“I’m awfully sorry to give you so much trouble,” he said.
“Not at all.” Renway’s voice was dry, unnatural. He was aghast at himself, sweating coldly under the arms at the realisation of what he was doing, but he spoke without any conscious volition. The jangling of his nerves forced him on, provided the motive power for the fantastic inspiration which had seized him. “In fact, my chauffeur can drive into Folkestone himself and make the necessary arrangements, while you stay here. You can give him instructions, and it’s sure to mean a good deal of waiting about. I suppose the authorities will have to be notified…”
He was watching the pilot closely when he uttered that last sentence, although the cast in his eye made him appear to be staring past him, and he did not miss the slight instantaneous tightening of the dangerous mouth.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly let you do that,” Simon protested. “I’ve given you quite enough trouble as it is—”
“Not a bit of it,” insisted Renway, still watching him.
He was quite sure now. The pilot stiffened almost imperceptibly—Renway saw the shift of his eyes and the whitening of his knuckles on the hand which clutched the valise, and went on with more pronounced assurance: “It’s no trouble at all to me, and my chauffeur has far too little to do. Besides, that landing must have given you one or two bad moments, and I’m sure you wouldn’t refuse a drink. Come along up to the house, my dear fellow, and let me see what I can find for you.”
He took the Saint’s arm and led him away with a grim cordiality which it would have been difficult to resist—even if Simon had wanted to. They went through a small rockery up to the tennis lawn, across the lawn to a paved terrace, through open French windows into a rather stuffy library.
“Will you have a cigarette—or is it too early for a cigar?”
Simon took a cigarette, and lighted it while Renway rang the bell.
“Sit down, Mr…er…”
“Tombs.”
“Sit down, Mr Tombs.”
The Saint sat on the edge of a plush armchair and smoked in silence until the butler answered the bell. Renway ordered drinks, and the butler went out again. The silence went on. Renway went over to a window and stood there, humming unmusically to himself.
“Awkward thing to have happen to you,” ventured the Saint.
Renway half turned his head.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, it’s an awkward thing to have happen to you—oil pressure going down.”
“Quite,” said Renway, and went on humming.
The butler came in with a tray, put it down, and departed. Renway crossed over to it and poured whisky into two glasses.
“Soda?”
“Thanks.”
Renway worked the siphon, and handed over the drink. Then he took up his own glass, and abruptly, as if he was blurting out something which he had been mustering his determination to say for several minutes, he snapped, “I suppose you don’t think I believe that story of yours about being a patent-medicine salesman?”
“Don’t you?” said the Saint evasively.
“Of course not. I know cocaine when I see it.”
Simon, who had carefully filled all his tins with boracic, wanted to smile. But he glanced apprehensively at the valise, which he had put down beside his chair, and then hardened his face into an ineffective mask.
“But don’t worry,” said Renway. “I’m not going to tell the police. It’s none of my business. I’m only wondering why a fellow like you—clever, daring, a good pilot—why you should waste your time over small stuff like that.”
Simon licked his lips.
“It isn’t so very small. And what else is there for me to do? There aren’t so many jobs going these days for an out-of-work ace. You know yourself that war heroes are two a penny nowadays. I’m desperate enough to take the risk, and I want the money.”
“You’ll never make a million out of it.”
“If you know anything that I can make a million out of, I’ll do it.”
Renway swallowed another gulp of whisky and put down his glass. In the last few moments, the jangling of his nerves seemed to have risen to a pitch at which anything might crack. And yet it was without the tense wearing raggedness that he had felt before—he had a crazy breathless presentiment of success, waiting for him to grasp it if he risked the movement. It had come miraculously, incredibly, literally out of the blue, and it was all personified in the broad-shouldered blue-eyed shape of the dangerous young man whose leather coat filled his armchair. Renway wiped his mouth on a silk handkerchief and tucked it away.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said, “an aeroplane will leave Croydon for Paris with about ten tons of gold on board—as a matter of fact, the value will be exactly three million pounds. It is going to be shot down over the Channel, and the gold is going to be stolen. If you were desperate enough, you would be the man to do it.”
7
Simon Templar did not need to act. The peculiar stillness that settled over him called for no simulation. It was as starkly genuine as any expression his face had ever worn.
And way back in the dim detached recesses of consciousness he was bowing down before the everlasting generosity of fortune. He had taken that wide sweep out over the sea and choked his engine over the cliffs at the southern boundary of March House, staged his whole subsequent demonstration of guilt and truculence, rolled the dice down the board from beginning to end with nothing more substantial behind the play than a vast open-minded optimism, but the little he knew and the little he had guessed, the entire nebulous theory which had given him the idea of establishing himself as a disreputable airman, was revealed to be so grotesquely inadequate that he was temporarily speechless. His puerile stratagem ought to have gained him nothing more than a glimpse of March House from the inside and a quick passage to the nearest police station; instead of which, it had flung doors wide open into something which even now he could scarcely believe in cold blood.
“It couldn’t be done,” he said at length.
“It can be done by a few men with the courage to take big chances for a share in three million pounds,” said Renway. “I have all the necessary information. I have everything organised. The only thing I need to make it certain is the perfect pilot.”
