, with her marvellous amethyst eyes full upon his: "I can do that for you—Saint."
<
br />   The Saint reached down and put out a brown hand.

  "Good girl. . . . And when you've got the dope, all you have to do is rustle back to the Konditorei where you left Pat. Monty and I will park the lorry and be around. We'll find you somewhere. And it'll be a swell story." He smiled. "And thanks, Nina," he said.

  The girl smiled back.

  Then the Saint spilled over into his seat. He caught Patricia up to him and kissed her on the lips. The six-wheeler's engine raced with a protesting scream, and the huge truck jolted on up the road.

  X. HOW SIMON TEMPLAR DISCOURSED ABOUT

  PROHIBITION, AND PATRICIA HOLM WALKED

  LIKE A PRINCESS

  SIMON drove the lorry clear through Treuchdingen and out the other side. Pressed hard on its elephantine second gear, it rumbled through the streets with a din that shook the town on its foundations, and several scores of the population turned away from their jobs with representative emotions to see it go. Simon Templar had no objection. That part of the journey was one of those master strokes of strategy which mul­tiplied in his fertile inventiveness like a colony of rabbits with their souls in the business. He had plenty of time to give it rein, and the system of tactics tickled his sense of fun. Two po­licemen had marked his noisy passage; and if the theft of the lorry were prematurely discovered their statements ought to give the pursuit a fresh start in the wrong direction. What­ever happened, Treuchtlingen would still be the last place on earth in which the hue and cry would search for them.