The Avenging Saint (The Saint Series)

by Leslie Charteris

  “The station, sir? That’ll be a little way oover the bridge. But you woon’t foind anyone there at this toime, sir—”

  “We don’t want anyone,” said the Saint. “Come on!”

  He had mastered himself again completely, and he felt that nothing else that might happen before the dawn could possibly shake him from the glacial discipline that he had locked upon his passion. And, with the same frozen restraint of emotion, he understood that the trip to the station was probably a waste of time, but it had to be tried…

  The crowd of villagers was still gathered outside the shop, and the Saint strode through them without looking to right or left. And he remembered what he had read about the place before he came there—its reputed population of 3,128, its pleasure grounds, its attractions as a watering-place—and at that moment he would cheerfully have murdered the author of that criminal agglomeration of trout-spawn and frog-bladder. For any glories that Saltham might once have claimed had long since departed from it: it was now nothing but a forgotten seaside village, shorn of the most elementary amenities of civilization. And yet, unless a miracle happened history would remember it as history remembers Sarajevo…

  The policeman walked beside him, but Simon did not talk. Beneath that smooth crust of icy calm a raging wrath like white-hot lava seethed through the Saint’s heart. And while he could have raged, he could as well have wept. For he was seeing all that Hermann’s mission would mean if it succeeded, and that vision was a vision of the ruin of all that the Saint had sworn to do. And he thought of the waste—of the agony and blood, and tears, of the squandered lives, of the world’s new hopes crushed down into the mud, and again of the faith in which Norman Kent had died…And something in the thought of that last superb spendthrift sacrifice choked the Saint’s throat. For Norman was a link with the old careless days of debonair adventuring, and those days were very far away—the days when nothing had mattered but the fighting and the fun, the comradeship and the glamour and the high risk, the sufficiency of gay swashbuckling, the wine of battle and the fair full days of quiet. Those days had gone as if they had never been.

  So the Saint came soberly to the station, and smashed another window for them to enter the station-master’s office.

  There was certainly a telegraph, and for five minutes the Saint tried to get a response. But he was without hope.

  And presently he turned away, and put his head in his hands.

  “It’s no use,” he said bitterly. “I suppose there isn’t anyone listening at the other end.”

  The policeman made sympathetic noises.

  “O’ course, if you woon’t tell me wot the trouble is—”

  “It wouldn’t help you. But I can tell you that I’ve got to get through to Scotland Yard before six-thirty—well before. If I don’t, it means—war.”

  The policeman goggled. “Did you say war, sir?”

  “I did. No more and no less…Are there any fast cars in this blasted village?”

  “Noo sir—noon as Oi can think of. Noon wot you moight call farst.”

  “How far is it to Saxmundham?”

  “’Bout twelve moile, sir, Oi should say. Oi’ve got a map ’ere, if you’d loike me to look it up.”

  Simon did not answer, and the constable groped in a pocket of his tunic and spilled an assortment of grubby papers on to the table.

  In the silence Simon heard the ticking of a clock, and he slewed round and located it on the wall behind him. The hour it indicated sank slowly into his brain, and again he calculated. Two hours for twelve miles. Easy enough—he could probably get hold of a lorry, or something else on four wheels with an engine, that would scrape through in an hour, and leave another hour to deal with the trouble he was sure to meet in Saxmundham. For the bluff that could be put over on a village cop wouldn’t cut much ice with the bulls of a rising town. And suppose the lorry broke down and left them stranded on the road…Two lorries, then. Roger would have to follow in the second in case of accidents.

  The Saint stood up.

  “Will you push off and try to find me a couple of cars?” he said. “Anything that’ll go. I’ve got another man with me—I’ll have to go and fetch him. I’ll meet you—”

  His voice trailed away.

  For the constable was staring at him as if he were a ghost, and a moment later he understood why. The constable had a sheet of paper in his hand—it was one of the bundle that he had taken from his pocket, but it was not a map—and he was looking from the paper to the Saint with bulging eyes. And the Saint knew what that paper was, and his right hand moved quietly to his hip pocket.

