The Avenging Saint (The Saint Series)

by Leslie Charteris

  It must have taken her a quarter of an hour to give him all the information she had gained, and at the end of that time the clear vision in the Saint’s brain was as stark and monstrous as the thing he had imagined so few months ago—only a little while before he had thought that the ghost was laid forever. All that she told him fitted faultlessly upon the bones of previous knowledge and speculation that were already his, and he saw the thing whole and real, the incarnate nightmare of a megalomaniac’s delirium, gigantic, bloated, hideous, crawling over the map of Europe in a foul suppuration of greed and jealousy, writhing slimy tentacles into serene and precious places. The ghost was not laid. It was creeping again out of the poisoned shadows where it had grown up, made stronger and more savage yet by its first frustration, preparing now to fashion for itself a foetid physical habitation in the bodies of a holocaust of men…

  And the Saint was still silent, absorbed in his vision, for a while after Sonia Delmar had finished speaking, and even she could not see all that was in his mind.

  Presently she said, “Didn’t I find out enough, Simon? You see, I believed you’d been killed—I thought it was all over—”

  “Enough?” repeated the Saint softly, and there was a queer light in the steady sea-blue eyes. “Enough…? You’ve done more than enough—more than I ever dreamed you’d do. And as for thinking it was all over—well, lass, I heard you. I’ve never heard anything like it in my life. It was plain hell keeping up the act. But—I was just fascinated. And I’ve apologized…But the game goes on, Sonia!”

  2

  The Saint stared at the carpet, and for a time there was no movement at all in the cabin; even the cigarette that lay forgotten between his fingers was held so still that the trail of smoke from it went up as straight as a pencilled line. The low-pitched thrum of the ship’s engines, and the chatter of stirred waters about the hull, formed no more than an undercurrent of sound that scarcely disturbed the silence.

  Much later, it seemed, Sonia Delmar said, “What happened to Roger?”

  “I sent him back to London to find Lessing,” answered the Saint. “It came to me when I was on my way out here—I didn’t see why Marius should just break even after we’d got you back, and bringing Ike on the scene seemed a first-class way of stirring up the stew. And the more I think of that scheme, after what you’ve told me, old girl, the sounder it looks to me…Only, it doesn’t seem big enough now—not for the kettle of hash we’ve dipped our ladles into.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Shortly before I heaved that rock at you.” Simon glanced at his watch. “By my reckoning, if we turned this ship round about now, we should all fetch up at Saltham around the same time. I guess that’s the next move…”

  “To hold up the ship?”

  The Saint grinned, and in an instant the old mocking mischief was back in his eyes. She knew at once that if the business of holding up the ship single-handed had been thrust upon him, he would have duly set out to hold up the ship single-handed—and enjoyed it. But he shook his head.

  “I don’t think it’ll be necessary. I shall just wander up on the bridge and make a few suggestions. There’ll only be the captain and the helmsman and one officer to deal with, and the watch has just been changed, so no one will be butting in for hours. There’s no reason why the rest of the crew should wake up to what’s happening until we’re home.”

  “And when they do wake up?”

  “There will probably be a certain amount of bother,” said the Saint happily. “Nevertheless, we shall endeavour to retire with dignity.”

  “And go ashore?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And then?”

  “And then—let us pray. I’ve no more idea than you have what other cards Rayt Marius is wearing up his sleeve, but from what I know of him I’d say he was certain to be carrying a spare deck. We’ve got to check up on that. Afterwards—”

  The girl nodded quietly.

  “I remember what you said last night”

  “RIP.” The Saint laughed softly. “I guess that’s all there is to it…And then the last chapter, with you marrying Ike, and Roger and I starting a stamp collection. But who says nothing ever happens?”

  And the lazy voice, the cool and flippant turning of the words, scarcely masked the sterner challenge of those reckless eyes.

  And then the Saint rose to his feet, and the butt of his cigarette went soaring through the open port-hole, and, as he turned, she found that the set of the fine fighting lips had changed again completely. But that was just pure Saint. His normal temperament held every mood at once; he could leap from grave to gay without pause or parley, as the fancy moved him, and do it in such a way that neither seemed inconsequent. And now Sonia Delmar looked at him and found in his changed face an answer to the question that she had no need to ask, and he saw that she understood.

