Enter the Saint (The Saint Series)

by Leslie Charteris

  Now he had to act on his own initiative.

  After a second’s indecision, Tremayne realized that there was only one thing to do. If Hayn and his men were already in the flat, he must just blind in and hope for the best; if they had not yet arrived, no harm would be done.

  He went straight into the building, and on the way up the stairs he met Hayn and two other men coming down. There was no time for deliberation or planning a move in advance.

  “You’re the birds I’m looking for,” Tremayne rapped, barring the way. “I’m Inspector Hancock, of Scotland Yard, and I shall arrest you—”

  So far he got before Hayn lashed out at him. Tremayne ducked, and the next instant there was an automatic in his hand.

  “Back up those stairs to the flat you’ve just left,” he ordered, and the three men retreated before the menace of his gun.

  They stopped at the door of the flat, and he told Hayn to ring. They waited.

  “There seems to be no reply,” said Hayn sardonically.

  “Ring again,” Tremayne directed grimly.

  Another minute passed.

  “There can’t really be anyone at home,” Hayn remarked.

  Tremayne’s eyes narrowed. It was something about the tone of Hayn’s sneering voice…

  “You swine!” said Tremayne through his teeth. “What have you done with her?”

  “With whom?” inquired Hayn blandly.

  “With Gwen Chandler!”

  Tremayne could have bitten his tongue off as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

  That fatal, thoughtless impetuosity which was always letting him down! He saw Hayn suddenly go tense, and knew that it was useless to try to bluff further.

  “So you’re a Saint!” said Hayn softly.

  “Yes, I am!” Tremayne let out recklessly. “And if you scabs don’t want me to plug you full of holes—”

  He had been concentrating on Hayn, the leader, and so he had not noticed the other men edging nearer. A hand snatched at his gun, and wrenched…As Dicky Tremayne swung his fist to the man’s jaw, Hayn dodged behind him and struck at the back of his head with a little rubber truncheon…

  12

  Jerry Stannard never understood how he managed to contain himself until one o’clock. Much less did he understand how he waited the further half-hour which he gave Dicky Tremayne for grace. Perhaps no other man in the world but Simon Templar could have inspired such a blind loyalty. The Saint was working some secret stratagem of his own, Stannard argued, and he had to meet Tremayne for reasons appertaining to the Saint’s tactics. In any case, if Gwen had left when she telephoned, he could not have reached the flat before she had gone—and then he might only have blundered into the police trap that she had tried to save him from.

  But it all connected up now—Gwen’s Laserre story, and what Stannard himself knew of Hayn, and more that he suspected—and the visions that it took only a little imagination to conjure up were dreadful.

  When half-past-one came, and there was still no sign of Tremayne, the suspense became intolerable. Stannard went to the telephone, and fruitlessly searched London over the wires for Simon Templar. He could learn nothing from any of the clubs or hotels or restaurants which he might have frequented, nor was he any more successful with his flat. As for Dicky Tremayne, Stannard did not even know him by sight—he had simply been told to leave his card with a page, and Tremayne would ask for him.

  It was after two o’clock by that time, and Tremayne had not arrived. He tried to ring up Gwen Chandler’s flat, but after an interminable period of ringing, the exchange reported, “No reply.”

  Jerry Stannard took a grip on himself. Perhaps that emergency was the making of him, the final consolidation of the process that had been started by the Saint, for Stannard had never been a fighting man. He had spoken the truth when he told Templar that his weakness was lack of “Guts.” But now he’d got to act. He didn’t know nearly everything about Hayn, but he knew enough not to want to leave Gwen Chandler with that versatile gentleman for a moment longer than was absolutely necessary. But if anything was going to be done, Stannard had got to do it himself.

  With a savage resolution, he telephoned to a garage where he was known. While he waited, he scribbled a note for Tremayne in which he described the whole series of events and stated his intentions. It was time wasted, but he was not to know that.

