The taxi driver lurched forward.
“You’re crazy!” he growled. “I recognised ’er as soon as she came out…” He swung Patricia round and stared into her face with the light full on it, and then he swore savagely. “God, it isn’t! But it’s just like ’er. I never sore ’er in a light like this—”
Ferret Eyes stiffened, and swore also, more fluently. His grip on the girl’s arm tightened.
“Well, who is she?” he rasped. “She knows what it’s about—she was gabbing about the money as if she knew everything!”
The man behind the torch reached out a claw-like hand and seized Patricia’s bag. He opened it. The card she had given to Beatrice Avery was not the only one. She could feel him staring from the card to her face in the silence that followed.
“Patricia Holm!” said the man in the darkness, with a dry sandy grit in his voice. “That’s who she is. A fine pair of saps you’ve turned out to be!” His voice quivered with rising fury. “No wonder she fooled you! Don’t you know who she is? Haven’t you ever heard of the Saint?”
There was a silence that descended like a fog. It seemed to throb and vibrate through the cellar, filling it with a choking stillness broken only by the heavy breathing of the three men. It was something, Patricia reflected wryly, to know that the Saint’s name alone was capable of creating such panic. At the moment it was about the only asset she had.
“You know what he’ll say when he finds out that your blasted blundering has brought the Saint down on us!” snapped the man behind the torch. “You’d better do something about it. I’ll hold this girl here. You two get straight out and go after Templar. And get him before he gets you. Understand? Don’t come back until you’ve got him!”
“Why bother?” drawled a voice that cut through the air like the thrust of a rapier blade.
“I’ve already invited myself. And just which of you is planning to be the hero?”
Three gasps sounded in unison, and the beam of the electric flashlight jerked round as if it had been snatched by an invisible wire. On the mouldering stairs stood the Saint, immaculate and deadly.
4
The gun in Simon Templar’s hand circled leisurely over the three male occupants of the cellar in a generous expansiveness of invitation. The man who had been doing the talking was still only a vague shape behind the dazzling bulb of his electric torch, but the Saint’s uncanny eyes pierced the screen of light enough to see the unoccupied hand which reached round towards a hip pocket.
“That’s only one of the many ways of dying, brother,” said the Saint instructively. “But of course, you can make your own choice…”
The hipwards movement of the hand was arrested, and at the same moment the man switched off his torch. He was disappointed, however, in assuming that this would result in a decrease in the cellar’s illumination. The general lighting effect was not only doubled, but he himself stood in the direct glare of a miniature searchlight. The Saint had decided that it was time to take full stock of the situation, and his own flashlight was even better than the one that had gone out.
The man who had stood concealed behind the light was a disappointment. His appearance, after the crisp and authoritative tone of his voice, came as a considerable shock. He was a small, skinny bird of about forty, extraordinarily neatly dressed, his ornamentations including a waisted overcoat and fawn spats. His face was small-featured, with sandy eyebrows just visible over the tops of his highly respectable gold-rimmed pince-nez. His nose and mouth were small, and his chin, after a half-hearted attempt to establish itself, drifted away to hide itself shyly in his neck.
“You ought to be more careful, Andy,” Simon admonished him. “Take that gun out of your pocket if you like, but spread it out on the floor where we can all feast our eyes on it.”
“My name is not Andy,” said the chinless man.
“No? Except for the eye-gear and the spats, you look exactly like Andy Gump,” answered the Saint. “Pat, old darling, if you can spare a moment you might build up our collection of artillery.”
Not one of the men attempted to move. They knew the Saint’s reputation, and they had an earnest and unanimous desire to continue living. Behind the bantering cadence of the Saint’s voice there was a glacial chill that converted the cellar into a refrigerator. His gun was extremely visible, too, and the lean brown fingers that held it had a lively quality that made them look as if they would just as soon start squeezing as keep still.
Patricia relieved the clerkly-looking Mr Gump of his gun, and Ferret Eyes threw his own weapon on the floor before she could even turn to him.
“I ain’t got no pistol, Miss, swelp me I ain’t,” swore the taxi driver hoarsely.
