Leslie Charteris - The Saint Abroad

“Where are we going?” she gasped. “They haven’t shot Tom, have they?”

“I’m going over the wall, and you should know whether they’ve shot Tom or not.”

“I don’t know! It was just...”

“I believe you. Listen. Get away from here. Catch a taxi and check in at the Hilton — you can say you missed your last train home, since you’ve got no luggage. Stay in your room until I contact you. All right?”

“All right.”

“Good girl. Now, if you’ll excuse me...”

They were next to the wall at its nearest distance to the house, in a sort of alleyway between it and the next building. Simon stepped back, and then with a light leap he caught the top of the wall and swung his body up and over it.

On the inside, he set off at a run toward the rear of the house. That area was lighted only by a single diffuse floodlight, and no one seemed to be keeping watch. With the night guard to testify that he had been at the front gate when the shot was fired, he had no fear of being accused of having anything to do with that, and now he only wanted to get to the scene of shooting as fast as possible. He remembered the location of the Prime Minister’s study, which was near a corner of the building opposite the side on which he had entered the grounds.

When he reached the study windows he heard excited voices inside. One of the windows was open, its curtains stirring in the cold night air. Simon, in the light which came from the room, looked at the wet, soft earth along the side of the house. The only footprints were his own.

He hoisted himself up on the windowsill and vaulted into the study.

The effect on the people already there was dramatic in the extreme. Anne Liskard, who was in her nightgown, screamed. A half-dressed manservant fell back against the entrance door. Todd and Stewart, in pajamas and dressing gowns, froze and gaped. Another man, in a suit, had his hand on the telephone.

The only member of the tableau who did not react was Thomas Liskard. He was seated in his large chair with his head on the desk. In one of his hands was a pistol. Blood covered one side of his head and stained the blotter where it lay.

“What are you doing here?” Stewart demanded of the Saint in a shocked voice.

“I was at the gate when I heard the shot, so I got here as soon as I could — over the wall and around the house. I thought I might catch somebody trying to run away.”

“You’ll have some explaining to do yourself,” Todd said. “But he shot himself. There was nobody to run away.”

Anne Liskard had been sobbing as Simon entered, but now she broke in frantically. “Why doesn’t somebody do something?”

“We can’t do much, really,” Todd replied in a lower voice. “He’s dead.”

Simon was bending over Liskard. Below the hand which held the gun was a scrawled note.

“There’s no other way for me.”

The Saint touched Liskard’s wrist. The man who was dressed, who turned out to be the secretary, was dialing a number on the telephone.

“Get away from him,” Stewart snapped, coming toward the Saint.

Simon straightened up and addressed the secretary.

“Who are you calling?”

“The police, of course.”

“Make it an ambulance,” said the Saint. “The Prime Minister is still alive.”

The Saint’s words had almost as electric an effect as his entrance into the study had had. Anne Liskard gave a sharp cry and ran to her husband. The men stared.

“Better not touch him,” Simon said. “The sooner a doctor gets to him the better.”

The secretary called for an ambulance, and set about herding out the lesser members of the staff.

“Are you sure?” asked Todd, the Foreign Minister. “He doesn’t seem to be breathing.”

“Try his pulse,” Simon said.

The others, satisfied that Liskard was alive, broke into a babble of conversation.

“Call Chief Inspector Teal of Scotland Yard,” Simon said to the secretary. “He knows I’ve been working with Liskard on a problem of his. He’ll want to know about this, I’m sure. I’m surprised you haven’t heard from him already this evening.”

“We have,” the secretary said. “I took a call from him to Mr Liskard about twenty minutes ago. I’m to monitor calls, you know, and take notes. It seems the police had just picked up a man named Peterson, who was suspected of being in on some scheme about the Prime Minister.”

“Who else knew about the call?” Simon asked.

“Todd and I were saying good night to him in his room when the call was put through,” Stewart said. “But really — you’re taking a lot on yourself, questioning us as if we were...”

“The Prime Minister asked me yesterday evening to help him,” Simon replied. “He’ll confirm that if he’s able.”

“But why would he do this?” Stewart wanted to know.

“It’s my fault!” Anne Liskard blurted suddenly. “He and I had a scene tonight, when we were alone, and I wouldn’t listen to any explanations from him, or forgive him. I...”

“He’d hardly kill himself over a family quarrel,” Stewart said gently.

“It was more than that,” the woman said. “You’ll all know anyway. The newspapers know. There were letters... from Tom to... another woman.” Her voice broke, and then she went on. “Somebody sent some of them to me, with a note saying others were going to the newspapers. Tom asked me to keep it quiet, but I... I lost my temper, of course. I told him this was the end of his career.”

She began to cry, and sank down into a chair. The secretary, meanwhile, had completed his call to Scotland Yard. He went to the hall to speak to members of the delegation and staff who were being kept from the study by some senior member of the group.

“In any case,” Todd said heavily, “it does seem to be the end of his career.” He picked up a stack of papers near Liskard’s elbow. “These apparently are photostats of the letters. Just the first one’s enough to...”

He broke off, with a glance at the Prime Minister’s wife.

“But the papers would think twice about printing that kind of thing, unless they had absolute proof that it wasn’t forged,” Simon said. “And I don’t mind saying this next in front of Mrs Liskard, since it ought to make her feel better. When you think of it, honestly, what sort of shocking news is it when a man, even a man in politics, got himself involved in a personal entanglement of this kind?”

“It could ruin him politically,” Todd insisted. “Especially at this point.”

“I’ve heard those sorts of rumors about almost every head of state in the world,” Simon said, “and I’m sure I’m not the only citizen who hears them. Something like this actually might be good for a man in Liskard’s place. People are more sympathetic with the victim of a blackmail plot than they are disgusted with a man who shows some manly weaknesses.”

A siren was approaching, growing louder along the street in front of Nagawi House.

“Well what exactly is your point?” Stewart asked.

“That we keep all this quiet — about the letters?” Todd speculated dubiously.

“I’m suggesting that there’s much more to this supposed blackmail plot than we seem to be assuming,” the Saint answered. “It never made a lot of sense anyway. Now it’s coming clearer what’s really going on.”

“What?” Stewart asked.

A still partially unbuttoned butler let himself back into the room.

“The ambulance is here. They’re on their way in.”

The next ten minutes were taken up with the removal of Liskard on a stretcher to the ambulance. At the end of that time, as the ambulance was pulling out of the drive, its blue light spinning above the driver’s compartment, a police car with a similar spinning light pulled in the other side. Simon, who was standing on the steps of the house with the others, watched expectantly as the rotund form of Chief Inspector Teal evacuated itself from the car and puffed heavily up to the group. As he was about to speak, Teal’s eyes fell on the Saint and his preparatory air of self-importance collapsed to a semblance of mere controlled dignity.