Featuring the Saint (The Saint Series)

by Leslie Charteris

  De Villega sat down at the table, but did not write. He unbuttoned his coat, fished out a packet of cigarettes, and lighted one, blowing out a great cloud of smoke. Through it he looked at the Saint, and his lips had twisted into a sneering grin.

  “I have another thing to offer, Señor,” he remarked viciously, “which you might prefer to either of the things you have mentioned.”

  “Es decir?” prompted Simon, with a frowning lift of his eyebrows.

  De Villega inhaled again with relish, and let the smoke trickle down from his nostrils in two long feathers. There was a glow of taunting triumph in his malignant stare.

  “There is the Señorita McAndrew,” he said, and the Saint’s face suddenly went very meek.

  “What of her?”

  “It was the Señor Shannet,” said de Villega, enjoying his moment, “who first suggested that you were the man behind the war. We did not believe him, but now I see that he is a wise man. He left us over half an hour ago to take her as hostage. You gave me no chance to explain that when the guards entered the room just now. But I told them to remain within call for that reason—so that I could summon them as soon as you surrendered. Now it is my turn to make an offer. Stop this war, and deliver yourself and your accomplices to justice, and I will save the Señorita McAndrew. Otherwise…”

  Don Manuel shrugged. “Am I answerable for the affections of the Señor Shannet?”

  A throaty chuckle of devilish merriment shook him, and he bowed to the motionless Saint with a leering mock humility. “I, in my turn, await your decision, Señor,” he said.

  10

  The Saint leaned on his sword.

  He was cursing himself for the fool he was. Never before in his career had he been guilty of such an appalling lapse. Never would he have believed that he could have been capable of overlooking the probability of such an obvious counter-attack. Now his brain was whirling like the flywheel of a great dynamo, and he was considering, calculating, readjusting, summarising everything in the light of this new twist that de Villega had given to the affair. Yet his face showed nothing of the storm behind it.

  “And how do I know that you will keep your bargain?” he asked.

  “You do not know,” replied de Villega brazenly. “You only know that, if you do not agree to my terms, the Señor Shannet will certainly take reprisals. I offer you a hope.”

  So that was the strength of it. And, taken by and large, it didn’t strike the Saint as a proposition to jump at. It offered him exactly nothing—except the opportunity to go nap on Don Manuel’s honour and Shannet’s generosity, two bets which no one could have called irresistibly attractive. Also, it involved Kelly and Sheridan, who hadn’t been consulted. And it meant, in the end, that all three of them would most certainly be executed, whatever de Villega decided to do about Lilla McAndrew, whom Shannet would probably claim, and be allowed, as a reward for his share in suppressing the revolution. No…

  Where were Kelly and Sheridan? The Saint was reckoning it out rapidly, taking into consideration the age of Kelly’s Ford and the reported abominable state of the roads between Esperanza and Santa Miranda. And, checking his calculation over, the Saint could only get one answer, which was that Kelly and Sheridan were due to arrive at any minute. They would learn of the abduction…

  “The Señora Kelly?” asked the Saint. “What about her?”

  De Villega shrugged. “She is of no importance.”

  Yes, Mrs. Kelly would be left behind—if she had not been shot. She was middle-aged and stout and past her attractiveness, and no one would have any interest in abducting her. So that Kelly and Sheridan, arriving at the bungalow, would hear the tale from her.

  And then—there was no doubt about it—they would come storming down to the palace, guardias and sentries notwithstanding, with cold murder in their hearts.

  The Saint came erect, and de Villega looked up expectantly. But there was no sign of surrender in the Saint’s poise, and nothing relenting about the way in which he stepped up to the Minister and set the point of the sword at his breast.

  “I said I came for your resignations,” remarked the Saint with a deadly quietness. “That was no idle talk. Write now, de Villega, or, by the vixen that bore thee, thou diest!”

  “Fool! Fool!” Don Manuel raved. “It cannot help you!”

