The Saint Closes the Case s-2

by Leslie Charteris

  "I'll speak to him myself," he said.

  He did so shortly afterwards.

  The afternoon had grown hot and sunny, and it was easy to arrange that Patricia should spend it on the lawn with a book.

  "Give your celebrated impersonation of innocent English girlhood, old dear," said the Saint. "At this time of year, and in this weather, anyone searching Maidenhead for a suspici­ous-looking house, and seeing one not being used in the way that houses at Maidenhead are usually used, will be after it like a cat after kippers. And now you're the only one of us who's in balk—bar Orace. So you'll just have to give the local colour all by yourself. And keep your eyes skinned. Look out for a fat man chewing gum. We're shooting all fat men who chew gum on sight, just to make sure we don't miss Claud Eustace. . . ."

  When she had gone, he sent Roger and Norman away also. To have had the other two present would have made the affair too like a kangaroo court for his mood.

  There was only one witness of that interview: Orace, a stolid and expressionless sentinel, who stood woodenly beside the prisoner like a sergeant-major presenting a defaulter to his orderly officer.

  "Have a cigarette?" said the Saint.

  He knew what his personality could do; and, left alone to use it, he still held to a straw of hope that he might succeed where Norman had failed.

  But Vargan refused the cigarette. He was sullenly defiant.

  "May I ask how much longer you propose to continue this farce?" he inquired. "You have now kept me here three days. Why?"

  "I think my friend has explained that to you," said Simon.

  "He's talked a lot of nonsense—-".

  Simon cut the speech short with a curt movement of his hand.

  He was standing up, and the professor looked small and frail beside him. Tall and straight and lean was the Saint.

  "I want to talk to you seriously," he said. "My friend has appealed to you once. I'm appealing to you now. And I'm afraid this is the last appeal we can make. I appeal to you in the name of whatever you hold most sacred. I appeal to you in the name of humanity. In the name of the peace of the world."

  Vargan glared at him short-sightedly.

  "An impertinence," he replied. "I've already heard your proposition, and I may say that I've never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. And that's my answer."

  "Then," said Simon quietly, "I may say that I've never in my life heard anything so damnable as your attitude. Or can it be that you're merely a fool—an overgrown child playing with fire?"

  "Sir——"

  The Saint seemed to grow even taller. There was an arro­gance of command in his poise, in an instant, that brooked no denial. He stood there, in that homely room, like a king of men. And yet, when he continued, his voice was even milder and more reasonable than ever.

  "Professor Vargan," he said, "I haven't brought you here to insult you for my amusement. I ask you to try for the moment to forget the circumstances and listen to me as an ordinary man speaking to an ordinary man. You have perfected the most horrible invention with which science has yet hoped to torture a world already sickened with the beastliness of scien­tific warfare. You intend to make that invention over to hands that would not hesitate to use it. Can you justify that?"

  "Science needs no justification."

  "In France, to-day, there are millions of men buried who might have been alive now. They were killed in a war. If that war had been fought before science applied itself to the per­fection of slaughter, they would have been only thousands in­stead of millions. And, at least, they would have died like men. Does science need no justification for the squandering of those lives?"

  "Do you think you can stop war?"

  "No. I know I can't. That's not the argument. Listen again. In England to-day there are thousands of men blind, maimed, crippled for life, who might have been whole now. There are as many again in France, Belgium, Germany, Austria. The bodies that God gave, and made wonderful and intricate and beautiful—torn and wrecked by your science, often made so hideous that men shudder to see them. . . . Does science need no justification for that?"

  "That is not my business."

  "You're making it your business."

  The Saint paused for a moment: and then he went on in a voice that no one could have interrupted, the passionate voice of a prophet crying in the wilderness.

  "There is science that is good and science that is evil. Yours is the evil science, and all the blessings that good science has given to mankind are no justification for your evil. If we must have science, let it be good science. Let it be a science in which men can still be men, even when they kill and are killed. If there must be war, let it be holy war. Let men fight with the weapons of men, and not with the weapons of fiends. Let us have men to fight and die as champions and heroes, as men used to die, and not as the beasts that perish, as men have to die in our wars now."

