Featuring the Saint (The Saint Series)

by Leslie Charteris

  “No,” said the detective shortly. “Didn’t you kill him?”

  Simon answered with the ghost of a laugh.

  “Unfortunately I failed. But there’s still time. He must have gone between us. Come on!”

  He started off again, and Teal had to follow.

  As they ran the Saint said, “This’ll take us towards the road, anyway. He’s sure to make for that. Where’s Perry?”

  “I sent him back to the car,” said Teal short-windedly. “With Mason.”

  “Which car?”

  “Hallin’s.”

  “You sap! That’s where Hallin’ll be making for—”

  “Perry’s got his gun back.”

  “Oh!…How’s Mason? Dead?”

  “Don’t know. Shot through the lungs. Perry carried him.”

  “Learn anything from Perry?”

  “Not much. I didn’t wait.”

  They went on quickly. Hallin could no longer be heard, but the Saint was certain about the road. And the road would take Hallin to something else…

  They came out of the scrub on to level turf, where the going was easier. Down to his left the Saint saw a pair of headlights. He turned, hurrying on.

  “Mind the ditch.”

  He lighted the detective over, and followed with a leap. As his feet touched the road he heard Perry’s challenge.

  “Stop where you are!”

  “But this is us,” said the Saint.

  The car turned a little, and the headlights picked him up. In a moment the car itself swept up beside them.

  “You haven’t seen Miles?” demanded Simon, with one foot on the step.

  “Not a sign.”

  “And you haven’t heard anything?”

  “Only you. I thought…”

  “Damnation!” said the Saint, in his gentle way. He looked up and down the road, listening intently, but he could hear nothing. Then he swung on to the running board.

  “He’s sure to have struck the road somewhere,” he said crisply. “Teal, hustle yourself round the other side…Can you put this thing along, Nigel?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Off you go, then.”

  Teal climbed on to the step at the other side, and the car started again with a jerk, and gathered speed. As Perry changed up, Teal leaned over to be pessimistic.

  “He’ll see us coming a mile away if he is on the road,” he said.

  “I know,” said the Saint savagely. “Perhaps you’d rather run.”

  He did not care to admit how pessimistic he himself felt. He was certain that Hallin must make for the road sooner or later, but he also knew that Teal’s remark was perfectly justified. In fact, if it had been merely a question of capturing a fugitive, the Saint would have given it up forthwith. But there was another reason for the chase, and this very reason also gave it a faint chance of success. It was Perry who made the Saint speak of it.

  “He told me Moyna wasn’t far away,” Perry said. “Have you any idea what he meant?”

  “What he said,” answered the Saint grimly. “He brought Moyna with him, but he didn’t take her to the cottage. I don’t know where he took her, but I’ll bet he told you the truth. She won’t be far away.”

  Perry said, in a strained voice, “Oughtn’t we to be looking for her, instead of chasing him?”

  “We’re doing both at the same time,” said the Saint quietly. “Wherever she is, that’s where he’s gone. Miles Hallin is going to have his life.”

  “I—I can hardly believe it, even now,” said the youngster huskily. Simon’s hand rested on his shoulder.

  “I hope you won’t see it proved,” he said. “But I know that Hallin has gone to find Moyna.”

  Teal cleared his throat.

  “He can’t have got as far as this, anyway,” he remarked.

  “Right as usual, Claud Eustace.” The Saint’s voice was preternaturally calm. “He must have gone down the hill. Turn the car round, Nigel, and we’ll try the other line.”

  Teal understood, and held his peace. Of course Hallin might easily have gone up the hill. He would have stepped off the road, and they might have passed him…But Perry could be spared the argument…And yet Teal did not know how sincerely the Saint was clinging to his hope. Simon himself did not know why he should have clung to the hope as he did, against all reason, but the faith that spurred him on was above reason. The Saint simply could not believe that the story would end—the way Teal thought it must end…

  “This is where we started from.” The Saint spoke to the lad at the wheel in tones of easy confidence. “We could stop the engine and coast down, couldn’t we? Then we’d hardly make any noise…”

  They went on with no sound but the soft rustle of the tyres. Simon did not have to mention the headlights. Those would give their approach away even more surely than the drone of the engine, but Simon would have invented any fatuous remark to save Perry’s nerves.