  Yet his face betrayed nothing.

  “What’s the matter, officer?” he inquired curtly. “Aren’t you well?”

  Still staring, the policeman inhaled audibly. And then he spoke. “Oi knew Oi’d seen your face befoor!”

  “What the devil d’you mean?”

  “Oi knoo wot Oi mean.” The policeman put the paper back on the table and thumped it triumphantly. “This is your phooto-graph, an’ it says as you’re wanted for murder!”

  Simon stood like a rock.

  “My good man, you’re talking through your hat,” he said incisively. “I’ve shown you my identity card—”

  “Ay, that you ’ave. But that’s just wot it says ’ere.” The constable snatched up the paper again. “You tell me wot this means: “’As frequently represented ’imself to be a police officer:” An’ if callin’ yourself a Secret Service agent ain’t as good as callin’ yourself a police officer, Oi’d loike to knoo wot’s wot!”

  “I don’t know who you’re mixing me up with—”

  “Oi’m not mixin’ you up with anyone. Oi knoo ’oo you are. An’ you called me a blistered boob, didn’t you? Tellin’ me the tale loike that—the woorst tale ever Oi ’eard! Oi’ll shoo you if Oi’m a blistered boob…”

  The Saint stepped back and his hand came out of his pocket. After all, there was no crowd here to interfere with a straight fight.

  “OK again, son,” he drawled. “I’ll promise to recommend you for promotion when I’m caught. You’re a smart lad…But you won’t catch me…”

  The Saint was on his toes, his hands rising, with a little smile on his lips and a twinkle of laughter in his eyes. And suddenly the policeman must have realized that perhaps after all he had been a blistered boob—that he ought to have kept his discovery to himself until he could usefully reveal it. For the Saint didn’t look an easy man to arrest at that moment…

  And, suddenly, the policeman yelled—once.

  Then the Saint’s fists lashed into his jaw, left and right, with two crisp smacks like a kiss-cannon of magnified billiard balls, and he went down like a log.

  “And that’s that,” murmured the Saint grimly.

  He reached the window in three strides, and stood there, listening. And out of the gloom there came to him the sound of hoarse voices and hurrying men.

  “Well, well, well,” thought the Saint, with characteristic gentleness, and understood that a rapid exit was the next thing for him. If only the cop hadn’t managed to uncork that stentorian bellow…But it was too late to think about that—much too late to sit down and indulge in vain lamentations for the bluff that might have been put over on the villagers while the cop lay gagged and bound in the station-master’s office, if only the cop had passed out with his mouth shut. “It’s a great little evening,” thought the Saint, as he slipped over the sill.

  He disappeared into the shadows down the platform like a prowling cat a moment before the leading pair of boots came pelting over the concrete. At the end of the platform he found a board fence, and he was astride it when a fresh out-cry arose from behind him. Still smiling abstractedly, he lowered himself on to a patch of grass beside the road. The road itself was deserted—evidently all the men who had followed them to the station had rushed in to discover the reason for the noise—and no one challenged the Saint as he walked swiftly and silently down the dark street. And long before the
first feeble apology for a hue and cry arose behind him he was flitting soundlessly up the cliff road, and he had no fear that he would be found.

  4

  It was exactly half-past four when he closed the door of Marius’s library behind him and faced six very silent people. But one of them found quite an ordinary thing to say.

  “Thank the Lord,” said Roger Conway.

  He pointed to the open window, and the Saint nodded.

  “You heard?”

  “Quite enough of it.”

  The Saint lighted a cigarette with a steady hand.

  “There was a little excitement,” he said quietly.

  Sonia Delmar was looking at him steadfastly, and there was a shining pity in her eyes. “You didn’t get through,” she said.

  It was a plain statement—a statement of what they all knew without being told. And Simon shook his head slowly.

  “I didn’t. The telephone line’s down between here and Saxmundham, and I couldn’t get any answer from the station telegraph. Angel Face knew about the telephone—that’s one reason why he heaved his own at me.”

