The Saint's Getaway (The Saint Series)

by Leslie Charteris

  A dead strand of creeper snapped under his weight, and for one vertiginous instant he pendulumed over the yawning jaws of death by the fingers of his left hand. Looking down into the Stygian chasm as he swung there, he sighted a nebulous shaft of luminance just underneath his feet, and knew that he was only a few inches from his goal. He snatched at a fresh hand-hold, warped himself neatly sideways, and went on. A moment later he was steadying his toes on the broad sill of the open window and peeping into the room.

  In a high-backed, carved-oak chair, at one end of a long oak table placed in the geometric centre of a luxuriously furnished library, sat the prince. A thin jade cigarette holder was clamped between his teeth, and he was sketching an intricate pattern on the table with a slim gold pencil. At the opposite end of the table, a big flabbily-built man sat in an identical chair: he was clothed only in his trousers and shirt, and his bare wrists were locked to the arms of the chair by shining metal clamps. And the Saint saw with a dumb thrill of horror that his head was completely enclosed in a spherical framework of gleaming steel.

  The prince was speaking in German.

  “You must understand, my dear Herr Krauss, that I never allow misguided stubbornness to interfere with my plans. To me, you are nothing but a tool that has served its purpose. I have only one more use for you: to open this little box. That must be a very small service for you to do for me, and yet you can console yourself with the thought that it will be an exceedingly valuable one. It will relieve me of the trouble and delay of having it opened by force, and it will save you an indefinite amount of physical discomfort. Surely you will see that it is absurd to refuse.”

  The other twisted impotently in his chair. There was a trickle of blood running down his arm where one of the clamps which held him had cut into the flesh.

  “You devil! Is this what you did to Weissmann?”

  “That was not necessary. The egregious Emilio—you remember Emilio?—was careless enough to kill him. Weissmann had actually reached Innsbruck when the police waylaid him. He was rescued, curiously enough, by a young friend of mine—an Englishman who used to be extremely clever. Fortunately for us, his powers are declining very early in life, and it was a comparatively simple matter for me to retrieve your property. You should visit my young friend one day—you will find that you have much in common. When a once brilliant man is passing into his second childhood, it must be a great relief to be able to exchange sympathy with another who is undergoing the same unenviable experience.”

  The prisoner leaned forward rigidly.

  “One day,” he said huskily, “I will make you sneer with another face. One day when you have learned that the old fox can still be the master of the young jackal—”

  Prince Rudolf snapped his fingers.

  “These ‘one days,’ my friend! How often have I listened to prophecies of what the cheated fox would do ‘one day’! And it is a day which never comes. No, Herr Krauss—let us confine ourselves to the present, which is so much less speculative. You have been very useful to me—unwittingly, I know, but I appreciate your kindness just the same. I appreciate it so much that the most superficial courtesy on your part would induce me to let you leave this castle alive—after you have performed me this one service. I could even forgive your threats and insults, which have done me no great harm. I have no profound desire to injure you. Your dead body would only be an encumbrance, and even the mild form of persuasion which you have compelled me to apply does not amuse me—the noise you make is so distressing. So let us have no more delays. Do what I ask you—”

  “Du—du Schweinhund!” The tortured man’s voice rose to a tremulous whine. “You will have to wait longer than this—”

  “My dear Herr Krauss, I have already waited long enough. Your plot to obtain the contents of this box was known to me three months ago. At first I was annoyed. I regret to say that for a time I even contemplated the advantages of your meeting with a fatal accident. And then I devised this infinitely better scheme. Since we both coveted the same prize, I would retire gracefully. You should have the field to yourself. Your own renowned cunning and audacity should pull the chestnuts out of the fire. It was sufficient for me to stand back and admire your workmanship. And then, when your organisation had obtained the prize, and it had been successfully smuggled across Europe to where you were waiting to receive it—when all the work had been done and all the risks had been survived—why, then it would be quite early enough for any accidents to happen. That was the plan I adopted, and it has been rewarded as it deserved to be.” The prince removed the cigarette holder from his mouth, and tapped the ash from it with an elegant forefinger. “Only one obstacle now detains us: the secret of the combination which keeps our prize inside this rather cumbersome box which I really do not require. And that secret, I am sure, you will not hesitate to share with me.”

  “Never!” gasped the man in the opposite chair throatily. “I would die first—”

  “On the contrary,” said the prince calmly, “you would not die till afterwards. But that eventuality need not concern us. In order to refresh your memory, we will let Fritz turn the little screw again.”

  He signed to the man who stood behind the other’s chair, and leaned back at his ease, lighting another cigarette. His face was absolutely barren of expression, and his unblinking eyes were fixed upon his captive with the dispassionate relentlessness of frozen agates. As the man Fritz took hold of the steel cage which encircled the prisoner’s head, the prince raised one hand.

  “Or perhaps,” he suggested smoothly, “the redoubtable Herr Krauss would like to change his mind.”

  The prisoner’s breath came through his teeth in a sharp hiss. The knuckles showed white and tense on his clenched hands.

  “Nein.”

  The prince shrugged.

