“Okay, boys,” he said. “Now you think of a game.”
Renway’s forefinger weighed on the trigger.
“You fool!” he said almost peevishly.
“Admitted,” said the Saint. “Nobody ought to walk backwards without eyes in the back of his head.”
Renway had also picked up the diary, which Simon had dropped in the struggle. He put it back in his pocket.
The Saint’s brain was turning over so fast that he could almost hear it hum. He still had Enrique’s letter—and the bundle of cash. There was still no reason for Renway to suspect him of anything more than ordinary stealing: his taking of the diary was not necessarily suspicious. And Simon understood very clearly that if Renway suspected him of anything more than ordinary stealing, he could, barring outrageous luck, only leave March House in one position, which would be depressingly and irrevocably horizontal.
Even then, there might be no alternative attitude, but it was worth trying. Simon had a stubborn desire to hang on to that incriminating letter as long as possible. He took out the sheaf of bonds and banknotes and threw them on the desk.
“There’s the rest of it,” he said cynically. “Shall we call it quits?”
Renway’s squinting eyes wandered over him.
“Do you always expect to clear yourself so easily?” he asked like a schoolmaster.
“Not always,” said the Saint. “But you can’t very well hand me over to the police this time, can you? I know too much about you.”
In the next moment he knew he had made a mistake. Renway’s convergent gaze turned on to Petrowitz, who was massaging his stomach tenderly.
“He knows too much,” Renway repeated.
“I suppose there’s no chance of letting bygones be bygones and still letting me fly that aeroplane?” Simon asked shrewdly.
The nervous twitch which he had seen before went over Renway’s body, but the thin mouth only tightened with it.
“None at all, Mr Tombs.”
“I was afraid so,” said the Saint.
“Let me take him,” Petrowitz broke in with his thick gruff voice. “I will tie iron bars to his legs and fire him through one of the torpedo tubes. He will not talk after that.”
Renway considered the suggestion, and shook his head.
“None of the others must know. Any doubt or fear in their minds may be dangerous. He can go back into the cellar. Afterwards, he can take the same journey as Enrique.”
Probably for much the same offence, Simon thought grimly, but he smiled.
“That’s very sweet of you, Hugo,” he remarked, and the other looked at him.
“I hope you will continue to be satisfied.”
He might have been going to say more, but at that moment the telephone began to ring. Renway sat down at the desk.
“Hullo…Yes…Yes…speaking.” He drew a memorandum block towards him and took up a pencil from a glass tray. With the gun close to his hand, he jotted down letters and figures. “Yes, G-EZQX. At seven…Yes…Thank you.” He sat for a little while staring at the pad, as if memorising his note and rearranging his plans. Then he pressed the switch of a microphone which stood on the desk beside the ordinary post office instrument. “Kellard?” he said. “There is a change of time. Have the Hawker outside and warmed up by seven o’clock.”
He picked up the automatic again and rose from the desk.
“They’re leaving an hour earlier,” he said, speaking to Petrowitz. “We haven’t any time to waste.”
The other man rubbed his beard.
“You will be flying yourself?”
“Yes,” said Renway, as if defying contradiction. He motioned with his gun towards the door. “Petrowitz will lead the way, Mr Tombs.”
Simon felt that he was getting quite familiar with the billiard-room, and almost suggested that the three of them should put aside their differences and stop for a game, but Renway had the secret panel open as soon as the Saint reached it. With the two men watching him, Simon went down the shaky wooden stair and heard the spring door close behind him.