  They reached the bottom of the hill, and Teal was the first to see the police car standing by the road where they had left it. He pointed it out as Perry applied the brakes.

  “He can’t have come this way, either,” Teal said. “If he had, he’d have taken that car.”

  “I wonder if he saw it,” said the Saint.

  He dropped off into the road, and his flashlight spilled a circle of luminance over the macadam. The circle moved about restlessly, and Teal stepped from the car and followed it.

  “Looking for footprints?” inquired the detective sardonically, as he came up behind the Saint, and at that moment the light in the Saint’s hand went out.

  “Blood,” said the Saint, very quietly.

  “That’s a nasty word,” murmured Teal.

  “You everlasting mutt!” Simon gripped his arm fiercely. “I wasn’t swearing. I was telling you something!” He turned. “Nigel, turn those headlights out!”

  The detective was fumbling with a matchbox, but the Saint stopped him.

  “It’s all right, old dear,” he drawled. “This gadget of yours is still working. I just thought we’d better go carefully. Hallin’s been past here. He didn’t take the car, so he can’t have had much farther to go.”

  “But what’s this about blood? Did you use a knife?”

  “No,” said the Saint, smiling in the darkness. “I hit him on the nose.”

  9

  Moyna Stanford had been awake for a long time.

  She had roused sickly from a deeper sleep than any she had ever known, and it had been more than half an hour before she could recall anything coherently, or even find the strength to move.

  And when her memory returned—or, rather, when she had forced it to return—she was not much wiser. She remembered meeting Miles Hallin at Windsor station. He had insisted on driving her back to London, and she had been glad to accept the invitation. In Slough he had complained of an intolerable thirst; they had stopped at a hotel, and she had been persuaded to join him in an early cup of tea. Then they had returned to the car…

  She did not know how long she had slept.

  When she awoke, she was in darkness. She lay on something soft, and, when she could move, she gathered that it was a bed. She had already discovered that her wrists and ankles were securely bound…

  Presently she had learned one or two other things. That it was night, for instance, she learned when she rolled over and saw a square of starlight in one wall; but her hands were tied behind her back, and she could not see her wrist-watch to find out what hour of the night it might be. Then she lay still, listening, but not the faintest sound broke the silence. The house was like a tomb.

  She had no idea how long she lay there. She did not cry out—there would be no one to hear. And she could see no help in screaming. Later, the sound of a car passing close by told her that she was not far from a road—a country road, or there would have been more cars. There was never such a silence in London. Later still—it was impossible to keep track of time—she scrambled off the bed, and hobbled
slowly and laboriously to the window. It was very dark outside; she could see nothing but a black expanse of country, in which no particular features were distinguishable, except that the horizon was ragged against the dimness of the sky, as if it were formed by a line of hills. She might have been anywhere in England. The window was open, and she stood beside it for a long while, wondering if another car would pass, and if the road would be near enough for anyone in the car to hear if she called, but no other car came. After a time she struggled back to the bed and lay down again; it was difficult and wearying for her to stand with her feet tightly lashed together, and her head was swimming all the while.

  Then the drug she had been given must have put forth one final kick before it was finished with her, for she awoke again with a start, though she had no recollection of falling asleep. The sky through the window looked exactly the same: she was sure that she had only dozed.

  She was shivering—she did not know why. Strangely enough, when she had first awoken she had been aware of no fear; that part of her brain seemed to have stayed sunken in sleep. But now she found herself trembling. There was a tightness about her chest, and she waited, tense with a nameless terror, hardly breathing, certain that some distinct sound had roused her.

  Then the sound was repeated, and she would have cried out then, but her throat seemed paralysed.

  Someone was coming up the stairs.