  Watching half-hypnotised through the window, Simon Templar saw Krauss stiffen in his chair as the screw control of that foul instrument was slowly tightened. A low groan broke from the man’s lips, and his heel kicked spasmodically against the table. The prince never moved.

  Simon struggled to fight free from the trance of horrible fascination that held him spellbound. He pulled himself further on to the sill, slipping the automatic from his pocket, and felt his temples throbbing. And then the prince raised his hand again.

  “Does your memory return, my dear Herr Krauss?”

  The other shook his head slowly, as if he had to call on all his forces to find strength to make the movement.

  “Nein.”

  The whisper was so low that the Saint could scarcely hear it. And the prince smiled, without the slightest symptom of impatience. He sat forward and pushed the strong-box along the table, and then he leaned back in his chair and replaced the cigarette holder in his mouth.

  “You will find the box within your reach as soon as you are ready for it,” he said benevolently. “You have only to say the word, and Fritz will release one of your hands. I should prefer you to do the actual opening, in case the lock should hold some unpleasant surprise for the unpractised operator. And directly the box is open you will be free to go.”

  Again the man Fritz twisted the screw, and suddenly that dreadful cry of agony rang out again.

  The Saint gritted his teeth and balanced himself squarely on the sill. Ordinary methods of “persuasion” he could understand; they were part of the grim game, and always would be, but to stand by in cold blood and watch the relentless tightening of that ghoulish machine was more than he could stomach. His finger tightened on the trigger, and he sighted the prince’s face through a red haze.

  And then he saw the man Fritz step up quickly round from the control screw, and Krauss’s hand clawed tremblingly at the box on the table. He was fumbling frantically with the wheels of the combination, and his shrieking had died down to a ghastly moaning noise. While the Saint hesitated, the box sprang open with a click, and then Simon vaulted into the room.

  The man Fritz spun round with an oath and stepped towards him,
and with a feeling akin to holy joy the Saint shot him in the stomach and watched him crumple to the floor.

  Then he faced round.

  “I should keep very still, if I were you, Rudolf,” he stated metallically. “Otherwise you might go the same way home.”

  The prince had risen to his feet. He stood there without the flicker of an eyelid while the Saint sidled round the table towards Krauss, who had fallen limply sideways in his chair, and the smoke went up from the long jade holder in a thin blue line that never wavered.

  Simon found the control wheel of that diabolical mechanism and unscrewed it till it fell out of its socket.

  “I assure you, my dear Mr Templar,” said the prince’s satiny voice, “the device is really most humane. There is no lasting injury inflicted—”

  “Is that so?” Simon clipped his answer out of a mouth like a steel trap. “I thought it looked interesting. The opportunity of experimenting with it on the inventor is almost too good to miss, isn’t it?”

  The prince smiled.

  “Was that the object of your visit?”

  “It was not, Rudolf—as you know. But maybe you’re right. Business is business, as the actress was always having to remind the bishop, and pleasure must come second.” A ray of carefree mockery came back into the Saint’s inclement gaze. “What a jolly chat you’ll be able to have with Comrade Krauss after I’ve gone, won’t you? You will find that you have much in common. When a once brilliant man is passing into his second childhood, it must be a great relief to be able to exchange sympathy with another who is undergoing the same unenviable experience—mustn’t it?”

  The prince inhaled slowly from his cigarette.

  “I did not know you spoke German, Mr Templar,” he remarked.

  “Ah, but there are so many things one never knows till it’s too late,” murmured the Saint kindly. “For instance, you never knew that I’d be listening in to your dramatic little scene, did you? And yet there I was, perching outside your window with the dickey-birds and soaking up knowledge with both tonsils…Well, well, well! ‘We all have our ups and downs,’ as the bishop philosophically observed when the bull caught him in the thin part of the pants.”

  “I think I owe you an apology,” said the prince quietly. “I underrated your abilities—it is a mistake I have made before.”

  Simon beamed at him.

  “But it was so obvious, wasn’t it? There was I with that bonny little box of boodle, and no means of opening it. And there were you announcing yourself as the guy who could open it or get it opened. At first I was annoyed. I regret to say that for a time I even contemplated the advantages of your meeting with a fatal accident. Since we both coveted the same prize—”

  “Spare me,” said the prince, with faint irony. “The point is already clear.”

  The Saint glanced whimsically at the open strong-box. Then his gaze flicked cavalierly back to the prince’s face.

  “Should I say—thank you?”

  Their eyes clashed like crossed rapiers. Each of them knew the emotions that were scorching through the other’s mind; neither of them betrayed one scantling of his own thoughts or feelings. The barrage of intangible steel seethed up between them in an interval of tautening silence…And then the prince looked down at the glowing end of his cigarette.

  “Your half-charged cartridges are very useful, Mr Templar. But suppose I were to cry out—you would gain nothing by killing me—”

  “I don’t know. I should gain nothing by not killing you. And you’d look rather funny if you suddenly felt a piece of lead taking a walk through your appendix. It’s that element of doubt, Rudolf, which is so discouraging.”

  The prince nodded.

  “The psychology of these situations has always interested me,” he said conversationally.

