Leslie Charteris - The Saint 49 Count On The Saint

Chantek scrambled out of the Hirondel and looked at the Saint uncertainly.

“Stay here and watch Darslow’s car,” he ordered, and without further explanation he vaulted over the gate and sprinted towards the spinney which the professor was entering.

He covered the quarter mile of steep gradient in a shade over sixty seconds and reached the edge of the copse before Darslow had made his way very far into it. With the skill of an Indian scout Simon dodged quickly and soundlessly between the trees until he was no more than a good stone’s throw behind the professor.

Darslow tramped as quickly as the undergrowth would allow along a diagonal course that eventually brought him out on a footpath that bisected the wood and linked the fields either side of the ridge. In a moment he went behind a bush, knelt down, and seemed to be unwrapping his mysterious package.

Simon moved stealthily closer. From the corner of his eye he could see the first of the hounds enter the gap between the trees. Close on their tails came the huntsman and the whips, followed by other riders led by the colonel.

The top of the ridge formed a small plateau some two hundred yards across, and the leading riders were still only a third of the way into the wood when the crack of a single pistol shot sliced like a bullwhip through the still morning air.

Every bird in Cambridgeshire seemed to take wing at once. Their squawks and the noise of their flapping wings almost managed to cover the startled cries of the other riders and the neighing of the colonel’s mount as it reared. But the colonel made no sound. He appeared to move in grotesque slow motion as his arms flew wide and he pitched backwards out of the saddle and lay still where he landed.

The riders who had been nearest him reined in their horses sharply, wheeling them as if instinctively forming a protective cordon around the shot man, while those who had been bringing up the rear of the hunt spurred forward to see what was happening. One of the leaders tried to wave them back as the huntsman dismounted and knelt anxiously beside the spread-eagled figure.

For a quartet of heartbeats the Saint stayed as motionless as the tree that shielded him while his brain absorbed the full import of what he had witnessed. The shot had sounded fairly close and from somewhere directly ahead. As his eyes probed the terrain to try to pinpoint its exact source, the bushes quivered and Darslow half rose from his hiding place less than a dozen yards away.

The undergrowth was denser here than in the part of the wood through which he had stalked the professor. The briers ran like hurdles between the rose-set trees, and together with the carpet of decaying leaves and twigs made moving both quickly and silently almost impossible. Simon opted for speed rather than stealth. Had Darslow been alert he could easily have heard the Saint coming but he was too preoccupied with what was happening along the path to his left.

The first the professor knew of his approach was when Simon’s forearm snaked across his vision and clamped across his throat. At the same time a band of steel seemed to fasten on his right wrist as his arm was bent back and hoisted roughly along the line of his spine. The message in his ear was unchallengeable.

“One squeak and I’ll break your arm. Understood?”

Darslow nodded his head the fraction that was all the freedom the Saint’s hold allowed.

Simon released his grip on the other’s wrist but kept the back hammer in position with the pressure of his body. With fast and expert thoroughness he ran his free hand over the professor’s clothes. When the search produced no weapon he switched his attention to the ground, but the only object in view was the mysterious parcel which lay open at Darslow’s feet. It did not contain a Santa Claus costume as the Saint had originally half hoped. Instead, all that spilled from the waterproof wrapping was a large bundle of rags which exhaled a malodorous mixture of aniseed and paraffin.

Along the path the riders’ initial shock was beginning to wear off. Others had now dismounted and were standing or stooping uncertainly around the colonel’s body. Another scarlet-coated man appeared to be taking charge. He shouted instructions in an authoritative tone that easily carried the hundred yards to where Simon and Darslow stood, detailing two members of the hunt to go for help. As they turned their horses and set off at a gallop back towards the village, he turned his attention to some braver souls who were beginning to explore the woods on either side and another who was edging cautiously along the track.

“Come back, you fools, do you want to get killed as well?” he called, and they hesitated, neither returning to the cluster around the colonel nor going farther.

The Saint sensed that their indecision was temporary. They were younger than most of their companions and looked as if they might find the gamble exciting. He and Darslow were protected by a thick screen of trees and bushes which would also hinder the horses if the riders decided to comb the wood, but if they rode along the path they would certainly be seen.

“Where’s the gun?” Simon demanded softly.

“I never had one,” Darslow gasped. “I only meant to sabotage the hunt. Someone else — I didn’t see—”

The denial had an unmistakeable ring of truth, and Simon relaxed his throttling grip.

Events had moved quicker than the time taken to relate them and it was still barely three minutes since the sniper had fired. But the Saint grimly acknowledged that the lapse was likely to be more than long enough.

He found no fault with his own reactions. Darslow had been the obvious suspect and the Saint had tackled him without considering an alternative. He had tracked the professor diagonally across the wood and felt confident that he would have spotted anyone else hiding there. But the path split the wood in two and the other half was unexplored territory.

He dragged Darslow down so that the undergrowth screened them as much as possible, and released him.

“Go back the way you came and go fast,” he whispered. “Try not to be spotted. I’ll see you later at the college.”

Without waiting to see if Darslow obeyed he covered the remaining few yards to the edge of the path, bent low, and then rose to sprint across the open glade. Someone shouted as the Saint reached the centre of the path, but he was moving fast with the line of his body turned away and, given the distance that separated them, he doubted that he would later be recognised. Meanwhile, that unavoidable glimpse of him would decoy any ambitious huntsman away from the direction that Darslow should have taken.

Once again hidden by the trees, he paused and looked back. The rider had made no attempt to follow up his sighting, but others who had been casting round at the sides of the path had now joined him, and the Saint guessed that their collective courage would be enough to prod them forward.

He glanced about him. This part of the wood was the same as the one he had just left, except that if anything the undergrowth was even wilder and the trees even closer together, offering the perfect cover for either a sniper or a fugitive.

He was aware of the recklessness of his actions. He was going unarmed in pursuit of a murderer who was not only packing a gun but knew how to use it, and use it well. And now his line of retreat was cut. But if Simon Templar had always bothered with such considerations there would have been very few stories to write about him.

He was about to move on when something glinting dully at his feet caught his eye. It was a spent cartridge, a .22 long rifle, and still not quite as cold as the ground when he picked it up. He slipped it into his pocket. The thick carpet of leaf mould was dented where the sniper had lain in wait. It was the perfect spot for an ambush, offering a clear view of anyone entering the wood from the direction of the village while at the same time providing the maximum amount of concealment.