  When the car arrived, he dismissed the mechanic who had brought it round, and drove to Hurley. He knew how to handle cars—it was one of his few really useful accomplishments. And he sent the Buick blazing west with his foot flat down on the accelerator for practically every yard of the way.

  Even so, it was nearly five o’clock when he arrived there, and then he realized a difficulty. There were a lot of houses at Hurley, and he had no idea where Hayn’s house might be. Nor had the post office, nor the nearest police station.

  Stannard, in the circumstances, dared not press his inquiries too closely. The only hope left to him was that he might be able to glean some information from a villager, for he was forced to conclude that Hayn tenanted his country seat under another name. With this forlorn hope in view, he made his way to the Bell, and it was there that he met a surprising piece of good fortune.

  As he pulled up outside, a man came out, and the man hailed him.

  “Thank the Lord you’re here,” said Roger Conway without preface. “Come inside and have a drink.”

  “Who are you?” asked a mystified Jerry Stannard.

  “You don’t know me, but I know you,” answered the man. “I’m one of the Saint’s haloes.”

  He listened with a grave face to Stannard’s story.

  “There’s been a hitch somewhere,” he said, when Jerry had finished. “The Saint kept you in the dark because he was afraid your natural indignation might run away with you. Hayn had designs on your girlfriend—you might have guessed that. The Saint pinched a letter of Hayn’s to Chastel—Hayn’s man abroad—in which, among other things, Edgar described his plot for getting hold of Gwen. I suppose he wanted to be congratulated on his ingenuity. The rough idea was to plant some cocaine on Gwen in a present of powder and things from Laserre, fake a police raid, and pretend to square the police for her. Then, if she believed the police were after you and her—Hayn was banking on making her afraid that you were also involved—he thought it would be easy to get her away with him.”

  “And the Saint wasn’t doing anything to stop that?” demanded Jerry, white-lipped.

  “Half a minute! The Saint couldn’t attend to it himself, having other things to deal with, but he put Tremayne, the man you were supposed to have met at the Splendide, on the job. Tremayne was to get hold of Gwen before Hayn arrived, and tell her the story—we were assuming that you hadn’t told her anything—and then bring her along to the Splendide and join up with you. The two of you were then to take Gwen down by car to the Saint’s bungalow at Maidenhead and stay down there till the trouble had blown over.”

  The boy was gnawing his fingernails. He had had more time to think over the situation on the drive down, and Conway’s story had only confirmed his own deductions. The vista of consequences that it opened up was appalling.

  “What’s the Saint been doing all this time?”

  “That’s another longish story,” Conway answered. “He’d got Hayn’s cheque for five figures, and that made the risk bigger. There was only one way to settle it.”

  Roger Conway briefly described the Saint’s employing of the four spoof Cherubs. “After that was found out, Simon reckoned Hayn would think the gang business was all bluff, and he’d calculate there was only the Saint against himself. Therefore he wouldn’t be afraid to try on his scheme about Gwen, even though he knew the Saint knew it, because the Saint was going to be out of the way. Anyhow, Hayn’s choice was between getting rid of the Saint and going to prison, and we could guess which he’d try first. The Saint had figured out that Hayn wouldn’t simply try a quick assassination, because it wouldn’t h
elp him to be wanted for murder. There had got to be a murder, of course, but it would have to be well planned. So the Saint guessed he’d be kidnapped first and taken away to some quiet spot to be done in, and he decided to play stalking-horse. He did that because if Hayn were arrested, his cheques would be stopped automatically, so Hayn had got to be kept busy till tomorrow morning. I was watching outside the Saint’s flat in a fast car last night, as I’d been detailed to do, in case of accidents. The Saint was going to make a fight of it. But they got him somehow—I saw him taken out to a car they had waiting—and I followed down here. Tremayne was to be waiting at the Splendide for a phone call from me at two o’clock. I’ve been trying to get him ever since, and you as well, touring London over the toll line, and it’s cost a small fortune. And I didn’t dare to go back to London, because of leaving the Saint here. That’s why I’m damned glad you’ve turned up.”

