Leslie Charteris - The Saint Goes On

"That fellow had something on his mind," said the detective, astutely pursuing this Machiavellian plan.

"If you could call it a mind," said the Saint, docilely surrendering the fruits of his cerebration.

Teal screwed up a scrap of pink paper in his pudgy fingers.

"I suppose he'd come into all Ripwell's money, if a bomb went off as it was meant to."

"Don't forget he'd come into all Mrs. Ellshaw's money as well — and mine," said the Saint, with the utmost kindness. "And I'll bet he'd need it all. There's a beautiful motive in that, waiting for some bright detective to dig it out, Claud. I expect Ripwell gives him a perfectly miserly allowance, don't you? Ripwell strikes one as that sort of man."

Mr. Teal's mouth tightened — he was an amiable man in most ways, but he had a train of memories behind him which were apt to start a quite unreasonably truculent inflammation in his stout bosom when the Saint smiled at him so compassionately and said things which made him feel that his legs were being playfully lengthened. He might even have responded with fatal rudeness, if he had had time to compose a sufficiently crushing retort; but Lord Ripwell joined them again before this devastating gem of repartee was polished to his mordant satisfaction.

"Inspector Oldwood will be over in ten minutes," said his lordship. "He's bringing some ammunition for my gun — I wish I knew where the damned thing was." He went to the french window that opened on to the garden at the side, and peered out. "Hey, Martin!"

It was nearly dark outside, and the air had turned cool directly the sun went down. Simon Templar, lighting one of Lord Ripwell's cigars by the mantelpiece, wondered if that seasonable evening chill was enough to account for the way Kenneth Nulland seemed to be shivering when he came in behind the secretary.

"Martin, where is that damned revolver? I haven't seen it for months."

"I think it's in the loft," said Irelock. "Shall I have a look for it tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" repeated Ripwell, screwing up his face like a disappointed schoolboy. "Eh? What? I want it now. Suppose this gang comes back tonight? Nonsense. What's the matter with looking for it now?"

"Right-ho," said Irelock peaceably. "I'll look for it now."

"Right-jolly-old-ho," echoed Nulland, peeling himself off the edge of the table in his undulating boneless way. "And I must be tootling along. Cheerio, Pop. Sorry I can't stay longer, but jolly old Jumbo Ferris is always complaining about me being late for his parties. Toodle-oo, Martin—"

Mr. Teal cleared his throat.

"Just a minute, Mr. Nulland," he said. "There are one or two small questions you might be able to help us with before you go."

The young man's restless eyes travelled about the room.

"What are they? I don't know anything."

"Have you ever met a man named—"

"Look!"

It was Irelock's voice, sharp and unnatural. Wheeling round to look at him, the Saint saw that his face was tense and startled, his weak eyes in their tortoiseshell frames staring rigidly at the window.

"What is it?" snapped Teal.

"A man looked in — just now — with a mask on his face. I saw him—"

Teal put his gum away in the side of his mouth and waded towards the casement with surprising speed for a man of his flabby dimensions, but Simon was even quicker. His hand dropped on the detective's shoulder.

"Wait for it, Claud! You may be just ballast at Scotland Yard, but you're the light of my life — and I'd hate you to go out too soon. Switch off those lights, somebody!"

It was Lord Ripwell who carried out the order; and the Saint's voice went on speaking in the dark.

"Okay, souls. Now you can get on with it. But try to remember what I told you about standing in front of lighted windows — and watch your step outside. Will someone show me the way to the back door?"

"I will," barked Ripwell eagerly.

He grabbed Simon by the arm and hustled him into the hall. Irelock called out: "Shall Ken and I take the front?"

"Do that," said the Saint, and slipped out his automatic as he followed Ripwell into the kitchen.

"I wish I knew where that damned revolver of mine was," said his lordship plaintively, as he shot back the bolt of the trades door.

The Saint smiled.

"Since you haven't got it, you'd better let me go first. And put down that cigar — it's a swell target."

He slipped out into the cool darkness, thumbing down the safety catch of his gun with an absurd feeling of unreality. The night was moonless, and the sky was a film of deep grey, only a shade lighter than the dull black of the earth and the trees. A stir of the air that was too soft even to be called a breeze brought the mingled scents of the river and damp grasses to his nostrils: everything was so suddenly quiet and peacefully commonplace after the boisterous confusion of their dispersal that he almost put his gun away again and laughed at himself. Such things did not happen. And yet — he would have liked to know why Kenneth Nulland was afraid, and what his reaction to the name of Ellshaw would have been Crack !

The shot crashed out from the front of the house, and a shout followed it. He heard the roar of an engine, and all the feeling of unreality vanished. As he raced up the strip of turf under the shadow of the wall he heard a shrill cry for help, in what sounded like Kenneth Nulland's voice.

Crack!

A tongue of flame split the blackness ahead, and he heard Lord Ripwell gasp at his heels. He whipped up his gun and fired at the flash — there was no danger of mistaken identity there, for on the analysis they had held a short while ago he was the only one of the party who was armed. Therefore the other gun belonged to one of the raiding party — however many of them there were. It spoke again, and the thunder of his second shot rang out on the reverberations of the first, but it was blind shooting with a hundred chances to one against a hit.

Someone ran over the grass and plunged through the cupressus hedge into the road, and the car's engine roared louder. Simon tore recklessly in pursuit, and came out into the gravelled lane as the flaring headlights leapt towards him. A man lurched out of the darkness and struck at him, catching him on the shoulder; and the Saint spun round and caught the striking wrist. The forefinger of his other hand took up the resistance of the trigger.

"Are you ready to die?" he said softly.

"Oh, Lord!" ejaculated Martin Irelock.

Simon let him go, and turned round again as the red tail light of the car whirled round the near corner.

"Hell!" He dropped the gun in his pocket. "Maybe I can catch them with my car."

He ran over the drive and leapt into the seat of the Hirondel. There was not a sound when he pressed the starter button, and he slid his hand along under the dash and felt wires trailing loose. It would take precious minutes to get out a light and re-connect them, and by that time the chase would be hopeless. With a sigh he opened the door and stepped down again; and then a match flared some distance away, and he heard Teal's voice.

"Give me a hand, someone."

He went back to the corner of the house; and saw that the man who lay on the ground, with Teal bending over him, was Lord Ripwell.

The match flickered out, and Teal struck another. Ripwell's eyes were open, and he was breathing painfully.

"Don't bother about me — I'm not hurt. Just a scratch. I'll — be all right. Did you get — any — of those villains?"

"I'm afraid not," said the Saint grimly.

They picked him up and carried him into the house. The bullet had passed through his chest just below the right shoulder — there was an ugly exit wound which had smashed his shoulder-blade, but the internal injuries were probably clean.