Simon tapped his cigarette.
“I should have thought that was the first thing.”
“It was the first thing.” Renway drank again. He was speaking with more steadiness now, with a conviction that was strengthening through every sentence; his faded stare weaved endlessly over the Saint’s face, changing from one eye to the other. “I had the ideal man, but he—met with an accident. There wasn’t time to find anyone else. I was going to try it myself, but I’m not an expert pilot. I have no fighting experience. I might have bungled it. You wouldn’t.”
Meeting the gaze of those unequally staring eyes, Simon had an eerie intuition that Renway was mad. He had to make a deliberate effort to separate a part of his mind from that precognition while he pieced his scanty facts together again in the light of what Renway had said.
There had been a pilot. That would have been Manuel Enrique, who died on the Brighton Road. A new pilot swooped down out of the sky, and within twenty minutes was being offered the vacant post. With all due deference to the gods of luck, it seemed as if that new aviator was having a remarkable red carpet laid out for him.
“You don’t only need a pilot,” said the Saint mechanically. “You need a proper fighting ship, with geared machine-guns and all the rest of it.”
“There is one,” said Renway. “I took it from Hawker’s factory last night. It’s one of a new flight they’re building for the Moravian Government. The one I took had been out on range tests, and the guns were still fitted. I also took three spare drums of ammunition. I flew it over here myself—it was the first night landing I’ve ever made.”
It had not been a particularly clean one, Simon remembered, and then he saw the continual t
ensing and twitching of Renway’s hands, and suddenly understood much more.
There had been a pilot, but he had—met with an accident. And yet the plot in which he had a vital role could not be given up. Therefore it had grown in Renway’s mind to the dimensions of an obsession, until the point had been reached where it loomed up as the needle’s eye of an insanely conceived salvation. Although Enrique was dead, the aeroplane had still been stolen: Renway had flown it himself, and the ordeal of that untutored night flight had cut into the marrow of his nerves. Still the goal could not be given up. The new pilot arrived at the crisis of an eight hours’ sleepless nightmare of strain—a solution, an escape, a straw which he could clutch even while preserving the delusion that he was a superman irresistibly turning a chance tool to his need. Simon recalled Renway’s abrupt defiant plunge into the subject after that long awkward silence, and hypothesis merged into certainty. It was queer, he reflected, how that superman complex, that delusion of being able to enslave human instruments body and soul by the power of a hypnotic personality which usually existed only in the paranoiac’s own grandiose imagination, had been the downfall of so many promising criminals.
“You did that?” said the Saint, in a tone which contained exactly the right blend of incredulous admiration and sober awe.
“Of course.”
Simon put out his cigarette and helped himself to a second. “That’s a beginning,” he said. “But the pilots will be armed—they’re in touch with the shore by radio all the way—”
“What is the good of that?” asked Renway calmly. “The conditions aren’t the same as they would be in war-time. They aren’t really expecting to be attacked. They see another aeroplane overtaking them, that’s all—there’s always plenty of traffic on that route, and they wouldn’t think anything of it. Then you dive. With your experience, they’d be an easy target. It ought to be finished in a couple of bursts—long before they could wireless any alarm to the shore. And as soon as their wireless stops, I shall carry on with their report. I have a short-wave transmitter installed in this house, and I have a record of every signal that’s been sent out by cross-Channel aircraft for the last month. I know all the codes. The shore stations will never know what’s happened until the aeroplane fails to arrive.”
The Saint blew out a flick of smoke, and kept his eyes on Renway’s pale complacent face. It was dawning on him that if Renway was a lunatic, he was the victim of a very thorough and methodical kind of madness.
“There isn’t only traffic in the air,” he said. “There’s also shipping. Suppose a ship sees what happens?” Renway made a gesture of impatience.
“My good fellow, you’re going over ground that I covered two months ago. I could raise more objections than you know yourself. For instance, all the time the aeroplane is over the Channel, there will be special motor-boats cruising off the French and English coasts. One or more of them may possibly reach the scene. It will be part of your job to keep them at a distance by machine-gun fire from the air until all the gold has been secured.”
“How do you propose to do that?” persisted the Saint. “You can’t lift ten tons of gold out of a wrecked aeroplane in five minutes.”
A sudden sly look hooded Renway’s eyes.
“That has also been arranged,” he said.
He refilled his glass and drank again, sucking in his lips after the drink. As if wondering whether he had betrayed too much already, he said, “You need only be concerned with your own share in the proceedings. Do you feel like taking a part?”
Simon thought for a moment, and nodded.
“I’m your man,” he said.
Renway remained looking at him for a while longer, and the Saint fancied he could almost see the man’s nerves relaxing in the sedative glow of conquest.
“In that case, I shall not need to send for my chauffeur.”
“What about my machine?” asked the Saint.
“You can keep it here until you require it again. I have plenty of accommodation, and one of my mechanics can find out the cause of your trouble and put it right.”
For a second the Saint’s eyes chilled, for no mechanic would take long to discover that there was nothing whatever the matter with the machine in which he had landed. But he answered easily enough.
