The Prince stepped to the window.
"Then, if you will permit me——"
He stood in the opening and beckoned, and two men came running. Inside the room, they pocketed their automatics and saluted.
The Prince addressed them briefly, and they saluted again. Then he turned and spoke again in English, with a graceful gesture of his sensitive hands.
"Your car is waiting, gentlemen."
Both Roger and the Saint looked at Norman Kent puzzledly, doubtfully, almost incredulously; but Norman only smiled.
"Don't forget that you promised to trust me," he said. "I know you think I'm mad. But I was never saner in my life. I have found the only solution—the only way to peace with honour."
Still Simon Templar looked at him, trying to read what was not to be read.
It tore at his heart to leave Norman Kent there like that. And he couldn't make out what inspiration Norman could be acting on. Norman couldn't possibly mean the surrender. That couldn't possibly be called peace with honour. And how Norman could see any way out for himself, alone, hurt and lame as he was . . . But Norman seemed to be without doubt or fear—that was the only thing that could be read in his face, that supernatural confidence and contentment.
And the Saint himself could see no way out, even for the three of them together. The Prince held all the cards. Even if Patricia had been in no danger, and they had shot the Prince and Marius and stood the siege, they must inevitably have been beaten. Even if they had made up their minds to sell their lives in the achievement of their purpose. . . . But Norman had not the air of a man who was facing death.
And the Prince's men held Patricia, even as Marius had held her the night before. But the same methods could not possibly be applied this time.
Yet the Saint pleaded: "Won't you let me stay, son? I do trust you, but I know you're wounded——"
Norman Kent shook his head.
"It doesn't matter," he said. "I shall be carried out of here in state."
"When do we see you?" asked Roger.
Norman gazed dreamily into the distance, and what he saw there seemed to amuse him.
"I shall be some time," he said.
And he turned to the Prince.
"May I write a short note?"
"I remind you," said the Prince, "that you remain here as a guarantee of the good behaviour of your friends."
"I agreed to that," said Norman. "Give me a pen and paper, Roger."
And once again Marius tried to intervene.
"Highness, you are trusting them too far! This can only be a treachery. If they meant what they said, why should there be any need for all this——"
"It is their way; Marius," said the Prince calmly. "I admit that it is strange. But no matter. You should be a more thorough psychologist, my friend. After what you have seen of them can you believe that two of them would leave the third to face his fate alone while they themselves escaped? It is absurd!"
Norman Kent had scribbled one line. He blotted it carefully, and folded the sheet.
"And an envelope, Roger."
He placed the sheet inside and stuck down the flap.
Then he held out his hand to Roger Conway.
"Good luck, Roger," he said. "Be good."
"All the best, Norman, old man."
They gripped.
And Simon was speaking to the Prince.
"It seems," said Simon, "that this is au revoir, Your Highness!"
The Prince made one of his exquisitely courteous gestures.
"I trust," he replied, "that it is not adieu. I hope to meet you again in better days."
Then the Saint looked at Marius, and for a long time he held the giant's eyes. And he gave Marius a different good-bye.
"You, also," said the Saint slowly, "I shall meet again."
But, behind the Saint, Norman Kent laughed; and the Saint turned.
Norman stretched out one hand, and the Saint took it in a firm grasp. And Norman's other hand offered the letter.
"Put this in your pocket, Simon, and give me your word not to open it for four hours. When you've read it, you'll know where you'll see me again. I'll be waiting for you. And don't worry. Everything is safe with me. Good hunting, Saint!"
"Very good hunting to you, Norman."
Norman Kent smiled.
"I think it will be a good run," he said.
So Simon Templar went to his lady.
Norman saw Roger and Simon pass through the window and turn to look back at him as they reached the garden; and he smiled again, and waved them a gay good-bye. A moment afterwards he heard the rising drone of the Hirondel and the soft crunching of tyres down the drive.
He caught one last glimpse of them as the car turned into the road—the Saint at the wheel, with one arm about Patricia's shoulders, and Roger Conway in the back, with one of the Prince's men riding on the running-board beside him. That, of course, would be to give them a passage through the guards at the crossroad. ...