He sat down on the bottom step, took out his cigarette-case, and computed that if all the cellars in which he had been imprisoned as an adjunct or preliminary to murder had been dug one underneath the other, they would have provided the shaft of a diametric subway between England and the Antipodes. But his jailers had not always been so generous as to push him into the intestines of the earth without searching him, and his blue eyes were thoughtful as he took out his portable burgling kit again. Renway must have been going to pieces rapidly to have overlooked such an obvious precaution as that, but this meant, if anything, that for a few mad hours he would be more dangerous than before. The attack on the gold plane would still be made, Simon realised, unless he got out in time to stop it. It was not until some minutes after he had started work on the door that he discovered that the panel which concealed it was backed by a solid plate of case-hardened steel…
It was a quarter past six when he started work, by his wrist watch; it was five minutes past seven when he got out. He had to dig his way through twelve inches of solid brick with a small screwdriver before he could get the claw of his telescopic jemmy behind the steel panel and break the lock inwards. Anyone who had come that way must have heard him, but in that respect his luck held flawlessly. Probably neither Renway nor Petrowitz had a doubt in their minds that the tempered steel plate would be enough to hold him.
He was tired and sweating when he got out, and his knuckles were raw in several places from accidental blows against the brickwork which they had suffered unnoticed in his desperate haste, but he could not stop. He raced down the long corridor and found his way through the house to the library. Nobody crossed his path. Renway had said that the regular servants would all be away, and the gang were probably busy at their appointed stations, but if anyone had attempted to hinder him, Simon with his bare hands would have had something fast and savage to say to the interference. He burst recklessly into the library, and looked out of the French windows in time to see the grey shape of the Hawker pursuit plane skimming across the far field like a bullet and lofting airily over the trees at the end.
Simon lighted another cigarette very quietly, and watched the grey ship climbing swiftly into the clear morning sky. If there was something cold clutching at his heart, if he was tasting the sourest narrowness of defeat, no sign of it could have been read on the tanned outline of his face.
After a second or two he sat down at the desk and picked up the telephone.
“Croydon 2720,” he called, remembering the number of the aerodrome.
The reply came back very quickly.
“I’m sorry—the line is out of order.”
“Then get me Croydon Police Station.”
“I’m afraid we can’t get through to Croydon at all. All the lines seem to have gone wrong.”
Simon bit his lip.
“Can you get me Scotland Yard?”
He knew the answer to that inquiry also, even before he heard it, and realised that even at that stage of the proceedings he had underestimated Sir Hugo Renway. There would be no means of establishing rapid communication with any vital spot for some hours—that was because something might have gone wrong with the duplicate wireless arrangements, or one of the possible rescue ships might have managed to transmit a message.
The Saint blew perfect smoke-rings at the ceiling, and stared at the opposite wall. There was only one other wild solution. He had no time to try any other avenues. There would first be the business of establishing his bona fides, then of convincing an impenetrably sceptical audience, then of getting word through by personal messenger to a suitable headquarters—and the transport plane would be over the Channel long before that. But he remembered Renway’s final decision—“None of the others must know”—and touched the switch of the table microphone.
“Kellard?” he said. “This is Tombs. Get my machine out and warmed up right away.”
“Yessir,” said the mec
hanic, without audible surprise, and Simon Templar felt as if a great load had been lifted from his shoulders.
Probably he still had no chance, probably he was still taking a path to death as certain as that which he would have trodden if he had stayed in the cellar, but it was something to attempt—something to do.
Of course, there was a radio station on the premises. Renway had said so. But undoubtedly it was well hidden. He might spend half an hour and more looking for it…
No—he had taken the only way. And if it was a form of spectacular suicide, it ought to have its diverting moments before the end.
It was only natural that in those last few moments he should think of Patricia. He took up the telephone again and called his own number at St. George’s Hill. In ten seconds the voice of Orace, who never seemed to sleep, answered him. “They’ve gorn,” Orace informed him, with a slight sinister emphasis on the pronoun. “Miss ’Olm says she’s sleepin’ at Cornwall ’Ouse. Nobody’s worried ’er.”
Simon called another number.