  “But why haven’t you told the police?”

  “Simon’d never forgive me. He’s out to make the Saint the terror of the Underworld, and he won’t do that by simply giving information to Scotland Yard. The idea of the gang is to punish people suitably before handing them over to the law, and our success over Hayn depends on sending five figures of his money to charity. I know it’s a terrible risk. The Saint may have been killed already. But he knew what he was doing. We were ordered not to interfere and the Saint’s the head man in this show.”

  Stannard sprang up.

  “But Hayn’s got Gwen!” he half sobbed. “Roger, we can’t hang about, not for anything, while Gwen’s—”

  “We aren’t hanging about any longer,” said Roger quietly.

  His hand fell with a firm grip on Jerry Stannard’s arm, and the youngster steadied up. Conway led him to the window of the smoke-room, and pointed.

  “You can just see the roof of the house, over there,” he said. “Since last night, Hayn’s gone back, to London, and his car came by again about two hours ago. I couldn’t see who was in it, but it must have been Gwen. Now—”

  He broke off suddenly. In the silence, the drone of a powerful car could be heard approaching. Then the car itself whirled by at speed, but it did not pass too quickly for Roger Conway to glimpse the men who rode in it.

  “Hayn and Braddon in the back with Dicky Tremayne between them!” he said tensely.

  He was in time to catch Stannard by the arm as the boy broke away wildly.

  “What the blazes are you stampeding for?” he snapped. “Do you want to go charging madly in and let Hayn rope you in, too?”

  “We can’t wait!” Stannard panted, struggling.

  Conway thrust him roughly into a chair and stood over him. The boy was as helpless as a child in Conway’s hands.

  “You keep your head and listen to me!” Roger commanded sharply. “We’ll have another drink and tackle this sensibly. And I’m going to see that you wolf a couple of sandwiches before you do anything. You’ve been in a panic for hours, with no lunch, and you look about all in. I want you to be useful.”

  “If we phone the police—”

  “Nothing doing!”

  Roger Conway’s contradiction ripped out almost automatically, for he was not the Saint’s right-hand man for nothing. He had learnt the secret of the perfect lieutenant, which is the secret of, in any emergency, divining at once what your superior officer would want you to do.

  It was no use simply skinning out any old how—the emergency had got to be dealt with in a way that would dovetail in with the Saint’s general plan of campaign.

  “The police are our last resort,” he said. “We’ll see if the two of us can’t fix this alone. Leave this to me.”

  He ordered a brace of stiff whiskies and a pile of sandwiches, and while these were being brought he wrote a letter which he sealed. Then he went in search of the proprietor, whom he knew of old, and gave him the letter.

  “If I’m not here to claim that in two hours,” he said, “I want you to open it and telephone what’s inside to Scotland Yard. Will you do that for me, as a great favour, and ask no questions?”

  The landlord agreed, somewhat perplexedly.

  “Is it a joke?” he asked good humouredly.

  “It may grow into one,” Roger Conway replied. “But I give you my word of honour that if I’m not back at eight o’clock, and that message isn’t opened and phoned punctually, the consequences may include some of the most un-funny things that ever happened!”

  13

  The Saint had slept. As soon as they had arrived at the house at Hurley (he knew it was Hurley, for he had travelled that road many times over the course of several summers) he had been pushed into a bare-furnished bedroom and left to his own devices. These were not numerous, for the ropes had not been taken off his wrists.

  A short tour of inspection of the room had shown that, in the circumstances, it formed an effective prison. The window, besides being shuttered, was closely barred; the door was of three-inch oak, and the key had been taken away after it had been locked. For weapons with which to attack either window or door there was the choice of a light table, a wooden chair, or a bedpost. The Saint might have employed any of these, after cutting himself free—for they had quite overlooked, in the search to which he had been subjected, the little knife strapped to his calf under his sock—but he judged that the time was not yet ripe for any such drastic action. Besides, he was tired; he saw strenuous times ahead of him, and he believed in husbanding his energies. Therefore, he had settled down on the bed for a good night’s rest, making himself as comfortable as a man can when his hands are tied behind his back, and it had not been long before he had fallen into an untroubled sleep. It had struck him, drowsily, as being the most natural thing to do.