And then they were gone.
Norman sat down on the sofa, feeling curiously weak. His leg was numb with pain. He indicated decanter, siphon, glasses, and cigarette-box with a wave of his automatic.
"Make yourselves at home, gentlemen," he invited. "And pass me something on your way. I'm afraid I can't move. You ought to stop your men using soft-nosed bullets, Marius— they're dirty things."
It was the Prince who officiated with the whisky and lighted Norman a cigarette.
"War is a ruthless thing," said the Prince. "As a man I like and admire you. But as what I am, because you are against my country and myself, if I thought you were attempting to trick me I should kill you without compunction—like that!" He snapped his fingers. "Even the fact that you once helped to save my life could not extenuate your offence."
"Do you think I'm a fool?" asked Norman, rather tiredly.
He sipped his drink, and the hands of the clock crawled round.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Fifteen.
The Prince sat in an armchair, his legs elegantly crossed with a proper regard for the knife-edge crease in his trousers. In one hand he held a glass; with the other he placidly smoked a cigarette through a long holder.
Marius paced the room like a caged lion. From time to time he glanced at Norman with venom and suspicion in his slitted gaze, and seemed about to say something; but each time he checked himself and resumed his impatient promenade—until the Prince stopped him with a languid wave of his cigarette-holder.
"My dear Marius, your restlessness disturbs me. For Heaven's sake practise some self-control."
"But, Highness——"
"Marius, you repeat yourself. Repetition is a tedious vice."
Then Marius sat down.
The Prince delicately stifled a yawn.
Harding, on the floor, groaned, and roused as if from a deep sleep. Norman leaned over and helped him to come to a sitting position. The youngster opened his eyes slowly, rubbing a tender jaw muzzily. He would never know how the Saint had hated having to strike that blow.
Norman allowed him to take in the situation as best he could. And he gave him a good look at the automatic.
"Where are the others?" asked Harding hazily.
"They've gone," said Norman.
In short, compact sentences he explained what had happened.
Then he addressed a question to the Prince.
"What is Captain Harding's position in this affair?"
"If he does not allow his sense of duty to over-ride his discretion," answered the Prince carelessly, "we are no longer interested in him."
Harding scrambled unsteadily to his feet.
"But I'm damned well interested in you!" he retorted. And he turned to Norman with a dazed and desperate entreaty. "Kent—as an Englishman—you're not going to let these swabs——"
"You'll see in seven minutes," said Norman calmly.
Harding wavered before the level automatic in Norman's hand. He cursed, raved impotently, alm
ost sobbed.
"You fool! You fool! Oh, damn you! . . . Haven't you any decency? Can't you see——"
Norman never moved, but his face was very white. Those few minutes were the worst he had ever spent. His leg was throbbing dreadfully. And Harding swore and implored, argued, pleaded, fumed, begged almost on his knees, lashed Norman Kent with words of searing scorn. . . .
Five minutes to go.
Four . .. . three . . . two ...
One minute to go.
The Prince glanced at the gold watch on his wrist, and extracted the stub of a cigarette from his long holder with fastidious fingers.
"The time is nearly up," he murmured gently.
"Oh, for God's sake!" groaned Harding. "Think, Kent, you worm! You miserable;—abject—crawling—coward! Give me a gun and let me fight——"
"There's no need to fight," said Norman Kent.
He put one hand to his pockety and for a second he thought that Harding would chance the automatic and leap at his throat. He held up the crumpled sheets, and both the Prince and Marius rose—the Prince with polished and unhurried elegance, and Marius like an unleashed fiend.
Somehow Norman Kent was struggling to his feet again. He was very pale, and the fire in his eyes burned with a feverish fierceness. His wounded leg was simply the deadened source of a thousand twinges of torment that shot up the whole of his side at the least movement, like long, jagged needles. But he had a detached determination to face the end on his feet.
"The papers I promised you!"
He pushed them towards Marius, and the giant grabbed them with enormous, greedy hands.