  “But all that’s a long way off yet, isn’t it?” he murmured. “So I think we’ll go right ahead and stick up this hoary hooker for a start. Shall we?”

  “We?”

  “I don’t see why you shouldn’t come along, old dear. It isn’t every day of your life that you have the chance to shove your oar into a spot of twenty-five carat piracy. Burn it!—what’s the use of being raised respectable if you never go out for the frantic fun of bucking plumb off the rails and stepping off the high spring-board into the dizzy depths of turpitude?”

  “But what can I do?”

  “Sit in a ring seat and root for me, sweetheart. Cheer on the gory brigand.” Swiftly the Saint was replacing beard and glasses and settling Vassiloff’s hat to a less rakish angle, and two blue devils of desperate delight danced in his eyes. “It seems to me,” said the Saint, “that there’s a heap more mirth and horseplay on the menu before we settle down to the speechifying. You ain’t heard nothin’ yet.” And the Saint was buttoning the great fur collar about his chin with sinewy fingers that had an air of playing their own independent part in the surge of joyous anticipation that had suddenly swept up through every inch of his splendid frame. “And it seems to me,” said the Saint, “that the best and brightest moments of the frolic are still ahead—so why worry about anything?”

  He smiled down at her—at least, there was a Saintly glitter behind the thick glasses that he had perched upon his nose, though his mouth was hidden. And as Sonia Delmar stood up she was shaken by a great wave of unreasoning gratefulness—to the circumstances that made it necessary to switch off thus abruptly from the line of thought that he had opened up so lightly, and to the Saint himself, for making it so easy for her to turn away from the perilous path on which she might have stumbled. And she knew quite definitely that it was as deliberate and calculated a move as ever he made in his life, and he let her know it, yet that took none of the inherent gentleness from the gesture. And she accepted the gesture at its worth.

  “You’re right,” she said. “There’s a long way to go yet. First the crew and then Marius…Haven’t you any idea of what you’re going to do?”

  “None. But the Lord will provide. The great thing is that we know we shall find Marius at Saltham, and that’s bound to make the entertainment go with a bang!”

  “But how do you know that?”

  “My dear, you must have heard the aeroplane—”

  “Just after they shot the man in the motor-boat?”

  “Sure.”

  “I didn’t realize—”

  “And I thought you knew! But I didn’t only hear it—I saw its lights and the flares they lit for it to land by. I haven’t had time to tell you, but my trip to the Ritz this morning produced some real news—after I was supposed to have lit out for the tall timber. I left my card in Rudy’s bathroom, and right up to the time that kite came down I was wondering how long it’d be before the Heavenly Twins found the memento and got busy. Oh yes—Rayt Marius is at Saltham all right, and the best part of it is that he thinks I’m at the bottom of the deep blue sea with the shrimps nibbling my nose. There was
a great orgy of signalling to that effect shortly after we upped anchor.

  “So now you know why this is going to be no ordinary evening…And with Roger and Ike rolling in on their cue, if all goes well—I ask you, is that or is that not entitled to be called a real family reunion?”

  “If you think Roger will be able to bring Sir Isaac—”

  “Roger has a wonderful knack of getting things done.”

  She nodded, very slowly.

  “It will be—a reunion—”

  “Yes.” Simon took her hands. “But it’s also a story—and so few people have stories. Why not live your story, Sonia? I’m living mine…”

  And for a moment, through all his fantastic disguise, she saw that his eyes were bright and level again, with a sober intentness in their gaze that she had yet to read aright.

  3

  But the Saint was away before she could speak, the Saint was the most elusive man on earth when he chose to be, and he chose it then, with a breath of careless laughter that took him to the door and left the spell half-woven and adrift behind him. He was away with a will-o’-the-wisp of sudden mischievous mirth that he had conjured out of that moment’s precipitous silence, waking the moment to surer hazards and less strange adventure.

