Leslie Charteris - Send for the Saint

“So I don’t forget it. Ten years ago I chose. And that’s the kind of choice you only make once. I’ve chosen — I’m not going back on it.”

Nobbins studied Instrood and was conscious again of the similarities between them. Yet there was a difference, too — the important difference between self-confidence and uncertainty, success and failure, a difference that could somehow give the prisoner a moral advantage over his gaoler.

“You’re finished, Instrood,” he said, as if reciting a formula. “Those days are over for you now. Why not make it easy for yourself?”

“You mean easy for you. But why should I? Time’s on my side.”

“No cooperation, then?” Nobbins said mechanically.

“Voluntary? No.”

“But you’ll crack, sooner or later.”

“Every man does, when the real treatment begins.” Instrood shrugged. “Oh yes, I’ll crack — in the end.”

“But not till it’s too late?”

“Exactly. Not till agents have been replaced, lines of communication changed... I’ll crack all right. But not yet. And you won’t be the man to do it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“You’re a loser,” Instrood said more gently. “I can tell. Remember, I was like you, once. I was a loser. Time was, I wouldn’t have said boo to a goose. And they, these people” — he looked with distaste around the shabby office — “they never valued me, never appreciated me for what I was worth. But the Chinese did. They gave me power, gave me room to develop! The Chinese made me what I am today!”

And there was something very strong and sure and tough about Instrood as he leaned forward and flicked the switches of the two lamps on the desk so that his own face was flooded again with their dazzling light.

“Now I expect you’ll be anxious to get on to the nasty stuff — Mr Nobbins,” he said; and he settled back into the chair, with contempt registering in his features as before.

“All right, carry on, Corporal.” The Saint barked out the order with military crispness.

“Sir,” said Rockham, saluting smartly. Then to the men: “Squad — fall in!”

It was Friday morning — the last rehearsal for their afternoon mission.

“All right, lads.” Rockham was once again the calm commanding officer, his Corporal’s uniform notwithstanding. “This is the final check. For today’s fun and games you’ve got to look as Scottish as haggis.”

His gaze roamed over the line of men, their tartan trews and their tunics immaculately pressed, their rifles held parallel, their boots identically gleaming, their Tam o’shanters identically angled.

To Lembick he said: “Satisfied with all the details?”

“The Lowland Lights themselves would be proud of them, sir.”

“There’ll be no room for mistakes, Lembick.”

“You can rely on me.”

They arrived at Worplesford Cross three quarters of an hour later, Rockham and the Saint travelling in the jeep and the others in the three-tonner which had also been decorated with a small square of the Regiment’s distinctive tartan on the front fender. It took the Saint and Rockham another half hour to erect the diversion signs reading

at four strategically chosen junctions, ending up with the last sign at Worplesford Cross itself.

“That’ll give ’em a pleasant little round tour,” Rockham said with satisfaction.

The men and vehicles were well hidden under cover of a sparse wood near the junction when presently the real McCoy roared into view. The fake Lowlanders watched the jeep and lorry — bearing that same tartan patch — slow down at the sign, hesitate, then turn off exactly as they were supposed to do.

Rockham started the jeep, and the Saint heard the lorry’s engine clatter into life behind them.

And then they saw Ruth Barnaby’s car.

Ruth was driving. Beside her sat Lembick, with his revolver trained on her.

Lembick gestured with the gun, and she stopped and got out. He grabbed her by one arm and marched her to the jeep.

“Look what I found. In the trees further along.”

“The young lady who works at the Bull, isn’t it?” Rockham stroked his chin impassively.

The Saint’s pulses, and his thoughts, were racing, but outwardly he wore the sort of expression Rockham might have expected Gascott to be wearing — interested, concerned, but not personally involved.

“The little bitch had us under observation,” Lembick said.

“Did she, now?” said Rockham thoughtfully.

“And she was in contact with somebody, on a small portable radio.”

“That’s worse.” Simon could almost hear the motors humming efficiently in Rockham’s brain as he weighed the possibilities dispassionately. “Did you catch her before the real Lowlanders went off at a tangent, or after?”

“Just before.”

“So she won’t have reported the switch to whoever it was.” He turned his cold clear eyes on her. “I wonder if we’ve time to persuade her to — confide in us.” She returned his stare with a defiant toss of the head. “No, perhaps not... But we’ll need to decide quickly whether to proceed with the job. What do you think, Gascott?”

“I say go on,” Simon rasped. “I’d lay ten to one she’s working for your client.” He barely gave the girl a glance. “Inspecting his contractors on the job!”

Lembick stabbed a sudden accusing forefinger at him.

“Cawber saw him at the pub!” he snapped triumphantly. “During the cross-country race. He stopped to go to the loo. Or so we’re meant to think! But I know what I think. I think he’s in with her. This whole thing stinks of a set-up! I say abort!”

“I’m getting pretty tired of these accusations,” the Saint said, bristling. “Let’s get on with the job.”

Rockham switched his calm level glance back and forth between them.

“Difficult,” he said after a pause. “But on balance — we go on.” Suddenly he was totally decisive. “Put her in the back of the truck, Lembick. And tell Cawber to stay with her in the truck at the other end and keep her out of sight. I dare say we can manage with one man less in the platoon — and I never did find him a very convincing Scot. Now let’s get rolling.”

With a last murderous glance at the Saint, Lembick dragged her off.

Rockham spoke only once during the two-mile drive to Braizedown Hall.

He said blandly: “Exercise, I believe, is usually dehydrating. Or do you have a weak bladder? Anyhow, why didn’t you just stop behind any tree?”

“It wasn’t my bladder, it was my bowels,” Simon said bluntly, seeing no better answer, and conscious of Rockham’s pistol holster against his hip. “Something I must have had to eat at your health farm. But I guess Lembick will never be happy till he can hang something on me.”

Rockham’s silence seemed to accept the explanation, at least for the moment, but the Saint had an uncomfortable feeling that his act had taken a funambulist turn and that the rope was wearing perilously thin.

There were two sentries on the gate at Braizedown, paratroopers wearing the RP armband. They saluted and let the jeep and truck through to park in front of the guard hut, behind the similar vehicles of the outgoing Paras platoon. The main body of the Paras themselves were standing in loose formation along one side of the drive.

Captain Yates came across to the jeep as Rockham and the Saint got out.

Simon saluted smartly, and Yates returned the salute of his equal in rank.

“C Platoon, B Company, Second Battalion Lowland Light Infantry,” Simon said briskly. “One officer, twenty-eight men, reporting for guard duty.”