Leslie Charteris - Catch the Saint

“Are you still gonna back out?” Ryner insisted.

“No.”

“Well, so what are you gonna do?”

“Don’t push me,” said the Saint. “I never thought I’d have to make the toughest choice of my life twice in one day. Just let me know where I can contact you later, this afternoon. I’ve got a date to keep first.”

Simon no longer wanted to meet Carole for lunch but he knew that he had to. She threw her arms round him happily when she got out of her taxi at the William Penn Grill, where he was waiting for her, forcing the noontime river of surging protoplasm to wash round them on the sidewalk. The air was fresh and crisp after the recent rains. Brilliant sunshine brought dazzling highlights to Carole’s long blond hair, which was obviously fresh from the attentions of a beauty parlor. A heavy drizzling overcast and impenetrable fog would have been more suitable to the Saint’s mood, but now he put on the false face he had not worn in Lieutenant Stacey’s office. He had plenty of deception ahead of him, so he might just as well start now.

“Last night I wondered if I’d ever see you again,” Carole was chattering happily, squeezing his hand as they went in. “I really did. Now here we are. And I’m simply dying to hear your story about last night. It had better be good!”

It was impossible to put her off for longer than it took to order cocktails.

“I’m afraid it’s terribly dull,” he said. “But it makes me feel pretty stupid. I had to look up these... business connections, and I found they had rather riotous ideas about conferences. They had to show me the town as a warm-up. And I ended up losing track of the time. To put it bluntly, I was out cold for a while.”

“I would have thought,” she said meditatively, “that the Saint had a stronger head than that.”

He was able to keep his mask expressionless.

“What saint?”

“It’s no good,” she said, and her eyes were still twinkling. “I know who you are. You were mean not to tell me yourself.”

“Who did tell you?”

“My father. He thought he recognised the name, and he checked it up. Or Dick Hamlin did. They always worry about me.”

“But it didn’t worry you?”

“I was thrilled. So long as you weren’t getting murdered somewhere... Now, what did really happen last night?”

“Just what I’ve told you, skipping the gory details. On my honour,” he told her truthfully.

Her eyes would not shift from his face.

“Well, do you have to have any more of these conferences?”

He rubbed his brow ruefully.

“I should hope not. I’d rather retire in one piece, if I thought I could afford to.”

“You could afford to.” Her fingers lay on his wrist, only for a moment. “I see I’ll have to show you how to enjoy life.”

Somehow he got through the lunch. Carole’s thoughts were all on the future — tomorrow, next week, next month. She pictured herself and Simon together at the theatre, on rides, at parties, on country walks, sprawled in front of a fireplace in the evening. Simon’s thoughts were walled in by this single day, whose ending would form a stone barrier between him and Carole. He knew how she would really feel tomorrow, and it would not be as she now imagined.

But he smiled and laughed and asked questions, while evading answering any himself. He did caution her that his life wasn’t a long vacation... that he was going to have things to do and places to go in the weeks to come. Nothing so minor as that could squelch her exuberance. Life was just beginning. Give her a chance, and she could make anything possible.

When Carole fell she fell hard, and there was nothing the Saint could do now to cushion the crash at the bottom.

He wanted to end his own ordeal as quickly as possible. Her bright blue eyes, her soft expressive lips, were working at his defences like the summer sun on a block of ice. He could not look at her without a shattering impulse to take her in his arms and kiss her.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to cut this short,” he told her over coffee. “If I’m going to take a holiday, I’ve got some loose ends I must tidy up first.”

“You said you’d had enough of those conferences.”

“Of last night’s kind, yes. This one is a bit different.”

She took a gold cigarette-case from her purse, and a cigarette from it.

“Is it getting rid of that other woman?” she accused, less seriously.

“Not only her, but all the children,” he said glibly, and gave her a light from the match booklet on the table. “By the way, does your father know you’re out with me now?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And he didn’t object?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I see. But he’ll be pacing up and down till you get home safely.”

“They say that walking’s wonderful exercise for men of his age—”

She broke off as another man materialised seemingly from nowhere beside their table. From being perplexed, she became dumbfounded as he sat down quietly in the vacant chair opposite her and proffered an open wallet that displayed a badge and an identity card.

“Police Department.” He took the cigarette from her fingers and stubbed it out in the ashtray. “I believe this contains marijuana, and that you have others like it in your possession. You are under arrest, and will be formally charged at Headquarters.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Carole exploded. “Do you know who I am?”

“You bet I do, lady. We’ve been watching you for quite some time. Now will you come quietly, or will I beckon up some help and we can all get our pictures in the papers?”

“This has got to be a mistake,” Simon protested. “I didn’t smell any marijuana when I lit that cigarette — and I know the smell. She’s got a right to call a lawyer—”

The look that Lieutenant Stacey turned on him was as cold as if they had never met.

“After we’ve booked her, smarty. Or you can do it for her as soon as we’ve left. Unless you’d rather come along too, and be charged with aiding, abetting, conspiring, and anything else we might think up.”

Carole turned to stare at the Saint in blank desperation.

“Don’t get yourself in dutch, Simon,” she said huskily. “This has got to be a frame-up. Get in touch with my father. He’ll know what to do.”

“Okay,” the Saint promised stonily, knowing precisely what that acquiescence would mean.

Hyram Angelworth lounged in an armchair in his living-room idly scanning The Wall Street Journal to the accompaniment of soft music from the record player. He did not hear a sound beyond the strains of Guy Lombardo until a firm, resonant voice almost at his elbow said, “Good evening, Hyram.”

For a split second it seemed to him that the voice must have come from the radio, since he was alone in the apartment. But as his hands jerked the newspaper with surprise, and he looked up, he saw that he was not alone. Simon Templar stood next to him, tall and grim, but as relaxed as if they had just met by chance in the street.

“What are you doing in here?” Angelworth spluttered. “How did you get into my apartment?”

“Generally I walk through walls, but in this case it was simpler: I borrowed your daughter’s key for a few minutes and had a duplicate made. She didn’t know it of course. She’s too fond of you for that, poor misguided girl.”

Angelworth dropped the paper to the floor as he stood up. His voice was unsteady.

“Where is Carole? Isn’t she here? She said she was going to lunch with you.”

Angelworth was looking round as if someone else must surely have entered the room with Simon.

“Your daughter’s social life isn’t what I’ve come to talk to you about,” said the Saint. “I’ll let you have it very straight: I know this is the Supremo’s address, and I’m here to talk to the Supremo.”