Leslie Charteris - The Saint Abroad

“You asked for it, Templar,” Benson said with forced toughness.

That was when Mary Bannerman picked up the heaviest thing she could lay hands on — a large metal Thermos jug — and slammed him on the back of the head. He fell to his knees without so much as a grunt, and Simon finished lulling him to sleep with a charitably restrained toe of his shoe.

“You’re a bright girl, Mary. Now please untie me before that other creep decides to drop back in.”

“I don’t know,” she said hesitantly. “You’ll turn Jeff in, and...”

“Mary, do you realize what’s going on? This scheme you got yourself involved in is no righteous crusade to force a bad leader out of office. It’s a power play, and it means upsetting a very delicate equilibrium if it goes through. And when equilibrium is upset in a place like Nagawiland it means more than new elections. It means disemboweled women and men skinned alive...”

Mary flinched.

“I know,” she said. “I’ve seen pictures.”

“Well, you’ll be seeing a lot more pictures like that if we don’t manage to stop your friend Jeff. Liskard may be a rat in your book, and he may not be the best leader in the world, but he’s a lot better than most.”

Mary came to him and began tugging at the knots which held his wrists.

“I feel like a traitor,” she said bitterly.

“If it makes you feel any better, Liskard never had any thought of using you — which I’m afraid is more than I can say for Jeff Peterson.”

“Tom told you that?”

“Yes. Whatever he did, there was nothing coldblooded about it.”

She stopped untying Simon’s wrists.

“Still, I can’t just... turn Jeff in like this. Isn’t there some way we could stop him without having him... put in jail or anything like that? Especially since I might get put in jail too, for helping him.”

“We’ll see,” Simon said. “In the meantime...”

He had been testing the bonds which still held his arms together. Mary had loosened them enough that he was able, with a sudden twisting movement and some quick work with his fingers, to tear them away. As he did it, he spun to face her.

“In the meantime,” he concluded, “you don’t have to feel guilty. I got away all by myself.”

She was frozen for a moment, and then she made a dive for the chart book, which she had dropped on one of the bunks. Simon knocked it aside and caught her squirming body up against his.

“See?” he said. “No guilt. You even fought back and tried to stop me.”

“I could scream,” she said tentatively.

She was squirming less. Simon smiled.

“Well, don’t. We need one another. Try using your head for a change. Can you do anything except pose for pictures?”

“Such as what?”

“Such as cast off those lines while I get this scow’s engine set to go. We’ll drift out quietly, then turn on the power and take off full speed.”

Mary did not offer any more arguments or resistance.

“I’ll handle the engine,” she said. “I’ve done it before.”

They both went on deck as soon as Simon had used the rope that had been taken from his own wrists to tie up, Benson. The fog was thickening, and he could scarcely see beyond the fence which ran along the shore, which conveniently meant that Rogers would not be able to see the boat either. Within a few seconds the Saint had cast off both lines and sent the boat drifting toward midstream with a shove of his foot against the bank. He joined Mary Bannerman at the wheel. The bow had been headed upstream. Now, as the current caught it it began to turn downstream toward London and the sea. The shore was five feet away, then ten, but the boat had still not entered the main current in the center of the river. The eddies it formed near the shore began to move the boat back toward land.

“Start it,” Simon whispered.

Mary Bannerman turned the ignition key. The engine turned over, coughed, and died.

“It’s tricky,” she said.

The boat had moved downstream only a few yards. It was turning and drifting back toward the bank. Mary tried the starter again. The engine seemed to catch, then stopped. In the abrupt silence Simon heard running footsteps on the murky shore.

“He’s heard us,” Mary said.

“Try it again before we run aground.”

The Saint hurried to the stern, which seemed the part of the boat most likely to strike land first. The starter was grinding loudly. Rogers was yelling as he ran through the fog.

“Benson! What’s happening? Is that you?”

Then suddenly he appeared among trees and mist on the bank as the engine at last grumbled into full rhythm. The propeller bit into the mud and then pushed free. The boat began to move back toward midstream. Rogers had already drawn his pistol, and he tossed off a wild shot in their general direction. The Saint ducked hastily behind the deckhouse.

“Get down!” he shouted to Mary Bannerman.

“Full speed ahead,” she cried, “and damn the torpedoes!”

Rogers fired out of the fog three more times in rapid succession. One of his bullets smashed a pane of glass a few inches from the girl’s head. She dropped to her knees, still holding the wheel. Simon heard her feeble exclamation.

“Oh, my...”

Rogers, who was just barely visible, started to run down the riverside parallel to the boat, but with the help of the current they were moving much faster than he could, and then he slipped and tripped over something and went sprawling.

“That’s one torpedo we won’t have to worry about any more for the present,” Simon said.

“He — he really was shooting at us,” Mary stammered shakily.

She got to her feet and Simon steadied her with an arm around her shoulders as he took the wheel.

“That’s revolution,” he said. “Remember, you can’t make an omelet without...”

“I know, I know,” Mary said.

Simon squinted into the misty dark.

“There’s just one thing. I wish you transformers of society had picked a more suitable time of year for your egg cracking. Like Easter, for instance.”

“What’ll we do now?”

“Get to a telephone, and then back to London as fast as possible.”

“In this?”

“No. We should be able to get a cab in Windsor even at this hour. In the meantime, tell me everything you know about this plot against Liskard.”

“You know it,” she said. “Jeff got the letters from me. We were going to send them to the papers and force Tom to resign.”

“Why all the pussyfooting around? Why didn’t you just publicize the letters right away without tipping Liskard off?”

Mary frowned and shook her head. Simon was piloting the boat, and she was standing close to him, hugging herself to keep warm.

“It seemed unnecessary to me. A bit extra sadistic. It was Jeff who insisted on it. I thought it would be safer and better all around if we just got it over with as fast as possible.”

“That would have been the reasonable way,” the Saint agreed. “So unless your boyfriend’s unreasonable he must have had something else in mind.”

“Don’t call him my boyfriend,” Mary said bitterly. “And what else could he have had in mind?”

“Something much worse than you did.”

“What?”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Simon said grimly. “I see lights up ahead.”

The cluster of lights the Saint had seen through the fog marked the site of a cottage on the right bank of the river. There was a sound of loud dance music even above the rumble of the boat’s engine.

“Maybe we can get a lift into London from there,” Simon said to Mary Bannerman.

Then came a muffled shout from below.

“Hallo! Who’s there?”