  He had picked the stub of cigarette out of his holder, and the movement he made was so smooth and natural, so perfectly timed, that even Simon Templar was deceived. The prince was reaching languidly for the ash-tray while he spoke…and then his hand shot past its mark. The lid of the open strong-box fell with a slam, and the prince was smiling.

  “By the way,” he said coolly, “my appendix is in Budapest.”

  He must have known that his life hung by a hair, but not a muscle of his face flinched. There was sudden death in the Saint’s eyes, cold murder in the tenseness of his trigger finger, but the prince might have been talking polite trivialities at an Embassy reception…And suddenly the Saint laughed. He couldn’t help it. That exhibition of petrified nerve was the most breathtaking thing he had ever witnessed. He laughed, and scooped in the box with his left hand.

  “Some day you’ll sit on an iceberg and boil,” he predicted flintily. “But you don’t want to take another chance like that this evening, sweetheart. Get back against that wall and put your hands up!”

  The prince obeyed unhurriedly. With his back to a bookcase and the Saint’s gun focusing on his waistline, he spoke in the same passionless tone, “My humane little invention is still at your disposal, my dear Mr Templar. What a pity it is that it fails to meet with your approval…”

  “Believe me,” said the Saint.

  He hooked a chair round with his foot, and drew the telephone towards him. With one elbow propped on the table, and the strong-box parked alongside, he slid one eye on to the combination panel and kept the prince skewered on the other.

  “Innsbruck achtundzwanzig neun dreizehn.”

  The number clacked back at him from the receiver. And a great wide grin of pure beatitude was deploying itself round his inside. Even Rudolf could still make his mistakes, and it seemed to Simon that the exchange of errors was piling itself up beautifully on the side of righteousness and the Public School Code. But for once he deliberately chose to let the opportunity of chirruping go by.

  And then he was through to his own suite at the Königshof.

  “Hullo, Pat, old angel? How’s the world?…Where have I been? Oh, toddling here and there. Wonderful amount of Alp there is in Austria. The place is simply bulging with it…Well, don’t rush me. I’ve been touring the great open spaces, Pat, where men are men and women wear flannel next the skin. Rudolf has been doing the honours. But that’ll keep. Shoot me the news from home, old darling…Whassat?…Well, I will be teetotal and let it snow!”

  His forehead was crinkling as he listened, while the receiver rattled and spluttered with a recital that began by making his hair stand on end. For fully five minutes his granitic silence was punctuated only by an infrequent monosyllable that sizzled into the transmitter like a splinter of hot quartz.

  And then, as the tale went on, he began to smile. His interruptions wafted through the air on a breath of inward laughter. And the concluding sentence of the story fetched him half out of his chair.

  “Did you say that?…Oh, Pat, my precious cherub—get me that scaly humbug on the wire!”

  He looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes to five, with barely an hour to go before dawn. Then another familiar accent answered him.

  “H’lo, Monty!” The Saint’s voice was sparkling. “So you’re the man who wanted to be good!…Well, I’ve got something here for you to take back to the Bible class. You couldn’t have arranged it better. This is Simon Templar speaking from a Grade A schloss with whiskers on its chest, and he also feels the emigrating urge. Your job is to push out and freeze on to the fastest automobile you can get your fists on, and meet me on the road to Jenbach. All I’ve got here is the second worst car in Europe, but I ought to get that far. Now jump to it—”

  The Saint’s gun cracked. He was a second late—his bullet split a thick wedge of wood out of the angle of the dummy bookcase that was closing behind the prince, and then the hidden door had slammed back into place. He heard Monty’s sharp question, and laughed shortly.

  “That was Rudolf on his way, and I missed him. Don’t worry—travel!”

  He dropped the receiver on its hook, and stood up. The strong-box fitted bulkily into his poaching pock
et. He darted out into the empty passage, and saw another room on the other side. From the window he could locate an eighteen-inch ledge of stone running just beneath it. He swung himself over the sill and went two-stepping along the brink of sticky death.

  CHAPTER FOUR:

  HOW MONTY HAYWARD CARRIED ON

  1

  The apotheosis of Monty Hayward did not actually trouble the attention of the Recording Angel until some time after the Saint had catapulted himself through the open windows and batted off into space on his own business.

  Displaying remarkable agility for a man of his impregnable sang-froid, Monty Hayward possessed himself of the weapon which had fallen from the disabled gunman’s hand, seized its badly winded owner by the collar and lugged him vigorously into the sitting-room, where the lights were still functioning. There he proceeded methodically to handicap the wounded warrior’s recovery by dragging up a massive Chesterfield and laying it gently on the wounded warrior’s bosom. Then he lighted a cigarette and looked gloomily at Patricia, who had followed him in.

  “Why don’t you scream or something?” he asked morosely. “It would help to relieve my feelings.”

  The girl laughed.

  “Wouldn’t it be more useful to do something about Ethelbert?”

  “What—this nasty piece of work?” Monty glanced down at the gunman, whose groans were becoming a fraction less heart-rending as his paralysed respiratory organs creaked painfully back towards normal. “I suppose it might be. What shall we do—shoot him?”