“Hullo, sweetheart,” he said, and the Saintly voice had never been more gentle, more easy and light-hearted, more bubbling over with the eager promise of an infinite and adventurous future. “Why, I’m fine…No, there hasn’t been any trouble. Just an odd spot of spontaneous combustion in the withered brain-cells of Claud Eustace Teal—but we’ve had that before. I’ve got it all fixed…Never mind how, darling. You know your Simon. This is much more important. Now listen carefully. D’you remember a guy named George Wynnis, that I’ve talked about soaking some time?…Well, he lives at 366 South Audley Street. He never gets up before ten in the morning, and he never has less than two thousand quid in his pockets. Phone Hoppy to join you, and go get that dough—now! And listen.”
“You’re crazy,” she said, and he laughed.
“I am and I’m not,” he said. “But this time I have the perfect alibi, and I want to get you every cent I can lay hold of before I cash in my chips.” The lilt in his voice made it impossible to take him literally. “God bless you, keed,” he said. “Be seein’ ya!”
He hung up the handpiece and leaned back in his chair, inhaling the last puffs of his cigarette. Surely, this time, he had the perfect and immutable alibi. A dry sardonic smile touched his lips, but the fine-cut sapphires in his eyes were twinkling. It would give Claud Eustace something more to think about, anyway…He looked out of the windows, down the long gentle slope that was just being gilded by the sun, and he saw his own Tiger Moth standing beside the old tithe barn, the propeller lost in a swirling circle of light, the mechanic’s hair fluttering in the cockpit, a thin plume of haze drifting back from the exhaust. The sky was a pale crystalline eggshell-blue, clear and still as a dream, a sky that could give a man pleasant memories to carry with him into the long dark…
Without conscious thought, he hauled out his helmet from a side pocket, pulled it over his head, buckled the strap, and adjusted the goggles on his forehead. And he was doing that when a shadow fell across the desk and he looked up.
A broad-shouldered portly form, with a round cherubic pink face and small baby-blue eyes, crowned with an incongruous black bowler hat of old-fashioned elevation, was filling the open French doors. It was Chief Inspector Teal.
10
Simon sprang up impetuously.
“Claud!” he cried. “I never thought I should be glad to see your huge stomach—”
“I thought you might be here,” said the detective stiffly.
He came on into the room, but only far enough to allow Sergeant Barrow to follow him through the window. With that end accomplished, he kept his distance. There was still a puffy tenderness in his jaw to remind him of a fist like a chunk of stone driven by a bolt of lightning, which had reached him once already when he came too near.
“It must be this deductive business that Scotland Yard is taking up,” Simon remarked more slowly.
Teal nodded without relaxing.
“I knew you were interested in Renway, and I knew you’d been here once before—when Uniatz knocked out the policeman. It occurred to me that it’d be just like you to come back, in spite of everything.”
“In spite of hell and high water,” Simon murmured with a faint smile, “we keep on doing our stuff. Well, it’s not a bad reputation to have…But this time I’ve got something more important to say to you.”
“I’ve got the same thing to say to you as I had last time,” said the detective, iron-jawed. “I want you, Saint.”
Simon started round the desk.
“But this is serious!”
“So is this,” said Teal implacably. He took his right hand out of his pocket, and there was a gun in it. “I don’t want to have to use it, but I’m going to take you back this time if it’s the last thing I do.”
The Saint’s eyes narrowed to shreds of flint.
“You’re damn right it’ll be the last thing you do!” he shot back. And then his tensed lips moved into the thinnest of dim smiles. “Now listen to me, you great oaf. You want me for being mixed up with a guy named Hoppy Uniatz who smacked a cop on the button outside here the other night. Guilty. But you also want me for the murder of Manuel Enrique and the knocking off of an aeroplane from Hawker’s. Not guilty and not guilty. That’s what I wanted to see you for. That’s the only reason on earth why I couldn’t have been more glad to see anything else walk in here than your fatuous red face. I want to tell you who you really do want!”
“I know who I want,” answered Teal stonily.
“Yeah?” The Saint’s voice was one vicious upward swoop of derision. “Then did you know you were standing inside his house right now?”
Mr Teal blinked. His eyes began a fractional widening; his mouth began an infinitesimal opening.