  “I take the risk,” said the Saint icily. “And do not speak so loud—I might think you were trying to attract the attention of the guards. Write!”

  He thrust the sword forward the half of an inch, and de Villega started back with a cry. “You would murder me?”

  “With pleasure,” said the Saint. “Write!”

  Then there was sudden silence, and everyone was quite still, listening. For from the courtyard below the windows came the rattle of urgent hoofs.

  The Saint leapt to the windows. There were three horses held by the sentries. He saw Shannet and two other men dismounting—and saw, being lifted down from Shannet’s saddlebow, Lilla McAndrew with her hands tied.

  He could have shouted for joy at the justification of his bold defiance. And yet, if he had thought a little longer, he might have foreseen that the girl would be brought to the palace. She was not the victim of Shannet’s privateering, but an official hostage. But even if the Saint hadn’t foreseen it, there it was, and he could have prayed for nothing better. He saw all the trump cards coming into his hands…

  Then he whipped round, in time to frustrate de Villega’s stealthy attack, and the Minister’s raised arm dropped to his side.

  The Saint speared the sword into the floor and slipped the revolvers out of his sash. For the second time he dodged behind the opening door. He saw the girl thrust roughly into the room, and Shannet followed, closing the door again behind him.

  “Fancy meeting you again, honeybunch!” drawled the Saint, and Shannet spun round with an oath.

  The Saint leaned against the wall, the Presidential and Ministerial revolvers in his hands. On his lips was a smile so broad as to be almost a laugh, and there was a laugh in his voice.

  “Take that hand away from your hip, Shannet, my pet!” went on the Saint, in that laughing voice of sheer delight. “I’ve got you covered—and even if I’m not very used to these toys, I could hardly miss you at this range…That’s better…Oh, Shannet, my sweet and beautiful gargoyle, you’re a bad boy, frightening that child. Take the cords off her wrists, my angel…No, Señor de Villega, you needn’t edge towards that sword. I may want it again myself in a minute. Gracias!…Is that more comfortable, Lilla, old dear?”

  “Oh,” cried the girl, “thank God you’re here! Where’s Archie?”

  “On his way, old darling, on his way, as the actress said of the bishop,” answered the Saint, “Are you all right?”

  She shuddered a little.

  “Yes, I’m all right,” she said. “Except for the touch of his filthy hands. But I was very frightened…”

  “Archie will deal with that when he arrives,” said the Saint. “It’s his business—he’d never forgive me if I interfered. Come here, my dear, keeping well out of the line of fire, while I deal with the specimens. I’m not the greatest revolver shot in the world, and I want to be sure that it won’t matter who I hit.”

  He steered her to safety in a corner, and turned to Don Manuel.

  “When we were interrupted,” said the Saint persuasively, “you were writing. The interruption has now been disposed of. Proceed, Señor!”

  De Villega lurched back to the table, the fight gone out of him. He could never have envisaged such an accumulation and culmination of misfortunes. It was starting to seem to him altogether like a dream, a nightmare rather—but there was nothing ethereal about the revolver that was levelled so steadily at him. The only fantastic part of the whole catastrophe was the man who had engineered it—the Saint himself, in his extraordinary borrowed clothes, and the hell-for-leather light of laughing recklessness in his blue eyes. That was the last bitter pill which De Villega had to swallow.
He might perhaps have endured defeat by a man whom he could understand—a cloaked and sinister conspirator with a personality of impressive grimness. But this lunatic who laughed…Que diablos! It was impossible…

  And then, from outside, drifted a grinding, screaming, metallic rattle that could only be made by one instrument in the world.

  “Quick!” said the Saint. “Slither round behind Master Shannet, Lilla, darling, and slip the gat out of his hip pocket…That’s right…Now d’you mind sticking up the gang for a sec while I bail the troops? Blaze away if anybody gets funny.”

  The girl handled Shannet’s automatic as if she’d been born with her finger crooked round a trigger, and the Saint, with a nod of approval, crossed over to the window.

