Leslie Charteris - The Saint Goes On

"What was your story again?" he asked.

The Saint repeated it, in greater detail; and this time there were no interruptions. When it was finished, the four men looked at one another almost bashfully, like members of a Civic Reform committee who have caught each other buying nudist magazines. Something compromising had certainly been done. There had, perhaps, been a slight technical departure from the canons of good form and unblemished purity. But nothing, of course, that had not been done with the most impeccable motives — that could not, naturally, be explained away with a few well-chosen words delivered in an austere and dignified and gentlemanly tone.

The other three turned automatically to Jeffroll, tacitly appointing him their spokesman; but perhaps this failure to respond immediately was understandable. The innkeeper had lowered his gun some minutes before, but the strained pallor of his face had altered only in degree.

"Then — then that means Garthwait has got her!" he stammered. "And if Yestering — if Yestering's gone over to him… or he may even have been the man who put Garthwait on to us — nobody else knew. Then it'll all have been for nothing — they'll use our work and divide the money…" Suddenly, absurdly, his weak pathetic eyes turned to the Saint in helpless appeal. "What are we going to do?"

Simon smiled.

"I'd like to help you," he remarked lazily, "but I'm afraid it always cramps my style when I'm tied up."

"Sorry, old boy," drawled Captain Voss, for after all he was an officer and a gentleman, and had once played cricket for Oxford.

He stepped forward to undo the wire; but he had barely started fumbling with it when there was a scutter of quick lurching footsteps in the passage outside, and the door burst open with a crash.

It was the big black-haired man, Kane, who reeled in under the startled eyes of his companions. His shirt was ripped into two great trailing fragments, and he was clutching one side of his head dizzily. A small trickle of blood ran down his cheek from under the heel of his hand. He stared at the scene for a moment and then nodded weakly, sagging against the jamb of the door.

"Good," he said huskily. "We've still got one of the swine, anyhow."

"What the hell are you talking about?" demanded Portmore, with the reaction of his nerves indexed in the unnecessary loudness of his voice. "This fellow's all right — we made a mistake. What's happened?"

Kane glared at him with bloodshot eyes.

"Who made a mistake?" he rasped. "That pal of his — that Yankee thug — came out just now. After Yestering. He tried to hit me with the butt of his gun — did it, too. Laid me out. When I woke up I was lying in the hall — and he'd got away!"

Simon Templar wriggled his cramped limbs into the most comfortable position he could find, and tried to doze. There was really nothing to encourage him in this relaxation, for even the most ascetic of mortals might find it difficult to fall into a peaceful sleep while lying on a hard floor with his hands tied behind his back, and the mental serenity which might have made these physical discomforts tolerable was noticeably lacking. The Saint scratched an itching part of his nose by rubbing it against the edge of the carpet, and contemplated the inscrutable capriciousness of Life.

Six hours ago he had been on the very point of removing himself from under the aim of a thunderbolt with masterly adroitness and aplomb. Five and three-quarter hours ago he might have been in complete control of the situation, with Jeffroll and the Four Horsemen sitting in eager humility at his feet while he planned and ordered their counterattack with crisp and inspiring efficiency. But during that vital quarter of an hour things had gung, as they had with Robert Burns' immortal mouse, distressingly agley.

They had, fairly enough, given him a chance to explain the conduct of Mr. Uniatz; but for once in his life the Saint felt as if he had been hit below the belt. He had been swatted with the full force of the sort of situation which he had himself so often used on Chief Inspector Teal, of Scotland Yard; and he admitted the poetic justice of the reversal without enjoying it any the more for that.

"The damn fool must have gone off his rocker," was the only thing he had honestly been able to say; and even now, five hours and three quarters later, he could think of no other explanation. The psychological motivations of Hoppy's mind remained, as they always had been, shrouded in the unpenetrable darkness of the Styx. Down in the forest of Mr. Uniatz's fogbound brain, something occasionally stirred; and only God Almighty could predict what would develop from one of those rare bewildering feats of cerebral peristalsis.

Simon tried to derive some consolation from the fact that he was not dead yet.

On the other hand, he wasn't far off it. Major Portmore, in his bluff healthy way, had been the first to advocate a resumption of threats of violence; but he had been overruled. At least their previous conversation had done something to shake the meeting's confidence in itself, and to restore a tendency to sober and judicial thinking. And Julia Trafford's letter remained as one unshaken scrap of evidence in the Saint's favour. Jeffroll was sure it wasn't a forgery, and Voss admitted that to call it a forgery would have postulated an almost unbelievable amount of foresight and cunning on the Saint's part. Weems said: "Oh, absolutely. But—" and continued to stare vacuously at his finger-nails. Kane, with his head still bloody and aching from the impact of the butt of Hoppy's Betsy on his temple, was pardonably inclined to side with Portmore; but Jeffroll had lost some of the fire which had temporarily wiped out his natural self. During the argument, a little more information came out. The big moment, it appeared, was actually scheduled for that very night: everything had been done, the work finished, everything prepared, and Yestering in his lawful capacity of a solicitor had visited the prison the previous afternoon to warn his client. The Saint listened quietly, co-ordinating what he heard; and his veins tingled. It was too late for the hotel confederacy to turn back, and they would gain nothing by doing so. Luck had timed his arrival at the Clevely Arms on the very peak of eventfulness; but whether that luck was good or bad seemed to be highly doubtful.

"What's the use of finding out where Julia is?" Jeffroll summed up the situation. "Even if we knew we were getting the truth. Garthwait told us what'd happen if we tried to get her back; and I believe he'd be capable of it. I'd rather lose everything than risk that."

"What about the police?" Portmore suggested awkwardly, but the innkeeper shook his head.

"Garthwait's threat would still hold good — he'd be all the more vicious. Besides, if they got him, he'd be sure to let out the rest of it, just for revenge. That'd mean we should all suffer. There's no need for all of you to be sacrificed — oh, I know you're going to say you don't care, but I wouldn't allow it. No. We can still go on, and get Julia back in exchange for B. W… And after that, if we've still got this fellow, we may be able to drive another bargain in exchange for him."

His grim hurt eyes turned back to the Saint with a sober implacable resentment that was perhaps more terrible than his first frantic passion; and Simon Templar remembered that look, and Kane's significant grunt of acquiescence, during all those hours in which he had nothing else to do but estimate his own nebulous prospects of survival.

They had at least allowed him to eat — a plate of cold meat and somewhat withered-looking salad had been brought to him at two o'clock. His hands had been untied; but Kane and Portmore — Portmore re-possessed of his shot-gun — had stood over him while he ate it. The Saint had no doubt that Portmore would have had a fatal accident with the gun — "not knowing it was loaded" — if he had made any attempt to escape; and he saved his strength for a better opportunity. Neither of the men spoke a word while he was eating, and for once Simon had no time to spare on polishing the lines of back-chat with which he would ordinarily have amused himself in goading his jailers to the verge of homicide — he was wise enough to know that homicide must be already close enough to the forefront of their minds. After the meal was finished, his wrists were bound again, and he was left to resume his uncomfortable contemplations.