“Renway?” he said. And then the baleful scepticism came back into his face with a tinge of colour. “Is that your new alibi?” he jeered.
“That’s my new alibi,” said the Saint, rather quickly and quietly, “and you’d better listen to it. Did you know that Renway was the man who stole that aeroplane from Hawker’s?”
“I didn’t. And I don’t know it yet.”
“He brought it here and landed it here, and I watched him. Go down to that field out there and have a look at the scars in the grass where he had his flares, if you’re too dumb to believe me. Did you know that he had a submarine in a cave in the cliffs, with live torpedoes on board?”
“Did I know—?”
“Did you know that the crew of the submarine have been sleeping in a secret room under this house for months? Did you know they were the toughest bunch of hoodlums I’ve seen in England for years?”
“Did I—”
“Did you know,” asked the Saint in a final rasp, “that three million pounds in gold is on its way flying from Croydon to Paris right now while you’re getting in my hair with your blathering imitation of a bum detective—and Renway has got everything set to shoot it down and set up a crime record that’ll make Scotland Yard look more half-witted than it’s ever looked since I started taking it apart?”
The detective swallowed. There was an edge of savage sincerity in the Saint’s voice which bit into the leathery hide of his incredulity. He suffered a wild fantastic temptation to begin to listen, to take in the preposterous story that the Saint was putting up, to consider the items of it soberly and seriously. And he was sure he was making a fool of himself. He gulped down the ridiculous impulse and plunged into defensive sarcasm.
“Of course I didn’t know all that,” he almost purred. “Is Einstein going to prove it for you, or will Renway admit it himself?”
“Renway will admit it himself,” said the Saint grimly. “But even that won’t be necessary. Did you know that these ten tons of gold were being shipped on aeroplane G-EZQX, which took off from Croydon at seven?” He ripped the top sheet off the memorandum block on the desk, and thrust it out. “Do you know that that’s his handwriting, or will you want his bank manager to tell you?”
“It doesn’t matter much whether it’s his writing, or your version of it,” he said, with an almost imperceptible break in the smoothness of his studied purr. “As a Treasury official, Renway has a perfect right to know anything like that.”
“Yeah?” Simon’s voice was suddenly so soft that it made Teal’s laboured suaveness sound like the screech of a circular saw. “And I suppose he had a perfect right to know Manuel Enrique, and not say anything about it when he brought him into the police station at Horley?”
“Who says he knew Enrique?”
The Saint smiled.
“Not me, Claud. If I tell you he did, it’ll just make you quite sure he didn’t. This is what says so.”
He put his hand in his pocket and took out the letter which he had found in the safe. “Or maybe I faked this, too?” he suggested mildly.
“You may have done,” said Teal dispassionately, but his baby-blue eyes rested with a rather queer intensity on Simon’s face.
“Come for a walk, Claud,” said the Saint gently, “and tell me if I faked this.”
He turned aside quite calmly under the muzzle of Teal’s gun, and walked to the door. For no earthly reason that he could have given in logical terms, Mr Teal followed him. And all the time he had a hot gnawing fear that he was making a fool of himself.
Sergeant Barrow followed Mr Teal because that was his job. He was a fool anyway, and he knew it. Mr Teal had often told him so.
In the billiard-room, Simon pointed to the panel sagging loose on its hinges as he had torn it off—the hole he had chipped through the wall, the wooden stairway going steeply down into the chalk.
“That’s where those six men have been living, so that the ordinary servants never knew there was anything going on. You’ll find their beds, and everything. That’s where I was shut up when they got wise to who I was, and that’s where I’ve just got out of.”
Teal said nothing for several seconds. And then the most significant thing was not what he said, but what he did.
He put his gun back in his pocket, and looked at the Saint almost helplessly. No one will ever know what it cost him to be as natural as that. But whatever his other failings may have been, Chief Inspector Teal was a kind of sportsman. He could take it, even when it hurt.
The Saint in London (The Saint Series) Page 23