  Kelly’s Ford was drawn up in the courtyard, and both Kelly and Sheridan were there. Kelly was just disposing of a sentry who had ventured to question his right of way.

  “Walk right in, souls!” the Saint hailed them cheerily. “You’re in time to witness the abdication of the Government.”

  “Have you seen Lilla?” shouted a frantic Sheridan. The Saint grinned.

  “She’s safe here, son.”

  The report of an automatic brought him round with a jerk.

  With the Saint’s back turned, and the Saint’s victory now an accomplished fact, Shannet had chanced everything on one mad gamble against the steadiness of nerve and aim of the girl who for a moment held the situation in her small hands. While Lilla McAndrew’s attention was distracted by the irresistible impulse to try to hear what Archie Sheridan was saying he had sidled closer…made one wild leaping grab…missed…

  The Saint stooped over the still figure and made a swift examination. He straightened up with a shrug, picking up his revolvers again as the first of the guards burst into the room.

  “Quietly, amigos,” he urged and they saw sudden death in each of his hands, and checked.

  The next instant the crowd stirred again before the berserk rush of Archie Sheridan, who had heard the shot as he raced up the palace steps. A yard behind him followed Kelly, breaking through like a bull, his red head flaming above the heads of the guards.

  “All clear, Archie!” called the Saint. “It was Shannet who got it.” But Lilla McAndrew was already in Archie Sheridan’s arms.

  “Here, Kelly,” rapped the Saint. “Let’s get this over. Take these guns and keep the guards in order while I dispose of the Government.”

  Kelly took over the weapons, and the Saint stepped back and wrenched the sword out of the floor. He advanced towards the President and de Villega, who stood paralysed by the table.

  “You have written?” he asked pleasantly.

  De Villega passed over a piece of paper, and the Saint read it and handed it back.

  “You have omitted to nominate your successors,” he said. “That will be the Señor Kelly and those whom he appoints to help him. Write again.”

  “Half a minute,” Kelly threw back over his shoulder, with his eyes on the shuffling guards. “I don’t fancy being President myself—it’s too risky. I’ll be Minister for the Interior, and the President can stay on, if he behaves himself.”

  The President bowed.

  “I am honoured, Señor,” he assented with alacrity.

  “Write accordingly,” ordered the Saint, and it was done. The Saint took the document and addressed the guards.

  “By this,” he said, “you know that the President dismisses Señor Manuel Concepcion de Villega, the Minister for the Interior, and his Government, and appoints the Señor Kelly in his place. To celebrate his appointment, the Señor Kelly will in a few days announce the removal of a number of taxes which have hitherto oppressed you. Now take this paper and cause it to be embodied in a proclamation to the free people of Pasala. Let tomorrow be a public holiday and a day of rejoicing for this reason, and also because it is now proved that there is no war with Maduro. That was a rumour spread by certain malicious persons for their own ends. See that a radiogram is sent to Estados Unidos, explaining that, and saying that they may recall the warship they were sending. You may go, amigos.”

  There was a silence of a few seconds and then, as the full meaning of the Saint’s speech was grasped, the room rang and echoed again to a great crash of Vivas!

  When Kelly had driven the cheering guards out into the passage and closed the door in their faces, Simon Templar thought of something and had the door opened again to send for the governor of the prison. The man was brought quickly.

  “Señor,” said the Saint. “I apologise for the way I treated you just now. It happened to be necessary. But the revolution is now completed, and you are a free man. I bear you no malice—although I am going to insist that you disinfect your prison.”

  He explained the circumstances, and the prison governor bowed almost to the floor.

  “It is nothing, ilustrisimo Señor,” he said. “But if I had known I would have seen to it that your honour was given better accommodation. Another time, perhaps…”

  “God forbid,” said the Saint piously.

  Then he turned and pointed to the now terrified de Villega.

  “Take this man with you,” he directed. “He is to leave Pasala by the next boat and meantime he is to be closely guarded. He will probably attempt either to fight or to bribe his escape. My answer to that is that if he is not delivered to me when I send for him, your life and the lives of all your warders will answer for it.”