  “Strange adventure! Maiden wedded…”

  And the words of the song that he had sung so lightly twenty-four hours ago murmured mockingly in the Saint’s ears as he paused for a second outside the cabin, under the stars, glancing round for his bearings and giving his eyes a chance to take the measure of the darkness.

  “And it’s still a great life,” thought the Saint, with a tingle of unabated zest in his veins, and then he found Sonia Delmar at his shoulder. Their hands met. “This way,” said the Saint softly, serenely, and steered her to the front of the starboard companion. She went up after him. Looking upwards, she saw him in the foreground of a queer perspective, like an insurgent giant escalading the last toppling pinnacle of a preposterous tower; the pinnacle of the tower swayed crazily against the spangled pageant of the sky; the slithering rush of invisible waters filtered up out of an infinite abyss…And then she saw another figure, already bestriding the battlements of the last tower; then the Saint was also there, speaking with a quiet and precise insistence…Then she also stood on the battlements of the swaying tower beside Simon Templar and the captain, and, as her feet found level boards, and the sea breeze sighed clearly to her face, the illusion of the tower fell away, and she saw the whole black bulk of the ship, sheering through dark waters that were no longer infinitely far below, and over the dark waters was laid a golden carpet leading to the moon. And the captain’s shoulders shrugged against the stars.

  “If you insist—”

  “It is necessary.”

  The moonlight glinted on the dull sheen of an automatic changing hands; then she saw the glimmer of a brighter metal, and the captain’s start of surprise.

  “Quietly!” urged the Saint.

  But the captain was foolish. For an instant he stood motionless, then he snatched…The Saint’s steely fingers took him by the throat…

  Involuntarily the girl closed her eyes. She heard a swift rustle of cloth, a quiver of fierce muscular effort, and then, away from the ship and down towards the sea, a kind of choking sob…a splash…silence…And she opened her eyes again, and saw the Saint alone. She saw the white flash of his teeth.

  “Now his wives are all widows,” said the Saint gently, and she shuddered without reason.

  Other feet grated on the boards farther along the bridge; a man stood in the strip of light that came from the open door of the wheel-house, pausing irresolute and half-interrogative. But the Saint was leaning over the side, looking down to the sea.

  “Look !”

  The Saint beckoned, but he never turned round. And the officer came forwards. He also leaned over the side and looked down, but Simon stepped back. The Saint’s right hand rose and fell, with a blue-black gleam in it. The sound of the dull impact was vaguely sickening…

  “Two,” said the Saint calmly. The officer was a silent heap huddled against the rail. “And that only leaves the quartermaster. Who says piracy isn’t easy? Hold on while I show you…!”

  He slipped away like a ghost, but the girl stayed where she was. She saw him enter the wheel-house, and then his shadow bulked across one lighted window. She held her breath, tensing herself against the inevitable outcry—surely such luck could not hold for third encounter…! But there was no sound. He appeared again, calling her name, and she went to the wheel-house in a trance. There was a man sprawled on the floor—she tried to keep her eyes from the sight.

  “Shelling peas is hard labour compared to this,” Simon was murmuring cheerfully, and then he saw how pale she was. “Sonia!” drawled the Saint reproachfully, “don’t say it gives you the wiggles in your little tum-tum to see the skids going under the ungodly!”

  “But it doesn’t, really. Look.” She held up her hand—it was as steady as his own. “Only I’m not so used to it as you are…”

  He chuckled.

  “You’ll learn,” he said. “It’s surprising how the game grows on you. You get so’s you can’t do without it. Why, if I didn’t have plenty of this sort of exercise, I should come out all over pimples and take to writing poetry…See here, sweetheart—what you want is something to do. Now, d’you think you could wangle this wheel effect, while I get active on something else?”

  He was stripping off beard and glasses; hat and coat followed them into a corner. She was irresistibly reminded of a similar transformation that very morning in Upper Berkeley Mews, and with the memory of the action returned also a vivid memory of the atmosphere in which it had first been performed. And the Saint was smiling in the same way, as gay and debonair as ever, and his careless confidence was like a draught of wine to her doubts.