  “And they spotted you in the village?”

  “Later. I had to break into the post office—the dames in charge were away—but I got away with that. Told the village cop I was a secret agent. He swallowed that at first, and actually helped me to break into the station. And then he got out a map to find out how far it was to Saxmundham, and pulled out his Police News with my photograph in it at the same time. I laid him out, of course, but I wasn’t quite quick enough. Otherwise I might have got something to take us into Saxmundham—I was just fixing that when the cop tried to earn his medal.”

  “You might have told him the truth,” Roger ventured.

  He expected a storm, but the Saint’s answer was perfectly calm.

  “I couldn’t risk it, old dear. You see, I’d started off with a lie, and then I’d called him a blistered boob when I was playing the Secret Service gag—and I’d sized up my man. I reckon I’d have had one chance in a thousand of convincing him. He was as keen as knives to get his own back, and his kind of head can only hold one idea at a time. And if I had convinced him, it’d have taken hours, and we’d still have had to get through to Saxmundham, and if I’d failed—”

  He left the sentence unfinished. There was no need to finish it. And Roger bit his lip.

  “Even now,” said Roger, “we might as well be marooned on a desert island.”

  Sonia Delmar spoke again.

  “That ambulance,” she said. “The one they brought me here in—”

  It was Marius who answered, malevolently, from his corner.

  “The ambulance has gone, my dear young lady. It returned to London immediately afterwards.”

  In a dead silence the Saint turned.

  “Then I hope you’ll go on enjoying your triumph, Angel Face,” he said, and there was a ruthless devil in his voice. “Because I swear to you, Rayt Marius, that it’s the last you will ever enjoy. Others have killed, but you have sold the bodies and souls of men. The world is poisoned with every breath you breathe…And I’ve changed my mind about giving you a fighting chance.”

  The Saint was resting against the door; he had not moved from it since he came in. He rested there quite slackly, quite lazily, but now his gun was in his hand, and he was carefully thumbing down the safety catch. And Roger Conway, who knew what the Saint was going to do, strove to speak casually.

  “I suppose,” remarked Roger Conway casually, “you could hardly run the distance in the time. You used to be pretty useful—”

  The Saint shook his head.

  “I’m afraid it’s a bit too much,” he answered. “It isn’t as if I could collapse artistically at the finish…No, old Roger, I can’t do it. Unless I could grow a pair of wings—”

  “Wings?”

  It was Sonia Delmar who repeated the word—who almost shouted it—clutching the Saint’s sleeve with hands that trembled.

  But Simon Templar had already started up, and a great light was breaking in his eyes. “God’s mercy!” he cried, with a passionate sincerity ringing through the strangeness of his oath. “You’ve said it, Sonia! And I said it…We’d forgotten Angel Face’s aeroplane!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN:

  HOW ROGER CONWAY WAS LEFT ALONE AND SIMON TEMPLAR WENT TO HIS REWARD

  1

  The Saint’s gun was back in his pocket; there was a splendid laughter in his eyes, and a more splendid laughter in his heart. And it was with the same laughter that he turned again to Marius.

  “After all, Angel Face,” he said, “we shall have our fight!”

  And Marius did not answer.

  “But not now. Saint!” Roger protested in an agony, and Simon swung round with another laugh and a flourish to go with it.

  “Certainly not now, sweet Roger! That comes afterwards—with the port and cigars. What we’re going to do now is jump for that blessed avian.”

  “But where can we land? It must be a hundred miles to Croydon in a straight line. That’ll take over an hour—after we’ve got going—and there’s sure to be trouble at the other end—”

  “We don’t land, my cherub. At least, not till it’s all over. I tell you, I’ve got this job absolutely taped. I’m there!”

  The Saint’s cigarette went spinning across the room and burst in fiery stars against the opposite wall. And he drew Roger and the girl towards him, with a hand on each of their shoulders.