  A faint light entered the room. It came from under the door, and traced a slow arc around half the floor. The creak of another board outside sent an icy qualm prickling up her spine; her mouth was dry, and her heart pounded thunderously…The next thing would be the opening of the door. She waited for that, too, in the same awful tenseness: it was like watching a card-castle after a sudden draught has caught it; she knew what must come, it was inevitable, but the suspense was more hideous than the active peril…The rattle of a key in the lock made her jump, as if she had been held motionless by a slender thread and the thread had been snapped by the sound…

  Involuntarily she closed her eyes. When she opened them again Miles Hallin was re-locking the door on the inside, and the bare room was bright with the lamp that he carried.

  Then he turned, putting the lamp down on a rough wooden chair, and she saw him properly. She was amazed and aghast at his appearance. His clothes were torn and shapeless and filthy; his collar had burst open, and his tie was half-way down his chest; his hair was dishevelled; his face was smeared and stained with blood.

  “Are you awake?” he said.

  She could not answer. He advanced slowly to the bed, peering at her.

  “You are awake. I’ve come back. You ought to be glad to see me. I’ve nearly been killed.”

  He sat down, and put his head in his hands for a moment. Then he looked at her again.

  “Killed!” His voice was rough and shaky. “One of your friends tried to kill me. That man Templar. I nearly killed him, though. I’d have done it if I’d been alone. We were on the precipice. There’s a two hundred foot drop. Can you imagine it? You’d go down—and down—and down—down to the bottom—and break like a rotten apple—ugh!” He shuddered uncontrollably, “It was terrible. Have you ever thought about death, Moyna? I think it must be dreadful to die. I don’t want to die!”

  His hand plucked at her sleeve, and she stared at him, fascinated. His quivering terror was more horrible than anything she had ever imagined.

  “I can’t die!” he babbled. “Don’t you know that? It’s in all the newspapers. Miles Hallin—The Man Who Cannot Die! I’m big, strong—Templar couldn’t kill me, and he’s strong—I can’t—go down—and lie still and—get cold—and never move any more. And you rot. All your flesh—rots…In the desert, I thought about it. D’you hear about Nigel’s brother? We tossed for who was to die, and he won. And he didn’t seem to mind dying. I pretended I didn’t mind, either. And I walked with him a long way. And then—I hit him when he wasn’t looking. I took the water—and left him. He—he died, Moyna. In the sun. And—shrivelled up. He’s been dead—years. Sometimes I can see him…”

  The girl moistened her lips. She could not move.

  “Ever since then I’ve been dead, too. I’ve never been alive. You see, I couldn’t tell anyone. Acting—all the time. So—I’ve always been alone. Never been able to tell anyone—never been with anyone who knew all about it—who—who was frightened, like I was. Until I met you. I knew you’d understand. You could share the secret. I was going—to tell you. And then Templar found out. I don’t know how. Or he guessed. He sees everything—his eyes—I knew he’d try to take you away from me. So I brought you here. I’m going to—live. With you. He won’t find us here. I bought this place for you—long ago. It’s beautiful. I don’t think anyone’s ever died here. Moyna! Moyna! Moyna!”

  “Yes?” Her voice was faint.

  “I wish you’d speak. I was—afraid—you might be going to die. I had to drug you. You know I drugged you? I couldn’t explain then—I had to bring you here, where we could be alone. Now I’ll untie you.”

  His fingers tugged at the ropes he had put on her. Presently her hands were free, and he was fumbling with her feet, crooning like a child. She tried to master her trembling.

  “Miles, you must let me go!”

  “I’m letting you go,” He held up the cords for her to see, “And now—we’re all right. Just you and me. You’ll be—nice to me—won’t you, Moyna?”

  His arms went round her, dragging her towards him.

  “Miles,” she strove to speak calmly, though she was weak with fear, “you must be sensible! You’ve got to get me back to London. Mother will be wondering what’s happened to me…”

  “London?” He seemed to grasp the word dully. “Why?”

  “You know I can’t stay here. But you can come and see me tomorrow morning…”

  His blank eyes gazed at her.