  She smiled, too.

  “If it’s the same as it is on daddy’s yacht—”

  “The identical article…So I’ll leave you to it, lass. Make a wide circle round, and hold her a fraction south of south-south-east—I took a peek at that bouncing binnacle before I strafed the nautical gent over there by the cuspidor, and I reckon that course ought to take us back to somewhere pretty near where we came from. Got it?”

  “But where are you going?”

  “Well, there’s the third officer very busy being unconscious outside—at the moment—and Barnacle Bill under the spittoon isn’t dead yet, either, and I’d be happier to feel that they wouldn’t be dangerous when they woke up. I won’t heave them overboard, because I’m rather partial to lobsters, and you know what lobsters are, but I guess I’ll fossick around for some rope and do the next best thing.”

  “And suppose anyone comes—could you spare a gun?”

  “I could.” And he did. “That belonged to the late lamented. So long as you don’t get rattled and shoot me by mistake everything will be quite all right…All set, lass?”

  “All set, Saint?”

  “Good enough. And I’ll be right back.” He had hitched the sleeping quartermaster on to his shoulder, and he paused on the return journey to touch one of the cool, small hands that had taken over the helm. “Yo-ho-ho,” said the Saint, smiling, and was gone like a wraith.

  4

  He dumped the quartermaster beside the third officer, and went quickly down the companion to the upper deck. There he found a plentiful supply of rope, and cut off as much as he required. On his way back he re-entered the cabin in which he had found the girl, and borrowed a couple of towels from the bedchamber section beyond the curtains. That much was easy. He flitted silently back to the bridge, and rapidly bound and gagged the two unconscious men with an efficient hand; the task called for hardly any attention, and while he worked his mind was busy with the details of the job that would have to be done next—which was not quite so easy. But when his victims lay at his feet giving two creditable imitations of Abednego before entering the hot room, the Saint went back to the up
per deck without seeing the girl again.

  On his first trip he had located one of the most important items in the catalogue—the boat in which Sonia Delmar had been taken to the ship. It still hung over the side, obviously left to be properly stowed away the next morning, and, which was even more important, the gangway still trailed low down by the water, as a glance over the side had revealed.

  “And a lazy lot of undisciplined sea-cooks that makes them out,” murmured the Saint when he had digested all this good news. “But I’m making no complaints tonight!”

  But for that providential slackness, the job he had to do would have been trebly difficult. Even so, it was none too easy, but it had come to him, during part of the buccaneering business on the bridge, that there was no real need to look forward to any superfluous unpleasantness on the return to Saltham, and that a resourceful and athletic man might very well be able to rule that ship’s crew out of the list of probable runners for the Death-or-Glory Stakes. That was what the Saint was out to do, being well satisfied with the prospect of the mainline mirth and horseplay that lay ahead, without inviting the intrusion of any imported talent en route, and he proceeded to put the first part of this project into execution forthwith, by lowering the boat gingerly, foot by foot, from alternate davits, until it hung within a yard of the water. Then, with a rope from another boat coiled over his shoulder, he slid down the falls. One end of the rope he made fast in the bows of the boat, and then he spent some time adjusting the fenders. The other end of the rope he carried back with him on his return climb, stepping off on the main deck, and then, going down the gangway, he made that end fast to a convenient stanchion near the water level. Then he went back to the upper deck and paid out some more rope, even more gingerly at first, and then with a rush. The tackle creaked and groaned horrifically, and the boat finally hit the water with a smack that seemed loud enough to wake the dead, but the Saint had neither seen nor heard any sign of life on any of the expeditions connected with the job, and the odds were that the crew were all sleeping soundly in their bunks…unless an oiler or someone had taken it into his head to come up on deck for a breather about then…But it was neck or nothing at that point, anyhow, and the Saint gave way on the falls recklessly until the ropes went slack. Then he leaned out over the side and looked down, and saw the boat floating free at the length of the rope by which he had moored it to the gangway, and he breathed a sigh of relief.