Leslie Charteris - Prelude for War

Valerie had moved round on the Saint's left. She was beside the nearest Son of France, twisting her hands round to reach the revolver in his holster.

Simon's eyes raked the man's face. Was this the one who would first find the courage to take his chance? If not, with two guns instead of one in the Saint's hands, the odds might be altered again. Or would it be one of the others? Other faces loomed on the outskirts of the Saint's vision. Which of them had the courage to call for a showdown? And then a door opened stealthily on the Saint's right. He saw the movement out of the corner of his eye at the same time as the soft sound reached his ears; and irresistibly he turned partly towards it. The muzzle of his revolver turned with him. He saw a tall scrawny figure, a vacant idiot's face lighted by pale maniacal eyes, and knew at once where he had seen it before. It was the face and figure of the killer in Kennet's photograph; and it had an automatic clutched in one bony hand.

And at that moment Lady Valerie cried out, and the Saint knew what must have happened in the fractional instant while his vigilance was drawn away. He fired before he turned.

He knew that his shot scored, but he could not be certain where. A glimpse of the killer sagging in the middle flashed across his retina as he whirled to the left. Then he could see only the scene that was waiting for him there.

The Son of France whose gun Lady Valerie was trying to take had seized his chance while he had it, and made a grab at her, trying to throw her in front of him to shield his body. But her backward start had momentarily marred the completion of his manoeuvre, and there was about twelve inches of space between them. Through those twelve inches the Saint sent a bullet smashing into the man's breastbone, so that he staggered and let go and drooped back until the wall kept him from falling. But by that time, in the grace that they had been given, four other guns were out. Every gun except Luker's — if Luker had a gun. And the Saint knew that he could never silence them all.

Quite coolly and deliberately he levelled his sights between Luker's eyes. Other gun muzzles were settling upon him, other eyes crisping behind the sights, other fingers tightening on triggers; but he seemed to have all the time in the world. Perhaps he had all the time in eternity… But whatever happened he must make no more mistakes. This was the last thing that he could do. His body was braced against the shock of lead that must soon be ploughing from four directions through his flesh and bone; but none of that must stir his aim by as much as a summer breeze. Not until he had placed exactly where he wanted them the two shots that had to stand as the last witnesses to everything to which he had given his tempestuous life… He did not feel any doubt or any fear.

He squeezed the trigger, and the revolver jumped in his hand. A round black mark appeared in Luker's forehead, and while Simon looked at it the rim of it turned red.

And then the room seemed to be full of thunder.

The Saint felt nothing. He wondered, in a nightmarishly detached sort of way, whether he had actually been hit or not. But he was able to turn and align his sights without a quiver on their next target.

And that was when he really felt that something must have snapped in his brain. For Colonel Marteau was not even looking at him. He was standing stiffly upright, a strangely drawn and bloodless expression on his face, his right arm down at his side and the muzzle of his gun resting laxly on the table. And somewhere a little further off Bravache seemed to be sliding down the wall, like a lay figure whose knee joints have given way. And there was a blue-shirted figure squirming on the floor and making queer moaning noises. And another pair of blue-sleeved arms raised high in the air. And another door open, and grim-visaged armed men swarming in, men in plain clothes, men in the uniforms of gendarmes and agents de police and the black helmets of the Gardes Mobiles. And among them all two men who could only have been the ghosts of Peter Quentin and Hoppy Uniatz, with automatics smoking in their hands. And another man, short and dapperly dressed, with a blue chin and curled moustaches and bright black eyes, who seemed to be armed only with a cigarette in an amber holder, who strode up between them and bowed to the Saint with old-fashioned elegance.

"Monsieur Templar," he said, "I only regret that your message reached me too late to save you this inconvenience."

The Saint had no idea what he was talking about; but he could never have allowed the prefect of police of Paris to outdo him in courtesy.

"My dear Monsieur Senappe," he said, "really, it's been no trouble at all."