  "You are an absurd idealist——"

  "I am an absurd idealist. But I believe that all that must come true. For, unless it comes true, the world will be laid desolate. And I believe that it can come true. I believe that, by the grace of God, men will awake presently and be men again, and colour and laughter and splendid living will return to a grey civilisation. But that will only come true because a few men will believe in it, and fight for it, and fight in its name I against everything that sneers and snarls at that ideal. You are such a thing."

  "And you are the last hero—fighting against me?"

  Simon shook his head.

  "Not the last hero," he said simply. "Perhaps not a hero at all. I call myself a soldier of life. I have sinned as much as any man, and more than most. I have been a hunted criminal. I am that now. But everything I've done has been done for the glory of an invisible ideal. I never understood it very clearly before, but I understand it now. But you. . . . Why haven't you even told me that you want to do what you want to do for the glory of your own ideal—for the glory, if you like, of England?"

  A fantastic obstinacy flared in Vargan's eyes.

  "Because it wouldn't be true," he said. "Science is inter­national. Honour among scientists is international. I've of­fered my invention first to England—that's all. If they're fools enough to refuse to reward me for it, I shall find a country that will."

  He came closer to the Saint, with his head sideways, his faded lips curiously twisted. And the Saint saw that he had wasted all his words.

  "For years I've worked and slaved," babbled Vargan. "Years! And what have I got for it? A few paltry letters to put after my name. No honour for everybody to see. No money. I'm poor! I've starved myself, lived like a pauper, to save money to carry on my work! Now you ask me to give up everything that I've sacrificed the best years of my life to win—to gratify your Sunday-school sentimentality! I say you're a fool, sir —an imbecile!"

  The Saint stood quite still, with Vargan's bony hands claw­ing the air a few inches from his face. His impassivity seemed to infuriate the professor.

  "You're in league with them!" screamed Vargan. "I knew it. You're in league with the devils who've tried to keep me down! But I don't care! I'm not afraid of you. You can do your worst. I don't care if millions of people die. I hope you die with them! If I could kill you——"

  Suddenly he flung himself at the Saint like a mad beast, blub­bering incoherently, tearing, kicking. ...

  Orace caught him about the middle and swung him off his feet in arms of iron; and the Saint leaned against the table, rubbing a shin that he had not been quick enough to get out of the way of that maniacal onslaught.

  "Lock him up again," said Simon heavily, and saw Orace depart with his raving burden.

  He had just finished with the telephone when Orace re­turned.

  "Get everybody's things together," he ordered. "Your own included. I've phoned for a van to take them to the station. They'll go as luggage in advance to Mr. Tremayne, in Paris. I'll write out the labels. The van will be here at four, so you'll have to move."

  "Ye
ssir," said Orace obediently.

  The Saint grinned.

  "We've been a good partnership, haven't we?" he said. "And now I'm clearing out of England with a price on my head. I'm sorry we've got to ... break up the alliance. . . ."

  Orace snorted.

  "Ya bin arskin forrit, aintcha?" he demanded unsympathetically. "Ain't I tolja so arfadozen times? . . . Where ya goin' ta?" he added, in the same ferocious tone.

  "Lord knows," said the Saint.

  "Never bin there," said Orace. "Allus wanted ta, but never adno invitashun. I'll be ready ta leave when you are, sir."

  He turned smartly on his heel and marched to the door. Simon had to call him back.

  "Shake, you darned old fool," said the Saint, and held out his hand. "If you think it's worth it——"

  " Tain't," said Orace sourly. "But I'll avta look arfter ya."

  Then Orace was gone; and the Saint lighted a cigarette and sat down by the open window, gazing dreamily out over the lawn and the sunlit river.