She believed him, but she patted his pockets just the same. And Simon descended the stairs.
“Now, boys, you can line yourselves up against that wall over there,” he said, with an indicative flick of his gun muzzle.
“And don’t forget where you are…Pat, you take this heater and stand well to the side. Here’s the torch, too, and keep the light nicely steady…It will interest you birds to know,” he added, for the benefit of the obedient trio, “that the lady can hit a microbe’s eye at fifty yards. If you don’t believe me, you only have to bring on your microbes.”
He took Mr Gump’s gun from Patricia and picked up Ferret Eyes’s weapon from the floor; then he swiftly examined both and thrust them into his pocket. From another pocket he produced a second automatic of his own. He never trusted strange weapons. Holding his gun with careless ease, he briefly inspected the taxi driver and Ferret Eyes; he was not particularly interested in either of them, since they definitely came within the dull category of small fry. Mr Gump, however, was probably very close to the Z-Man. Mr Gump needed careful investigation. He looked very meek and inoffensive as the Saint started going through his pockets—except, perhaps, for the snake-like glitter in his eyes behind the gold-rimmed pince-nez—a glitter which belied the disarming weakness of his chin.
And suddenly Mr Gump gave a demonstration which proved him to be either a very rash fool or a very brave man. As Simon Templar was in the act of insinuating a brown hand into Mr Gump’s breast pocket, a knee shot up and dug itself into the lower region of his stomach. With a simultaneous cohesion of movement, Mr Gump grabbed at the Saint’s gun and tore it out of Simon’s relaxed fingers. In another instant the muzzle was jammed hard against Simon’s chest with Mr Gump’s finger on the trigger.
“Drop that gun, Miss Holm, or your friend becomes an angel instead of a Saint,” said Mr Gump.
Patricia made no movement. Nobody made any movement. And the Saint chuckled.
“That was careless of me, brother—but not so careless as you think,” he murmured. “That gun’s the one I didn’t load.”
He raised his hand almost casually and took hold of Mr Gump’s small nose. He gripped it very hard between his finger and thumb, and twisted it.
Click!
Mr Gump pulled the trigger in a flurry of blind fury and extreme anguish. And that empty click! was the only result. He pulled again, and nothing happened. Nothing, that is, except that the agonising torque on his sensitive nose increased. He let out a strangled squeal and dropped his useless weapon, and at the same time the Saint released his grip.
“I told you it wasn’t loaded,” said the Saint, picking up the automatic by the trigger-guard and dropping it into his pocket. “I think I’d better use your gun, Andy. But don’t try any more tricks like that, or I might really have to hurt you.”
Mr Gump did not reply; except for the baleful glitter in his streaming eyes he seemed unmoved. Patricia, who knew the Saint’s twisted sense of humour better than anybody, wondered why he had wasted time by amusing himself so childishly at Mr Gump’s expense. There must have been a reason somewhere; for Simon Templar never did strange things without a reason, and it was invariably a good one. It was noticeable that he held the new gun, which was loaded with death, in such a way that Mr Gump would nev
er have a chance of grabbing it.
“So we collect pretty pictures, do we?”
The Saint’s voice held nothing but tolerant amusement as he inspected four glossy photographs of feminine pulchritude which he had abstracted from Mr Gump’s breast pocket.
“Why not?” said the other defensively. “I’m a film fan.”
“Brother, you certainly know how to pick winners,” commented the Saint. “This young lady in the voluminous mid-Victorian attire, complete with bustle, is undoubtedly Miss Beatrice Avery, shining star of Triumph Film Productions Limited. Very charming. Of course, it’s her you thought you were snatching tonight. Number Two, in the exotic Eastern outfit, is the lovely Irene Cromwell, under contract with Pyramid Pictures. We could use her, Andy. Number Three, in the dinky, abbreviated beach-suit, is no less a person than Sheila Ireland, now starring with Summit Picture Corporation. I can see I shall have to get out my old water-wings. And Number Four—” He paused, and his eyes hardened. “Very sad about Number Four, don’t you think, Andy? A couple of months ago Miss Mercia Landon was doing the final scenes of her new film for Atlantic Studios. A couple of months ago…And now?”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” said Mr Gump woodenly.