  “Now see here. Roger, you’ll come with me, and help me locate and start up the kite. Sonia, I want you to scrounge round and find a couple of helmets and a couple of pairs of goggles. Angel Face’s outfit is bound to be around the house somewhere, and he’s probably got some spares. After that, find me another nice long coil of rope—I’ll bet they’ve got plenty—and your job’s done. Lessing”—he looked across at the millionaire, who had risen to his feet at last—“it’s about time you did something for your life. You find some stray bits of string, without cutting into the beautiful piece that Sonia’s going to find for me, and amuse yourself splicing large and solid chairs on to Freeman, Hardy, and Willis over in the corner. Then they’ll be properly settled to wait here till I come back for them. Is that all clear?”

  A chorus of affirmatives answered him. “Then we’ll go,” said the Saint.

  And he went, but he knew that all that he had ordered would be done. The new magnificent vitality that had come to him, the dazzling daredevil delight, was summed up and blazoned to them all in the gay smile with which he left them; it swept them up, inspired them, kindled within them the flame of his own superb rapture; he knew that his spirit stayed with them, to spur them on. Even Lessing…

  And Roger…

  And Roger said awkwardly as they turned the corner of the house and went swiftly over the dark grassland, “Sonia told me more about that cruise while you were away, Saint.”

  “Did she now?”

  “I’m sorry I behaved like I did, old boy.”

  Simon chuckled.

  “Did you think I’d stolen her from you, Roger?”

  “Do you want to ?” Roger asked evenly.

  They moved a little way in silence.

  Then the Saint said, “You see, there’s always Pat”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll tell you something. I think, when she first met me, Sonia fell. I know I did—God help me—in a kind of way. I still think she’s—just great. There’s no other word for her. But then, there’s no other word for Pat.”

  “No.”

  “More than once, it did occur to me—but what’s the use? There are all kinds of people in this wall-eyed world, and especially all kinds of women. They’re just made different ways, and you can’t alter it. I suppose you’ll call that trite! But I give you my word, Roger, I had to go on that cruise last night before I really understood the saying. And so did Sonia. But I got more out of it than she did, because it was the sequel that was so frightfully funny, and I do
n’t think she’ll ever see the joke. I don’t think you will, either, and that’s another reason why…”

  “What was the joke?” Roger asked.

  “When we met Hermann,” said the Saint, “and Hermann pointed a gun at me, Sonia also had a gun. And Sonia didn’t shoot. Pat wouldn’t have missed that chance.” He stopped, and raised the lantern he carried. “And that’s our kite, isn’t it?” he said.

  A little way ahead of them loomed up the squat black shape of a small hangar. They reached it in a few more strides, and the Saint pulled back the sliding doors. And the aeroplane was there—a Gipsy Moth in silver and gold, with its wings demurely folded. “Isn’t this our evening?” drawled the Saint.

  Roger said cautiously, “So long as there’s enough juice…”

  “We’ll see,” said the Saint, and he was already peering at the gauge. His murmur of satisfaction rang hollowly between the corrugated iron walls. “Ten gallons…It’s good enough!”

  They wheeled the machine out together, and the Saint set up the wings. Then he hustled Roger into the cockpit and took hold of the propeller.

  “Switch off—suck in!”

  The screw went clicking round; then—

  “Contact!”

  “Contact!”

  The engine coughed once, and then the propeller vibrated back to stillness. Again the Saint bent his back, and this time the engine stuttered round a couple of revolutions before it stopped again.

  “It’s going to be an easy start,” said the Saint. “Half a sec. while I see if they’ve got any blocks.”

  He vanished into the hangar, and returned in a moment with a couple of large wooden wedges that trailed cords behind them. These he fixed under the wheels, laying out the cords in the line of the wings, then he went back to the propeller.

  “We ought to do it this time. Suck in again!”

  Half a dozen brisk winds and he was ready.

  “Contact!”

  “Contact!”

  A heaving jerk at the screw…The engine gasped, stammered, hesitated, picked up with a loud roar…