  And it seemed to him that he saw a cloud like a violet mist unrolled over the lawn and the river and the white houses and the fields behind, a gigantic cloud that crept over the country like a living thing; and the cloud scintillated as with the whirling and flashing of a thousand thousand sparks of violet fire. And the grass shrivelled in the searing breath of the cloud; and the trees turned black and crumpled in hot cinders as the cloud engulfed them. And men ran before the cloud, men agonised for breath, men with white, haggard faces and eyes glazed and staring, men . . . But the creeping of the cloud was faster than the swiftest man could run. . . .

  And Simon remembered the frenzy of Vargan.

  For the space of two cigarettes he sat there with his own thoughts; and then he sat down and wrote a letter.

  TO CHIEF INSPECTOR TEAL,

  CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DEPARTMENT,

  NEW SCOTLAND YARD,

  LONDON, S.W. 1.

  DEAR OLD CLAUD EUSTACE,

  Before anything else, I want to apologise for assaulting you and one of your men at Esher on Saturday, and also to apologise for the way a friend of mine treated you yesterday. Unfortunately, on both occasions, the circumstances did not permit us to dispose of you by more peaceful means.

  The story that Roger Conway told you last night was noth­ing but the truth. We rescued Professor Vargan from the men who first took him—who were led, as Conway told you, by the celebrated Dr. Rayt Marius—and removed him to a place of safety. By the time you receive this, you will know our reason; and, since I have not the time to circularise the Press myself, I hope this explanation will be safe in your hands.

  Little remains for me to add to what you already know.

  We have tried to appeal to Vargan to suppress his invention on humanitarian grounds. He will not listen. His sole thought is the recognition which he thinks his scientific genius de­serves. One cannot argue with monomaniacs: therefore, we find ourselves with only one course open to us. . We believe that for this diabolical discovery to take its place in the armament of the nations of Europe, at a time when jealousies and fears and the rumours of wars are again lifting their heads, would be a refinement of "civilisation" which the world could well be spared. You may say that the exclusive possession of this invention would confirm Great Britain in an unassailable supremacy, and perhaps thereby secure the peace of Europe. We answer that no secret can be kept for ever. The sword is two-edged. And, as Vargan an­swered me by saying, "Science is international"—so I an­swer you by saying that humanity is also international.

  We are content to be judged by the verdict of history, when all the facts are made known.

  But in accomplishing what we have accomplished, we have put you in the way of learning our identities; and that, as you will see, must be an almost fatal blow to such an organisation as mine.

  Nevertheless, I believe that in time I shall find a way for us to continue the work that we have set ourselves to do.

  We regret nothing that we have already done. Our only regret is that we should be scattered before we have time to do more. Yet we believe that we have done much good, and that this last crime of ours is the best of all.

  Au revoir!

  SIMON TEMPLAR

  ("The Saint").

  He had heard, while he wrote, the sounds of Orace despatch­ing luggage; and, as he signed his name, Orace entered with a tray of tea and the report that the van had departed.

  Patricia came in through the French windows a moment later. He thought she could never have looked so slim and cool and lovely. And, as she came to him, he swung her up in one arm as if she had been a feather.

  "You see," he smiled, as he set her down, "I'm not quite a back number yet."

  She stayed close to him, with cool golden-brown arms linked round his neck, and he was surprised that she smiled so slowly.

  "Oh, Simon," she said, "I do love you so much!"

  "Darling," said the Saint, "this is so sudden! If I'd only known. . ., ."

  But something told him that it was not a time for jesting, and he stopped.

  But of course she loved him. Hadn't he known it for a whole heavenly year, ever since she confessed it on the tor above Baycombe—that peaceful Devonshire village—only a week after he'd breezed into the district as a smiling swashbuckler in search of trouble, without the least notion that he was waltzing into a kind of trouble to which he had always been singularly immune? Hadn't she proved it, since, in a hundred ways? Hadn't the very night before, at Bures, been enough in itself to prove the fact beyond question for all time?

  And now, in the name of fortune and all the mysteries of women, she had to blurt it out of the blue like that, almost as if ... "Burn it!" thought the Saint. "Almost as if she thought I was going to leave her!"