“If you don’t, the Z-Man is very careless in choosing his assistants,” answered the Saint.
“What the hell do you mean?” stammered the chinless man, his inward alarm crashing suddenly through the veneer of calm which he had tried to preserve. “There’s no harm in my carrying those photographs. Anybody can get them. I’m a film fan—”
“So you told me,” agreed the Saint, slipping the photographs into his own pocket. “And a kidnapper in your spare time, too, by the looks of it,” he added casually. “Well, I may as well see what the rest of your hobbies are, although I’m not likely to find anything half so interesting as your favourite film stars.”
He put a cigarette into his mouth, lighted it with a match which he sprung into flame with his thumb-nail, and set it at a rakish angle. If the men before him had known him better they would have sweated with fear; for that rakish slant was an infallible sign that something was going to happen and that he was personally going to start it. Patricia felt her heart beating a shade faster. Except for that one danger signal there was nothing to give her a clue to what was in his mind.
He completed the search, finding cigarettes, matches, money, keys, and all the usual contents of an average man’s pockets, but nothing to reveal Mr Gump’s real identity, and nothing to connect him with the mysterious Z-Man. Even the tailor’s label inside his breast pocket had been removed.
“Well, gents, we can call it an evening.” The Saint waved his gun muzzle gently over the three men. “Pat, old thing, sling me the torch and then get up to the garage. We’ve finished here.”
She obeyed at once, and a moment later Simon himself was backing up the stairs, keeping his flashlight flooding downwards. As soon as he reached the top he swung the door to and fastened it. It was not a good door. There were cracks in it, the hinges were old and rusted, and the lock had long since ceased to function, but the Saint overcame these trifling drawbacks by the simple expedient of propping three or four heavy wooden stakes against the door. Since it opened outwards, the three musketeers would have to work for some time before they could make their escape.
“We have been having a lot of luck lately, haven’t we?” Patricia remarked philosophically.
“Have I grumbled?” asked the Saint, making no attempt to lower his voice—and, indeed, speaking quite close to the barricaded cellar door. “We’re going to shoot off to Parkside Court now, old dear, and warn Beatrice Avery that she’d better be packing. After what happened to you, it’s pretty obvious that the ungodly are likely to put in some fast work, and we’re going to be just one move ahead of them. If necessary we’ll take the fair Beatrice away by force.”
“Why didn’t you question those fellows about the Z-Man?”
“They wouldn’t have come through with a syllable unless I’d beaten it out of them, and I’m not in one of my torturing moods this evening,” answered Simon. “Don’t worry about the Three Little Pigs—it’ll take them about an hour to get out, and I doubt if they’ll go after Beatrice again tonight, anyway. Ready, darling?”
While he spoke he had been flashing his torch about the garage. There was a telephone in one corner, and this interested him for a moment, but a few odd potatoes lying on the floor against one of the walls interested him almost as much. He picked up the biggest he could find, and bent down at the rear of the taxi to jam the providential tuber firmly over the end of the exhaust pipe.
“All set, keed,” he murmured, and his eyes were bright with mischief.
5
The men in the cellar heard the main garage door creak open and then close. After that there was a large silence, broken at last by Ferret Eyes. Exactly what he said is immaterial. Ninety per cent of it would have burned holes through any printed page, and the subject matter in between the frankly irrelevant patches cast grievous aspersions on Simon Templar’s parentage, his physical characteristics, and his purely personal habits. The air of the cellar was rapidly turning a deep blue when the chinless man cut in.
“It’s no good cursing the Saint,” he said sharply. “The mistake was yours, Welmont, and you know it. Why don’t you try cursing yourself?”
“What’s Z going to say?” asked Welmont, a frightened note coming into his voice. “It wasn’t my fault, Raddon. Damn it, you can’t blame me. From the other side of the road the girl looked exactly like Beatrice Avery. How the hell was I to know? She came out of Parkside Court—”
“Save it until later,” Raddon cut him off impatiently. “The first thing we’ve got to do is to get out of here. See what you can do with the door, Tyler. You know more about this damn place than I do.”