And then Norman was holding out his gun, butt foremost, towards Harding. He spoke in tense, swift command.
"Through the window and down the garden, Harding! Take the Saint's motor-boat. It's moored at the end of the lawn. The two men on the river shouldn't stop you——"
"Highness!"
It was Marius's voice, shrill and savage. The giant's face was hideously contorted.
Norman thrust Harding behind him, covering his retreat to the window.
"Get out!" he snarled. "There's nothing for you to wait for now. . . . Well, Marius?"
The Prince's voice slashed in with a deadly smoothness: "Those are not Vargan's papers, Marius?"
"An absurd letter—to this man himself—from one of his friends!"
"So!"
The word fell into the room with the sleek crispness of a drop of white-hot metal. Yet the Prince could never have been posed more gracefully, nor could his face have ever been more serene.
"You tricked me after all!"
"Those are the papers I promised you," said Norman coolly.
"He must have the real papers still, Highness!" babbled Marius. "I was watching him—he had no chance to give them to his friends——"
"That's where you're wrong!"
Norman spoke very, very quietly, almost in a whisper, but the whisper held a ring of triumph like a trumpet call. The glaze in his dark eyes was not of this world.
"When Harding grabbed Templar's gun—you remember, Marius?—I had the papers in my hands. I put them in Templar's pocket. He never knew what I did. I hardly knew myself. I did it almost without thinking. It was a sheer blind inspiration—the only way to spoof the lot of you and get my friends away. And it worked! I beat you. . . ."
He heard a sound behind him, and looked round. Harding had started—he was racing down the lawn, bent low to the ground like a greyhound. Perhaps there were silenced guns plopping at him from all round the house, but they could not be heard, and he must have been untouched, for he ran on without a false step, swerving and zigzagging like a snipe.
A smile touched Norman's lips. He didn't mind being left alone now that his work was done. And he knew that Harding could not have stayed. Harding also had work to do. He had to find help—to deal with Marius and intercept Simon Templar and the precious papers. But Norman smiled, because he was sure the Saint wouldn't be intercepted. Still, he liked the mettle of that fair-haired youngster. . . .
His leg hurt like blazes.
But the Saint had never guessed the impossible thing. That had been Norman Kent's one fear, that the Saint would suspect and refuse to leave him. But Norman's first success, when he had tricked Harding with the offer of the papers, had won the Saint's faith, as it had to win it. And Simon had gone, and Patricia with him. It was enough.
And in the fulness of time Simon would find the papers; and he would open the letter and read the one line that was written there. And that line Norman had already spoken, but no one had understood.
"Nothing is won without sacrifice."
Norman turned again, and saw the automatic in Marius's hand. There was something in the way the gun was held, something in the face behind it, that told him that this man did not miss. And the gun was not aimed at Norman, but beyond him, at the flying figure that was nearing the motor-boat at the end of the lawn.
That gentle far-away smile was still on Norman Kent's lips as he took two quick hops backwards and to one side, so that his body was between Marius and the window.
He knew that Marius, blind, raging mad with fury, would not relax his pressure on the trigger because Norman Kent was standing directly in his line of fire; but Norman didn't care. It made no difference to him. Marius, or the Prince, would certainly have shot him sooner or later. Probably he deserved it. He had deliberately cheated, knowing the price of the revoke. He thought no more of himself. But an extra second or two ought to give Harding time to reach comparative safety in the motor-boat.
Norman Kent wasn't afraid. He was smiling.
It was a strange way to come to the end of everything, like that, in that quiet bungalow by the peaceful Thames, with the first mists of the evening coming up from the river like tired clouds drifted down from heaven, and the light softening over the cool, quiet garden. That place had seen so much of their enjoyment, so much comradeship and careless laughter. They had been lovely and pleasant in their lives. . . . He wished his leg wasn't giving him such hell. But that would be over soon. And there must be many worse ways of saying farewell to so full a life. It was something to have heard the sound of the trumpet. And the game would go on. It seemed as if the shadows of the peaceful evening outside were the foreshadowings of a great peace over all the world.
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The Saint Closes the Case s-2 Page 22
