Leslie Charteris - Prelude for War

"Have you tried this for insomnia?" asked the Saint conversationally, and brought up his right hand in a smashing uppercut.

The man's teeth clicked together; his knees gave; he buckled forward without a sound, and Simon let him fall. He went back to the entrance of the building.

"All clear," he said in a low voice. "Make it snappy."

He led the way back to the black sedan and picked up his sleeping patient. There was a board fence on the opposite side of the road, above which rose the naked girders of another new apartment building under construction. Simon applied scientific leverage, and the patient rose into the air and disappeared from view. There was a dull thud in the darkness beyond.

Simon crossed the road again. The loading of freight had been completed with professional briskness while he was away. Already Peter Quentin was at the wheel; and Hoppy Uniatz, sitting crookedly beside him in the other front seat, was covering the three men who were bundled together in the back. The engine whirred under the starter.

Simon looked in at the prisoners, and particularly at the staring cringing eyes of Bravache.

"It won't hurt much, Major," he said, "and you ought to be proud to be a martyr for the flag… On your way, boys."

He stood and watched the receding taillight of the car until it turned the corner at the end of the street; and then he strolled slowly back to the entrance of the building. He waited there less than five minutes before a dark Daimler limousine swept into the street and drew up in front of the door.

The Saint leaned in the open window beside the driver and kissed her.

"What's been happening?" asked Patricia.

In a few sentences he let her know as much as he knew himself; and while he was speaking he rummaged in the nearest side pocket of the car. He found what he was looking for — a chauffeur's blue cap — and set it at an angle on her curly head.

"I'll be back in a minute," he said.

When he re-entered the flat Lady Valerie Woodchester was dressed. She came out of the bedroom carrying a small valise.

"What's happened to everyone?" she asked in surprise.

"Peter and Hoppy have removed the exhibits," he said irrepressibly. "They'll get what's coming to them somewhere else. We didn't want to make any more mess for you here."

The edges of pearly teeth showed on her underlip.

"Could you call me a taxi?"

"I could do better. I sent for one of my more ducal cars, and it's waiting outside now. You won't mind if I see you as far as the Carlton, will you? I don't want you to be put to the trouble of having to call me out again tonight."

For a moment he thought she was going to lose her temper, and almost hoped that she would. But she turned her back on him and sailed out into the corridor without a word. He followed her into the elevator, and they rode down in supercharged silence. At the door he helped her into the Daimler and settled himself beside her. The car moved off.

They drove a couple of blocks without a word being spoken. Lady Valerie stared moodily out of the window on her side, scowling and biting her lips. The Saint was bubbling inside.

"A penny for them," he said at last.

She turned on him with sudden fury and looked him wrathfully up and down.

"You make me sick!" She flared.

The Saint's eyebrows rose one reproachful notch.

"Me?" he protested aggrievedly. "But why, at the moment? What have I done now?"

She shook her shoulders fretfully.

"Oh… nothing," she said. "I'm fed up, that's all."

"I'm sorry," said the Saint gravely. "Perhaps you've had a dull evening. You ought to get about more — go places, and meet people, and see things. It makes a tremendous difference."

"You think you're very funny, don't you?" she flashed. "You and your blonde girl friend — the world's pet hero and heroine!" She paused, savouring the sting of her own acid. "She is nice looking — I'll give her that," she went on grudgingly. "But I just wish she'd never been born… Oh well, perhaps we can't all be heroines, but there's no reason why the rest of us shouldn't have a pretty decent time. You'll be a bit fed up yourself when Algy and Luker get those papers, won't you?"

"Are you quite sure you aren't going to give them to me?" he said.

She laughed.

"I suppose you think I ought to give them to you for saving my life," she jeered extravagantly. "With tears of gratitude streaming down my cheeks, I should stammer: 'Here they are — take them.' That's why you make me sick. You go about the place rescuing people and being the Robin Hood of modern crime, and then you go back to your blonde girl friend and have a grand time being told how wonderful you are. So you may be; but it just makes me sick."

"Well, if you feel sick, don't keep on talking about it — be sick," said the Saint hospitably. "Don't worry about the car — we can always have it cleaned."

She gave him a withering glare and turned ostentatiously away. She seemed to want to make it quite clear that his conversation was beneath her contempt and that even to endure his company was a martyrdom. She huddled as far away from him as the width of the seat permitted and resumed her scowling out of the window.

The Saint devoted himself to the tranquil enjoyment of his cigarette and waited contentedly for the climax which he knew must come before long.

It came after another five minutes.

All at once her eyes, fixed vacantly on the window, froze into a strange expression. She sat bolt upright.

"Here," she blurted. "What the… Where are we going? This isn't the way to the Carlton!"

Obviously it wasn't; they were down at the Chelsea end of the Embankment, heading west.

"Have you noticed that already?" said the Saint imperturbably. "How observant you are, darling. Now I suppose I can't keep my secret any longer. The fact is, I'm not taking you to the Carlton."

She caught her breath.

"You — you're not taking me to the Carlton? But I want to go to the Carlton! Take me there at once! Tell the chauffeur to turn round—"

She leaned forward and tried to hammer on the glass partition. Quite effortlessly the Saint pushed her back.

"Shut up," he said calmly. "You make me sick."

"W-what?" she said.

She stared at him with solemn wide-open eyes as if he were some strange monster that she was seeing for the first time.

"It's no use both of us being sick," he pointed out reasonably. "It would be a deafening duet."

"I don't know what good you think this is going to do you," she said haughtily. "If you think you're going to protect me, or anything like that—"

"Protect you?" he said, with bland incomprehension. "Who — me? Darling, that would never enter my head. I know you can look after yourself. But I want to take care of you for my own sake. You see, it wouldn't suit me at all if you sold those papers to Fairweather or Luker. I want them too much myself. So I just want to keep an eye on you until I get them."

"You — you mean you're kidnapping me?" she got out incredulously.

But somehow she did not sound quite so indignant.

"That's the idea," he said equably. "And it's my duty to tell you that if you try to scream or kick up any sort of fuss I shall have to take steps to stop you. Quite gentle steps, of course. I shall just knock you cold."

"Oh!" she said.

She was sitting up very straight, one hand on the seat beside her, the other clutching the armrest at her side. Simon lounged at ease in his own corner, but he was watching her like a hawk and his hands were ready for instant action. He had no wish to use violence, but he would have had no compunction about it if it became necessary. He was fighting for something bigger than stereotyped chivalry, something bigger than the incidental hurt of any individual. He was the point of a million bayonets.