“That’s very good of you.”
Renway picked up his valise and took it to a big built-in safe at one end of the room, into which he locked it. He came back blandly, rubbing his hands.
“Your…er…samples will be quite safe there until you need them. Shall we go and attend to your aeroplane?”
They walked out again in the strengthening sunshine, down through the rose garden and across the small field where the Saint had made his landing. Simon felt the dead weight of the automatic in his pocket bumping his hip as he walked, and felt unexpectedly glad of its familiar comfort; the nervous twitching of Renway’s hands had finished altogether now, and there was an uncanny inert calm about his sauntering bulk which was frightful to study—the unnatural porcine opaqueness of a man whose mind has ceased to work like other men’s minds…
Renway went on talking, in the same simpering monotone, as if he had been describing the layout of an asparagus bed: “I shall know the number of the transport plane and the time it leaves Croydon five minutes after it takes off—you’ll have plenty of time to be waiting for it in the air.”
On the other side of the field there was a big tithe barn with the hedge laid up to one wall. Renway knocked on a small door, and it opened three inches to show a narrow strip of the grimy face and figure of a man in overalls. After the first pause of identification it opened wider, and they went in.
The interior was cool and spacious, dimly lit in contrast with the sunlight outside by a couple of naked bulbs hung from the high ridge. Simon’s first glance round was arrested by the grey bull-nosed shape of the Hawker pursuit plane at the far end of the shed. In another two or three hours he would have found it less easy to recognise, except by the long gleaming snouts of the machine-guns braced forward from the pilot’s cockpit, for another overalled man mounted on a folding ladder was even then engaged in painting out the wing cocardes with a layer of neutral-grey dope. But the national markings on the empennage were still untouched—if the Saint had ever been tempted to wonder whether he had lost himself in a fantastic dream, the sight of those shining strips of colour was the last thing that was needed to show him that he was in touch with nothing more fantastic than astounding reality.
He fished out his case and selected another cigarette while he surveyed the other details of his surroundings. While he was in the air he had guessed that the field adjoining the one in which he had landed was the one where he had watched the Hawker ship land some hours ago, and a glimpse of other and wider doors outlined in cracks of light on the opposite wall of the barn was his confirmation. There was a stack of petrol cans in one corner, and a work-bench and lathe in another. He saw the spare drums of ammunition which Renway had referred to under the work-bench, and some curious pear-shaped objects stacked in a wooden rack beside it—in another moment he realised that they were bombs.
He indicated them with a slight movement of his thumb.
“For use on the rescue boats?” he queried, and Renway nodded.
Simon left the cigarette between his lips, but thoughtfully refrained from lighting it.
“Isn’t it a bit risky?” he suggested. “I mean, having everything here where anybody might get in and see it?”
Renway’s mouth widened slightly. If another muscle of his face had moved it might have been a smile, but the effect of the surrounding deadness of flesh was curiously horrible.
“I have two kinds of servants—those who are in my confidence, and those who are merely menials. With the first kind, there is no risk—although it was a pity that Enrique met with an accident…” He paused for a moment, with his faded eyes wandering inharmoniously over the Saint, and then he pointed to a big humming engine bedded down in the c
oncrete floor on his right. “To the second kind, this is simply the building which houses our private electric light plant. The doors are kept locked, and there is no reason for them to pry further. And all of them are having a special holiday tomorrow.”
He continued to watch the Saint satirically, as if aware that there was another risk which might have been mentioned, but Simon knew the answer to that one. The case of “samples” which his host had locked up in the library safe, so long as they remained there, must have constituted a reasonably sound security for the adventurous aviator’s faithful service—from Renway’s point of view. The Saint was acquiring a wholesome respect for the Treasury Pooh-ba’s criminal efficiency, and his blue eyes were rather quiet and metallic as he watched the two mechanics wheel his machine through a gate in the hedge and bring it through the broad sliding doors into the barn.
As they strolled back to the house again, Renway pulled out his watch.
“I shall have to attend to some business now,” he said. “You’ll be able to spend your time making the acquaintance of the other men who are helping me.”
They entered the house by another door, and went down a long dark low-ceilinged corridor which led into a large panelled room lighted by small leaded windows. Simon ducked his head automatically, but found that he could just stand upright under the black oak beams which crossed the ceiling. There was a billiard table in the centre with a strip of carpet laid round it, and an open brick fireplace at one side, but the room had the musty dampness of disuse.
“March House is rather an architectural scrap-heap,” Renway explained impersonally. “You’re in the oldest part of it now, which goes back to the fifteenth century. I discovered this quite by accident…”
“This” was a section of panelling, about five and a half feet by three, which sprang open on invisible hinges—Simon could not see exactly what the other did to open it. Renway fumbled in the dark aperture and switched on a light.
“I don’t know where the passage originally went to,” he said, as they groped their way down a flight of rickety wooden stairs. “At present it leads into the cellars. There used to be an ordinary entrance from a more modern part of the house, where the kitchen is now, but I had that bricked up.”
The Saint in London (The Saint Series) Page 21