  Glints of sunlight were stabbing through the interstices of the shutters when he was awakened by the sound of his door opening. He rolled over, opening one eye, and saw two men enter. One carried a tray of food, and the other carried a club. This concession to the respect in which the gang held him, even when bound and helpless, afforded the Saint infinite amusement.

  “This is sweet of you,” he said, and indeed he thought it was, for he had not expected such a consideration, and he was feeling hungry. “But, my angels of mercy,” he said, “I can’t eat like this.”

  They sat him down in a chair and tied his ankles to the legs of it, and then the cords were taken off his wrists and he was able to stretch his cramped arms. They watched him eat, standing by the door, and the cheerful comments with which he sought to enliven the meal went unanswered. But a request for the time evoked the surly information that it was past one o’clock.

  When he had finished, one of the men fastened his hands again, while the other stood by with his bludgeon at the ready. Then they untied his ankles and left him, taking the tray with them. The searchers had also left him his cigarette-case and matches, and with some agility and a system of extraordinary contortions the Saint managed to get a cigarette into his mouth and light it. This feat of double-jointed juggling kept him entertained for about twenty minutes, but as the afternoon wore on he developed, in practice, a positively brilliant dexterity. He had nothing else to do.

  His chief feeling was one of boredom, and he soon ceased to find any enjoyment in wondering how Dick Tremayne had fared in Bayswater. By five o’clock he was yawning almost continuously, having thought out seventeen original and foolproof methods of swindling swindlers without coming within reach of the law, and this and similar exercises of ingenuity were giving him no more kick at all.

  He would have been a lot more comfortable if his hands had not been bound, but he decided not to release himself until there was good cause for it. The Saint knew the tactical advantage of keeping a card up his sleeve.

  The room, without any noticeable means of ventilation, was growing hotter and stuffier, and the cigarettes he was smoking were not improving matters. Regretfully, the Saint resigned himself to giving up that pleasure and composed himself on the bed again. Some time before, he
had heard a car humming up the short drive, and he was hazily looking forward to Hayn’s return and the renewed interest that it would bring. But the heaviness of the atmosphere did not conduce to mental alertness. The Saint found himself dozing…

  For the second time, it was the sound of his door opening that roused him, and he blinked his eyes open with a sigh.

  It was Edgar Hayn who came in. Physically he was in much worse case than the Saint, for he had had no sleep at all since the Friday night, and his mind had been much less carefree. His tiredness showed in the pallor of his face and the bruise-like puffiness of his eyes, but he had the air of one who feels himself the master of a situation.

  “Evening,” murmured Simon politely.

  Hayn came over to the bedside, his lips drawn back in an unlovely smile.

  “Still feeling bumptious, Templar?” he asked.

  “Ain’t misbehavin’,” answered the Saint winningly. “I’m savin’ my love for you.”

  The man who had held the bludgeon at lunch stood in the doorway. Hayn stood aside and beckoned him in.

  “There are some friends of yours downstairs,” said Hayn. “I should like to have you all together.”

  “I should be charmed to oblige you—as the actress said to the bishop,” replied the Saint.

  And he wondered whom Hayn could be referring to, but he showed nothing of the chill of uneasiness that had leaped at him for an instant like an Arctic wind.

  He was not left long in doubt.

  The bludgeon merchant jerked him to his feet and marched him down the corridor and down the stairs, Hayn bringing up the rear. The door of a room opening off the hall stood ajar, and from within came a murmur of voices which faded into stillness as their footsteps were heard approaching. Then the door was kicked wide, and the Saint was thrust into the room.

  Gwen Chandler was there—he saw her at once. There were also three men whom he knew, and one of them was a dishevelled Dicky Tremayne.