Leslie Charteris - Follow the Saint

Simon raised his glass and gazed appreciatively at the sparkling brown clearness within it.

"All right," he said. "If you want it that way. So you knew Nora Prescott had written to me. You came to the Bell to see what happened. Probably you watched through the windows first; then when she went out, you came in to watch me. You followed one of us to the boathouse—"

"And we ought to have told the police—"

"Of course." The Saint's voice was mild and friendly. "You ought to have told them about the letter. I'm sure you could have quoted what was in it. Something about how she was being forced to help in putting over a gigantic fraud, and how she wanted me to help her. Sergeant Jesser would have been wild with excitement about that. Naturally, he'd 've seen at once that that provided an obvious motive for me to murder her, and none at all for the guy whose fraud was going to be given away. It really was pretty noble of you both to take so much trouble to keep me out of suspicion, and I appreciate it a lot. And now that we're all pals together, and there aren't any policemen in the audience, why don't you save me a lot of headaches and tell me what the swindle is?"

The girl stared at him.

"Do you know what you're saying?"

"I usually have a rough idea," said the Saint coolly and deliberately. "I'll make it even plainer, if that's too subtle for you. Your father's a millionaire, they tell me. And when there are any gigantic frauds in the wind, I never expect to find the big shot sitting in a garret toasting kippers over a candle."

Forrest started towards him.

"Look here, Templar, we've stood about enough from you—"

"And I've stood plenty from you," said the Saint, without moving. "Let's call it quits. We were both misunderstanding each other at the beginning, but we don't have to go on doing it. I can't do anything for you if you don't put your cards on the table. Let's straighten it out now. Which of you two cooled off Nora Prescott?"

He didn't seem to change his voice, but the question came with a sharp stinging clarity like the flick of a whip. Rosemary Chase and the young man gaped at him frozenly, and he waited for an answer without a shift of his lazily negligent eyes. But he didn't get it.

The rattle of the doorhandle made everyone turn, almost in relief at the interruption. A tall cadaverous man, severely dressed in a dark suit and high old-fashioned collar, his chin bordered with a rim of black beard, pince-nez on a loop of black ribbon in his hand, came into the room and paused hesitantly.

Rosemary Chase came slowly out of her trance.

"Oh, Dr Quintus," she said in a quiet forced voice. "This is Mr Templar and — er—"

"Hoppy Uniatz," Simon supplied.

Dr Quintus bowed; and his black sunken eyes clung for a moment to the Saint's face.

"Delighted," he said in a deep burring bass; and turned back to the girl. "Miss Chase, I'm afraid the shock has upset your father a little. Nothing at all serious, I assure you, but I think it would be unwise for him to have any more excitement just yet. However, he asked me to invite Mr Templar to stay for dinner. Perhaps later…"

Simon took another sip at his beer, and his glance swung idly over to the girl with the first glint of a frosty sparkle in its depths.

"We'd be delighted," he said deprecatingly. "If Miss Chase doesn't object—"

"Why, of course not." Her voice was only the minutest shred of a decibel out of key. "We'd love to have you stay."

The Saint smiled his courteous acceptance, ignoring the wrathful half movement that made Forrest's attitude rudely obvious. He would have stayed anyway, whoever had objected. It was just dawning on him that out of the whole fishy set-up, Marvin Chase was the one man he had still to meet.

"Boss," said Mr Uniatz, rising to his feet with an air of firm decision, "should I go to de terlet?"

It was not possible for, Simon to pretend that he didn't know him; nor could he take refuge in temporary deafness.

Mr Uniatz's penetrating accents were too peremptory for that to have been convincing. Simon swallowed, and took hold of himself with the strength of despair.

"I don't know, Hoppy," he said bravely. "How do you feel?"

"I feel fine, boss. I just t'ought it might be a good place."

"It might be," Simon conceded feverishly.

"Dat was a swell idea of yours, boss," said Mr Uniatz, hitching up his bottle.

Simon took hold of the back of a chair for support.

"Oh, not at all," he said faintly. "It's nothing to do with me."

Hoppy looked puzzled.

"Sure, you t'ought of it foist, boss," he insisted generously. "Ya said to me, de nex time I should take de bottle away some place an' lock myself up wit' it. So I t'ought I might take dis one in de terlet. I just t'ought it might be a good place," said Mr Uniatz, rounding off the resume of his train of thought.

"Sit down!" said the Saint, with paralysing ferocity.

Mr Uniatz lowered himself back on to his hams with an expression of pained mystification, and Simon turned to the others.

"Excuse us, won't you?" he said brightly. "Hoppy's made a sort of bet with himself about something, and he has a rather one-track mind."

Forrest glared at him coldly. Rosemary half put on a gracious smile, and took it off again. Dr Quintus almost bowed, with his mouth open. There was a lot of silence, in which Simon could feel the air prickling with pardonable speculations on his sanity. Every other reaction that he had been deliberately building up to provoke had had time to disperse itself under cover of the two consecutive interruptions. The spell was shattered, and he was back again where he began. He knew it, and resignedly slid into small talk that might yet lead to another opening.

"I heard that your father had a nasty motor accident, Miss Chase," he said.

"Yes."

The brief monosyllable offered nothing but the baldest affirmation; but her eyes were fixed on him with an expression that he tried unavailingly to read.

"I hope he wasn't badly hurt?"

"Quite badly burned," rumbled the doctor. "The car caught fire, you know. But fortunately his life isn't in danger. In fact, he would probably have escaped with nothing worse than a few bruises if he hadn't made such heroic efforts to save his secretary, who was trapped in the wreckage."

"I read something about it," lied the Saint. "He was burned to death, wasn't he? What was his name now—"

"Bertrand Tamblin."

"Oh, yes. Of course."

Simon took a cigarette from his case and lighted it. He looked at the girl. His brain was still working at fighting pitch; but his manner was quite casual and disarming now — the unruffled conversational manner of an accepted friend discussing a minor matter of mutual interest.

"I just remembered something you said to the sergeant a little while ago, Miss Chase — about your having noticed that Nora Prescott seemed to be rather under a strain since Tamblin was killed."

She looked back at him steadily, neither denying it nor encouraging him.

He said, in the same sensible and persuasive way: "I was wondering whether you'd noticed them being particularly friendly before the accident — as if there was any kind of attachment between them."

He saw that the eyes of both Forrest and Dr Quintus turned towards the girl, as if they both had an unexpectedly intense interest in her answer. But she looked at neither of them.

"I can't be sure," she answered, as though choosing her words carefully. "Their work brought them together all the time, of course. Mr Tamblin was really father's private secretary and almost his other self, and when Nora came to us she worked for Mr Tamblin nearly as much as father. I thought sometimes that Mr Tamblin was — well, quite keen on her — but I don't know whether she responded. Of course I didn't ask her."