  “It is understood, señor.”

  Kelly watched the departure of the governor and his prisoner open-mouthed, and when they were gone he turned to the Saint with a blank expression.

  “Look here,” he said, as if the thought had just struck him, “where’s all this fightin’ I’ve been told so much about?”

  The Saint smiled.

  “There is no fighting,” he said. “This has been what I hoped it would be—a bloodless revolution. It was undertaken in the name of a justice which the law could not administer, to ruin a man more than six thousand miles away, back in London, England. He had ruined thousands, but the law could not touch him. This was my method. Your first duty as Minister for the Interior will be to revoke the original oil concession and to make out a fresh one, assigning the rights, in perpetuity, to Miss McAndrew and her heirs.” He laid a hand on Kelly’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to give you such a disappointment, son, and if you must have a fight, I’ll have a round or two with you myself before dinner. But I had to do it this way. Any other kind of revolution would have meant the sacrifice of many lives, and I didn’t really want that.”

  For a moment Kelly was silent and perplexed before the Saint’s sudden seriousness, then he shrugged, and laughed, and took Simon Templar’s hand in a huge grip.

  “I don’t confess to know what yez are talkin’ about,” he said. “And I don’t care. I suppose it’s been worth it—if only to see the look on de Villega’s ugly face whin yez sent him to prison. And, anyway, a laughin’ devil who can run a show like yez have run this one deserves to be allowed to work things his own way.”

  “Good scout!” smiled the Saint. “Was Mrs. Kelly all right?”

  “A bit scared, but no harm done. It was Lilla she was afraid for. They just tied the missus up in a chair and left her. An’ that reminds me—there was a cable waitin’ for me up at the bungalow, and I can’t make head or tail of it. Maybe it’s something to do with you.”

  Kelly fumbled in his pocket and produced the form. The Saint took it over, and one glance told him that it was meant for him.

  “It’s from an agent of mine in London,” he explained. “He wouldn’t have addressed it to Archie or me in case anything had gone wrong and it was intercepted,”

  He knew the code almost perfectly, and he was able to write the translation in between the lines at once.

  P.O.P.s down trumped twelve thousand.—

  The Saint wrote:

  P.O.P.s fell heavily. Cleared twelve thousand pounds. Campard committed suicide this morning.

 
It was signed with the name of Roger Conway.

  “Archie!” called the Saint, thoughtfully, and again, “Archie!”

  “They sneaked out minutes ago,” said Kelly. “She’s a sweet girl, that Lilla McAndrew…”

  And it was so, until evening.

  And at even the Saint went forth and made a tour of a number of disreputable cafés, in each of which he bought much liquor for the clientele. They did not recognise him until he started to sing—a strange and barbarous song that no one could understand. But they recognised it, having heard it sung before, with many others like it, by a certain peón:

  The bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling. For you but not for me;

  For me the angels sing-a-ling-a-ling,

  They’ve got the goods for me—

  To this day you will hear that song sung by the peasants of Santa Miranda. And if you should ask one of them why he sings it, he will answer, with a courteous surprise at your ignorance, “That, Señor, is one of the songs of freedom…”

  THE MAN WHO COULD NOT DIE

  INTRODUCTION

  If (as has unfortunately been observed in certain circles) I have failed to become the supreme maestro of the whodunit in my generation, I can at least truthfully plead that this is because I never seriously tried.

  I have written some whodunits, but not very many, and not all of them very good. But most of the time I have tried to exploit a mutation which you might call the “whatisit.”

  I think it was G. K. Chesterton who first claimed in a loud voice that the short story was the only satisfactory length for a whodunit, because beyond that length it was exasperating to have to contend with an entire cast of characters with masks on, clad in deceptive raiment, speaking with disguised voices in studied ambiguities, and generally attempting to give false impressions, whatever their true characters might be, entirely for the selfish purposes of the author.