"That's a nice bit of chinchilla," said the Saint.

"It is, isn't it," said Lady Valerie Woodchester, rubbing her cheek luxuriously on her shoulder.

They had met quite by chance in Piccadilly. Simon took her into the Berkeley and bought her a sherry.

"By the way," she said very casually, "I think I'm going to be married soon."

"Quite right, too," he approved. "A healthy, good-looking girl like you ought to get married. Who's the unlucky man?"

"Don Knightley — Captain Knightley. You remember him don't you? He rescued me from the fire."

"So he did." The Saint laughed quietly; but it was a rather thoughtful kind of laugh. "Damn it, that was less than a month ago."

"Is that all?" she said. "It seems ever so much longer than that. Just think — only a month ago everything was ordinary, if you know what I mean. John and Ralph and Luker were alive, and General Sangore… Why do you think General Sangore shot himself?"

"I suppose he thought it was the best way out for him," said the Saint soberly. "Probably he wasn't so far wrong at that. Anyway, let's drink to him."

He raised his glass.

She looked at him curiously.

"It's funny that you should do that," she said.

"Is it? I don't think so. We shouldn't be having this drink together now if it hadn't been for him."

"I don't understand."

"Don't you? I thought perhaps you might. But haven't you ever wondered why all those policemen poured into that cellar in the nick of time, just like the last instalment of a Pearl White serial?"

"Well, I heard what Senappe said. He got a message from you."

"How do you think he got it?"

"I don't know. I never really thought about it. But I suppose you did one of those frightfully clever things that you're famous for and got it to him somehow. Anyway your friend Peter and that Mr Uniatz were there, so I knew everything was all right, and all I can say is I thought it was pretty mean of you to keep it up your sleeve and let me go through that perfectly paralyzing emotional orgy—"

"I didn't put you through any emotional orgy," he said steadily. "You see, I never sent anybody any message."

She stared at him.

"You never—"

"Of course not. If you think a bit, you'll see that I never had the chance to."

"Then—"

"Sangore sent it."

Her face was blank almost to incredulity.

"But—"

"I know all the buts, darling. And I don't suppose I shall ever know much more. I can only imagine that when Luker told the others exactly what was meant to happen to us, and even had the nerve to tell Sangore that we were being stored at Bledford Manor — that's where we spent half the night, if you didn't know it — it was a bit too much even for Sangore to swallow. The Old School Tie rose up and pointed accusing fingers at him, if you can follow the metaphor."

The Saint's flippancy was only in his words. His voice was not flippant and his eyes were very clear and unlaughing.

"Anyway, I only know what happened. Sangore rang up Peter at the Raphael that night. It must have been some time after we were taken away from Bledford. He told him what had happened to us, and where we were being taken, and what was going to happen to us, and all about the secret way into the Sons of France's headquarters, through the back of a cheap cafe a couple of blocks away. And he told him all about the plot against Chaulage and the rest of it, and gave him enough dope to make the police sit up and take notice. It was Sangore who told him to go to the prefecture. It was about the one thing that convinced Peter that the whole thing wasn't a trap. Peter was in a pretty tough spot, but he knew that he couldn't hope to take over that headquarters with just Hoppy and Orace to help him, and he figured that if Sangore really wanted him to go to the police there must be something in it. So he took his chance. Fortunately it wasn't too hard to make the prefecture sit up, partly because a few rumours of a coup d'etat had been leaking out and bothering them, and partly because Senappe doesn't like the Sons of France at all and he'd just been praying for a break like that. The only other thing Sangore did was to make Peter swear that he'd report the message as having come from me and leave Sangore himself right out of it. As far as I can make out, the old boy must have shot himself as soon as he rang off. I suppose he knew that he was in for it after that, anyway, and he preferred to go out without any mud on him. That's why none of us ever said anything. But I think you ought to know." He touched the lapel of his coat. "I suppose, in a sort of way, he's the one who really ought to have worn this."