Leslie Charteris - Knight Templar, or The Avenging Saint

"You're right," she said. "There's a long way to go yet. First the crew and then Marius. . . . Haven't you any idea of what you're going to do?"

"None. But the Lord will provide. The great thing is that we know we shall find Marius at Saltham, and that's bound to make the entertainment go with a bang."

"But how do you know that?"

"My dear, you must have heard the aëro­plane—"

"Just after they shot the man in the motorboat?"

"Sure."

"I didn't realize—"

"And I thought you knew! But I didn't only hear it—I saw its lights and the flares they lit for it to land by. I haven't had time to tell you, but my trip to the Ritz this morning produced some real news—after I was supposed to have lit out for the tall timber. I left my card in Rudy's bathroom, and right up to the time that kite came down I was wondering how long it'd be before the Heavenly Twins found the memento and got busy. Oh, yes— Rayt Marius is at Saltham all right, and the best part of it is that he thinks I'm at the bottom of the deep blue sea with the shrimps nibbling my nose. There was a great orgy of signalling to that effect shortly after we upped anchor. So now you know why this is going to be no ordinary evening. . . . And with Roger and Ike rolling in on their cue, if all goes well—I ask you, is that or is that not en­titled to be called a real family reunion?"

"If you think Roger will be able to bring Sir Isaac—"

"Roger has a wonderful knack of getting things done." She nodded, very slowly.

"It will be—a reunion—"

"Yes." Simon took her hands. "But it's also a story—and so few people have stories. Why not live your story, Sonia? I'm living mine. ..."

And for a moment, through all his fantastic dis­guise, she saw that his eyes were bright and level again, with a sober intentness in their gaze that she had yet to read aright.

BUT THE SAINT was away before she could speak. The Saint was the most elusive man on earth when he chose to be; and he chose it then, with a breath of careless laughter that took him to the door and left the spell half woven and adrift behind him. He was away with a will-o'-the-wisp of sudden mis­chievous mirth that he had conjured out of that moment's precipitous silence, waking the moment to surer hazards and less strange adventure.

"Strange adventure! Maiden wedded. ..."

And the words of the song that he had sung so lightly twenty-four hours ago murmured mocking­ly in the Saint's ears as he paused for a second out­side the cabin, under the stars, glancing round for his bearings and giving his eyes a chance to take the measure of the darkness.

"And it's still a great life," thought the Saint, with a tingle of unabated zest in his veins; and then he found Sonia Delmar at his shoulder. Their hands met. "This way," said the Saint softly, se­renely, and steered her to the foot of the starboard companion. She went up after him. Looking up­wards, she saw him in the foreground of a queer perspective, like an insurgent giant escalading the last topping pinnacle of a preposterous tower; the pinnacle of the tower swayed crazily against the spangled pageant of the sky; the slithering rush of invisible waters filtered up out of an infinite abyss. . . . And then she saw another figure, al­ready bestriding the battlements of the last tower; then the Saint was also there, speaking with a quiet and precise insistence. . . . Then she also stood on the battlements of the swaying tower beside Simon Templar and the captain; and, as her feet found level boards, and the sea breeze sighed clearly to her face, the illusion of the tower fell away, and she saw the whole black bulk of the ship sheering through dark waters that were no longer infinitely far below, and over the dark waters was laid a golden carpet leading to the moon. And the captain's shoulders shrugged against the stars.

"If you insist—"

"It is necessary."

The moonlight glinted on the dull sheen of an automatic changing hands; then she saw the glim­mer of a brighter metal, and the captain's start of surprise.

"Quietly!" urged the Saint.

But the captain was foolish. For an instant he stood motionless, then he snatched. . . . The Saint's steely fingers took him by the throat. . . .

Involuntarily the girl closed her eyes. She heard a swift rustle of cloth, a quiver of fierce muscular effort; and then, away from the ship and down towards the sea, a kind of choking sob ... a splash . . . silence. . . . And she opened her eyes again, and saw the Saint alone. She saw the white flash of his teeth.

"Now his wives are all widows," said the Saint gently; and she shuddered without reason.

Other feet grated on the boards farther along the bridge; a man stood in the strip of light that came from the open door of the wheelhouse, pausing ir­resolute and half-interrogative. But the Saint was leaning over the side, looking down to the sea.

"Look!"

The Saint beckoned, but he never turned round. And the officer came forward. He also leaned over the side and looked down; but Simon stepped back. The Saint's right hand rose and fell, with a blue-black gleam in it. The sound of the dull im­pact was vaguely sickening....

"Two," said the Saint calmly. The officer was a silent heap huddled against the rail. "And that only leaves the quartermaster. Who says piracy isn't easy? Hold on while I show you . . . !"

He slipped away like a ghost; but the girl stayed where she was. She saw him enter the wheelhouse, and then his shadow bulked across one lighted window. She held her breath, tensing herself against the inevitable outcry—surely such luck could not hold for a third encounter! . . . But there was no sound. He appeared again, calling her name, and she went to the wheelhouse in a trance. There was a man sprawled on the floor—she tried to keep her eyes from the sight.

"Shelling peas is hard labour compared to this," Simon was murmuring cheerfully; and then he saw how pale she was. "Sonia!" drawled the Saint reproachfully—"don't say it gives you the wiggles in your little tum-tum to see the skids going under the ungodly!"

"But it doesn't, really. Look." She held up her hand—it was as steady as his own. "Only I'm not so used to it as you are."

He chuckled.

"You'll learn," he said. "It's surprising how the game grows on you. You get so's you can't do without it. Why, if I didn't have plenty of this sort of exercise, I should come out all over pimples and take to writing poetry. . . . See here, sweetheart— what you want is something to do. Now, d'you think you could wangle this wheel effect, while I get active on something else?"

He was stripping off beard and glasses; hat and coat followed them into a corner. She was irresist­ibly reminded of a similar transformation that very morning in Upper Berkeley Mews; and with the memory of the action returned also a vivid memory of the atmosphere in which it had first been performed. And the Saint was smiling in the same way, as gay and debonair as ever; and his careless confidence was like a draught of wine to her doubts.

She smiled, too.

"If it's the same as it is on Daddy's yacht—"

"The identical article.... So I'll leave you to it, lass. Make a wide circle round, and hold her a fraction south of south-southeast—I took a peek at that bouncing binnacle before I strafed the nautical gent over there by the cuspidor, and I reckon that course ought to take us back to some­where pretty near where we came from. Got it?"

"But where are you going?''

"Well, there's the third officer very busy being unconscious outside—at the moment—and Barna­cle Bill under the spittoon isn't dead yet, either; and I'd be happier to feel that they wouldn't be dangerous when they woke up. I won't heave them overboard, because I'm rather partial to lobsters, and you know what lobsters are; but I guess I'll fossick around for some rope and do the next best thing."