  "Darling old idiot," said the Saint, "what's the matter?"

  Roger Conway answered, from the Saint's shoulder, having entered the room unnoticed. He answered with a question.

  "You've seen Vargan?"

  "I have."

  Roger nodded.

  "We heard some of the noise. What did he say?"

  "He went mad, and gibbered. Orace rescued me, and car­ried him away—fighting like a wild cat. Vargan's a lunatic, as Norman said. And a lunatic said . . . 'No.' "

  Conway went to the window and looked up the river, shad­ing his eyes against the sun. Then he turned back.

  "Teal's on his way," he said, in a matter-of-fact voice. "For the last half-hour the same energetic bird has been scuttling up and down the river in a motorboat. We spotted him through the kitchen window, while we were drinking beer and wait­ing for you."

  "Well, well, well!" drawled the Saint, very gently and thoughtfully.

  "He was snooping all round with a pair of binoculars. Pat being out on the lawn may have put him off for a bit. I left Norman on the lookout, and sent Orace out for Pat as soon as we heard you were through."

  Norman Kent came in at that moment, and Simon took his arm and drew him into the group.

  "Our agile brain," said the Saint, "deduces that Hermann has squealed, but has forgotten the actual number of our telephone. So Teal has to investigate Maidenhead generally. That may yet give us another hour or two; but it doesn't alter the fact that we have our marching orders. They're easy. Your luggage has already gone. So, if you beetle off to your rooms and have a final wash and brush-up, we'll be ready to slide. Push on, souls!"

  He left them to it, and went to the kitchen in search of Orace.

  "Got your bag packed, Orace?"

  "Yessir."

  "Passport in order?"

  "Yessir."

  "Fine. I'd like to take you in the Desoutter, but I'm afraid there isn't room. However, the police aren't after you, so you won't have any trouble."

  "Nossir."

  The Saint took five ten-pound notes from a bulging wallet

  "There's a train to London at 4.58," he said. "Paddington, 5.40. That'll give you time to say good-bye to all your aunts, and catch a train f
rom Victoria at 8.20, which will take you via Newhaven and Dieppe to Paris, where you arrive at 5.23 to-morrow morning at the Gare St. Lazare. While you're wait­ing in London, you'd better tear yourself away from your aunts for as long as it takes you to send a wire to Mr. Tre­mayne and ask him to meet you at the station and protect you from all those wild French ladies you've read about. We'll meet you at Mr. Tremayne's. . . . Oh, and you might post this letter for me."

  "Yessir."

  "O.K., Orace. You've just got time to get to the station with­out bursting a bloodvessel. S'long!"

  He went on to his room, and there he found Patricia.

  Simon took her in his arms at once.

  "You're coming on this getaway?" he asked.

  She held tightly to him.

  "That's what I was wondering when I came in from the garden," she said. "You've always been such a dear old quixotic ass, Simon. You know how it was at Baycombe."

  "And you thought I'd want to send you away."

  "Do you?"

  "I should have wanted to once," said the Saint. "In the bad old days. . . . But now—oh, Pat, dear lass, I love you too much to be unselfish! I love your eyes and your lips and your voice and the way your hair shines like gold in the sun. I love your wisdom and your understanding and your kindli­ness and your courage and your laughter. I love you with every thought of my mind and every minute of my life. I love you so much that it hurts. I couldn't face losing you. Without you, I just shouldn't have anything to live for. . . . And I don't know where we shall go or what we shall do or what we shall find in the days that are coming. But I do know that if I never find more than I've got already—just you, lass!——I shall have had more than my life. ..."

  "I shall have had more than mine, Simon. . . . God bless you!"

  He laughed.

  "He has," said the Saint. "You see how it is. ... And I know a gentleman would be strong and silent, and send you out into the night for your own sake. But I don't care. I'm not a gentleman. And if you think it's worth it, to be hunted out of England with me——"

  But her lips silenced his, and there was no heed to say more. And in Simon Templar's heart was a marvel of thanksgiving that was also a prayer.