The taxi driver mounted the stairs and heaved against the door. It creaked and groaned, but gave no sign of opening.
“It’s jammed,” he reported unnecessarily. “The lock’s no good and there ain’t any bolts. That ruddy perisher must have done somethink.” He swore comprehensively. “Now we’re in a ruddy mess, ain’t we? I told yer not to bring that ruddy jane to my garridge.”
It was not the best of all places for applying force. The stairs were narrow and steep and slippery, and there was no possible way of exerting leverage, or even making a shoulder charge. It was equally impossible for two men to stand side by side; Raddon himself went up and examined the door, holding the torch to the cracks so that the beam of light passed through.
“There’s only one way to get out,” he said. “If we cut away the lower part of the door we can use a plank to shift the props. There are two or three planks lying in the cellar against the wall. You’d better start, Tyler.”
The taxi driver cursed and grumbled, but set to work. The door was old and misshapen, but it was tough. Tyler and Welmont, working in turn while Raddon held the light, took the better part of half an hour to break through. They had only penknives for tools, and they had to split and chip away the wood in fragments. Finally, Tyler forced one of his heavy boots through the opening with a vicious kick. A plank was then thrust through and the props dislodged.
“S’pose ’e sends the rozzers?” asked the driver anxiously.
“I’ll lose my licence, that’s wot I’ll do. I was a ruddy fool to let you use my garridge.”
“If Templar had sent the police they’d have been here twenty minutes ago,” Raddon answered promptly. “The Saint doesn’t want the police in this any more than we do. But he’s an interfering swine and we’ve got to get after him. Start up the cab, Tyler.”
“Give me a charnce, will yer?” protested Tyler, climbing into his seat. “I’ll ’ave it out in a jiffy.”
He was an optimist. They gave him a chance, but the self-starter, which usually had the engine firing after the first whirr, whirred in vain. Tyler’s cursing only added to the ear-aching sounds which filled t
he garage.
“You’ll have no batteries left,” Raddon said helpfully. The taxi man climbed down from his seat.
“Funny bloomin’ thing.” he rumbled. “She don’t usually play tricks like this ’ere. ’Tain’t as if she was stone cold, neither.”
“Perhaps you forgot to turn the petrol on,” ventured Welmont.
“P’raps there ain’t any blinkin’ engine,” snarled Tyler. “Wot the ’ell d’yer take me for?” He uncovered the engine and addressed a few scorching remarks to it. “Can’t nobody show me a light?” he said bitterly. “Think I’m a blarsted cat? Nothink wrong with the jooce.” The carburettor flooded at his touch. “Ignition looks all right, too. ’E didn’t take out the plugs. Nothink loose nowhere…”
He tried again, with the same result. The engine, for some inexplicable reason, amused itself by turning over, but it simply refused to fire. Tyler had been a taxi driver for years, and before that he had worked as a motor mechanic. The cab was his own property, and he always did his own repairs. He tried everything he could think of, but he never thought of taking a look at the rear end of the exhaust pipe.
“We’ve wasted enough time,” said Raddon angrily. “I’ve got to get in touch with Z—”
He broke off as he caught sight of the telephone in the corner. It was only by chance that he had seen it at all, for it was almost hidden behind a number of ancient and ragged tyres which hung on the wall, and Welmont’s torchlight had swung in that direction quite casually and without any intentional objective. Raddon’s eyes narrowed behind the gold-rimmed pince-nez and he flashed his own torch into the corner.
“Is this phone connected?” he asked sharply.
“Wot the ’ell d’yer mean?” Tyler demanded, looking round indignantly. “Think I ain’t paid the rent for it? Of course it’s connected.”
“Why didn’t you tell me it was here?” Raddon retorted. “I could have used it long ago. Now it may be too late…You heard what Templar said to the Holm girl before they left?”
The Saint in Action (The Saint Series) Page 19