  “London? Tomorrow? I don’t understand.” Suddenly he seized her again. “Moyna, you wouldn’t run away! You’re not going to—to leave me. I can’t go to London. You know I can’t. I shall be killed. We’ve got to stay here…”

  She was as helpless as a babe in his hands. He heard nothing more that she said.

  “Moyna, I love you. I’m going to be good to you. I’m going to look after you…tell you…everything…”

  “Miles,” she sobbed, “oh, let me go…”

  “Just…you and me. And we’ll stay here. And we…won’t die…ever. We won’t die…”

  “Oh, don’t…”

  “You mustn’t be afraid. Not of me. We won’t be afraid of anything. We’re going to stay here…years…hundreds of years…thousands of years, Moyna, you mustn’t be frightened. It’ll be quite all right…”

  “Take your hands off me…”

  “But you do love me, don’t you? And you’re not going to leave me alone. I shan’t be frightened of anything if you’re here. In the dark, I can see Perry…sometimes. But I shan’t mind…”

  She fought back at him desperately, but against his tremendous strength she felt as weak as a kitten. She screamed aloud.

  Somewhere a shout answered her. She heard a splintering crash, then someone leaping up the stairs. Another shout! “Moyna, where are you?”

  She cried out again. Hallin let her go. She fell off the bed and flung herself at the door. He caught her again there. “They’re coming,” he said stupidly.

  Then his eyes blazed. He dragged her away with a force that sent her flying across the room. In an instant he had reached her. She stared in horror at his face, pale and twisted under the smears of blood, only a few inches from her own.

  “They’re going to kill me,” he gasped. “I’m going to die! Moyna, I’m going to die—die!…And I haven’t lived yet. Loved you…”

  She half rose, but he threw her down again. The strength that she had found went from her. She felt that she would faint at any moment. Her dress tore in his hands, but the sound seemed to come from an infinite distance. There was a mighty pounding o
n the door. “Open it. Hallin!” someone was shouting. “You can’t get away!” Hallin’s whole body was shaking.

  “They can’t kill me!” he croaked. “Moyna, you know that, don’t you? I can’t be killed. No one can ever kill me…”

  “You fool!” came a voice outside. “You won’t break the door down that way. Why don’t you shoot the lock out?”

  Hallin raised himself slowly from the bed. His eyes were like a babe’s.

  “Shoot out the lock,” he said dreamily. “Yes…shoot out the lock…”

  With her hand to her mouth Moyna Stanford watched him reel across the room. He spoke again.

  “It’s dreadful to die,” he said.

  On the landing outside, the Saint was focusing his flashlight on the door, and Teal’s automatic was crowded against the keyhole.

  The lock shattered inwards with a splintering crash, and Simon hurled himself forward. Inside the room he heard a heavy fall, and the door jammed half-open. Then Teal and Nigel Perry added their weight to the attack, and they went in.

  “Nigel!”

  The girl struggled up and stumbled, and Perry caught her in his arms.

  But Teal and the Saint were looking at the man who lay on the floor, very still, with a strange serenity on his upturned face.

  “He wasn’t so lucky after all,” said the detective stolidly. Simon shook his head.

  “We never killed him,” he said.

  He fell on his knees beside the body, and when he stood up again his right hand was red and wet, and something lay in his palm. Teal blinked at it. It was a key.

  “How did that get there?” he demanded.

  “It was in the lock,” said the Saint.

  10

  In the full panoply of silk hat, stock, black coat, flowered waistcoat, gold-mounted umbrella, white gloves, striped cashmere trousers with a razor-edged crease, white spats, and patent-leather shoes (reading from north to south), Simon Templar was a vision to dazzle the eyes, and Chief-Inspector Claud Eustace Teal, meeting the Saint in Piccadilly in this array, was visibly startled.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I have already been,” said the Saint. “They do these things at the most ungodly hours. If you want to know, an infant has this day been received into the Holy Catholic Church. I personally sponsored the reception.”