Leslie Charteris - Featuring the Saint

There was no doubt that his mind was made up; yet it was not without misgivings that Patricia departed on her mission: But she went; for she knew the moods in which the Saint was inflexible.

It was exactly three o'clock when the Saint, a trim and superbly immaculate and rather rakish figure, climbed out of his car at the end of Lemuel's drive, and sauntered up to the house.

"Dear old Francis!" The Saint was at his most debonair as he entered the celebrated impresario's library. "And how's trade?"

"Sit down, Templar."

The voice was so different from Lemuel's old sonorous joviality that the Saint knew that the story of "a severe nervous collapse" was not a great exaggeration. Lemuel's hand was unsteady as he replaced his cigar between his teeth.

"And what do you want now?"

"Just a little chat, my cherub," said the Saint.

He lighted a cigarette, and his eyes roved casually round the room. He remarked a tiny scrap of pink paper screwed up in an ash tray, and a tall Chinese screen in one corner, and a slow smile of satisfaction expanded within him-deep within him. Lemuel saw nothing.

"It's a long time since we last opened our hearts to each other, honeybunch," said the Saint, sinking back lazily into the cushions, "and you must have so much to tell me. Have you been a good boy? No more cocaine, or little girls, or any thing like that?"

"I don't know what you mean. If you've come here to try to blackmail me--"

"Dear, dear! Blackmail? What's that, Francis?-or shall I call you Frank?"

"You can call me what you like."

Simon shook his head.

"I don't want to be actually rude," he said. "Let it go at Frank. I once knew another man, a very successful scavenger, named Frank, who slipped in a sewer, and sank. This was after a spree; ever afterwards he was teetotal-but, oh, how unpleasant he smelt. Any relation of yours?"

Lemuel came closer. His face looked pale and bloated; there was a beastly fury in his eyes.

"Now listen to me, Templar. You've already robbed me once--"

"When?"

"D'you have to bluff when there isn't an audience? D'you deny that you're the Saint?"

"On the contrary," murmured Simon calmly. "I'm proud of it. But when have I robbed you?"

For a moment Lemuel looked as if he would choke. Then: "What have you come for now?" he demanded.

Simon seemed to sink even deeper into his chair, and he watched the smoke curling up from his cigarette with abstracted eyes.

"Suppose," he said lazily-"just suppose we had all the congregation out in the limelight. Wouldn't that make it seem more matey?"

"What d'you mean?"

Lemuel's voice cracked on the question.

"Well," said Simon, closing his eyes, with a truly sanctimonious smile hovering on his hips, "I really do hate talking to people I can't see. And it must be frightfully uncomfortable for Claud Eustace, hiding behind that screen over there."

"I don't understand--"

"Do you understand, Claud?" drawled the Saint; and Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal answered wearily that he understood.

He emerged mountainously, and stood looking down at the Saint with a certain admiration in his bovine countenance.

"And how did you know I was there?"

Simon waved a languid hand towards the table. Teal, following the gesture, saw the ash tray, and the discarded pink overcoat of the gum which he was even then chewing, and groaned.

"Wrigley," sighed the Saint, succinctly.

Then Lemuel turned on the detective, snarling.

"What the hell did you want to come out for?"

"Chiefly because there wasn't much point in staying where I was, Mr. Lemuel," replied Teal tiredly.

Simon chuckled.

"It's as much your fault as his, Francis, old coyote," he said. "If you must try to pull that old gag on me, you want to go into strict training. A man in your condition can't hope to put it over. . . . Oh, Francis! To think you thought I'd bite that bit of cheese-and land myself in good and proper, with Teal taking frantic notes behind the whatnot! You must take care not to go sitting in any damp grass, Francis-you might get brain fever."

"Anyway," said Teal, "it was a good idea."

"It was a rotten idea," said the Saint disparagingly. "And always has been. But I knew it was ten to one it would be tried -I knew it when I sent that note to Francis. I'm glad you came. Claud-I really did want you here."

"Why?"

Lemuel cut in. His face was tense and drawn.

"Inspector, you know this man's character--"

"I do," said Teal somnolently. "That's the trouble."

"He came here to try to blackmail me, and he'd have done it if he hadn't discovered you. Now he's going to try to get out of it on one of his bluffs-"

"No," said the Saint; and he said it in such a way that there was a sudden silence.

And, in the stillness, with his eyes still closed, the Saint listened. His powers of hearing were abnormally acute: he heard the sound he was waiting for when neither of the other two could hear anything-and even to him it was like nothing more than the humming of a distant bee.

And then he opened his eyes. It was like the unmasking of two clear blue lights in the keen brown face; and the eyes were not jesting at all. He stood up.

"As you said-you know me, Teal," he remarked. "Now I'll tell you what you don't know about Francis Lemuel. The first thing is that he's at the head of the dope ring you've been trying to get at for years. I don't know how he used to bring the stuff into the country; but I do know that when I was his private pilot, a little while ago, he came back from Berlin one time with enough snow in his grip to build a ski-slope round the Equator."

"It's a lie! By God, you'll answer for that, Templar--"

"Now I come to think of it," murmured Teal, "how do you know his real name?"

Simon laughed softly. The humming of the bee was not so distant now-the other two could have heard it easily, if they had listened.

"Don't haze the accused," he said gently. "He'll get all hot and bothered if you start to cross-examine him. Besides, the charge isn't finished. There's another matter, concerning a girl named Stella Domford-and several others whose names I couldn't give you, for all I know."

"Another lie!"

Teal turned heavy eyes on the man.

"You're a great clairvoyant," he said, judicially.

"At this man's request," said the Saint quietly, "I flew Stella Dornford over to Berlin. She was supposed to be going to a cabaret engagement with a man called Jacob Einsmann. The place I took her to was not a cabaret-I needn't mention what it was. The Berlin police will corroborate that."

Lemuel grated: "They want you for the murder of Einsmann."

"I doubt it," said the Saint. "I certainly shot him, but it shouldn't be hard to prove self-defense."

The bee was very much closer. And the Saint turned to Teal.

"I have one other thing to say," he added, "for your ears alone."

"I have a right to hear it," barked Lemuel shakily. "Inspector--"

"Naturally you'll hear it, Mr. Lemuel," said Teal soothingly. "But if Mr. Templar insists on telling me alone, that's his affair. If you'll excuse us a moment . . ."

Lemuel watched them go, gripping the table for support. Presently, through the French windows, he saw them strolling across the lawn, side by side. The air was now full of the drone of the bee, but he did not notice it.

He stumbled mechanically towards the side table where bottle and glasses were set out, but the bottle was nearly empty. Savagely he jabbed at the bell and waited an impatient half-minute; but no one answered. Cursing, he staggered to the door and opened it.

"Fitch!" he bawled.

Still there was no answer. The house was as silent as a tomb. Trembling with terror of he knew not what, Lemuel reeled down the hall and flung open the door of the servants' quarters. There was no one in sight.