Leslie Charteris: Knight Templar, or The Avenging Saint

"May I ask what you mean by this?" Drussel was blustering furiously.

The Saint threw out his hands in a wide gesture.

"I wanted to talk to you, dear heart.''

"And what do you imagine I can do for you?"

"On the contrary," said the Saint genially, "the point is—what can I do for you? Ask, and you shall receive. I'm ready. If you say 'Go and get the moon,' I'll go right out and get the moon—that's how I feel about you, sweetheart."

Dussell took a step forward.

"Will you stand away from that door? "

"No,'' said the Saint, courteous but definite.

"Then you will have to be removed by force."

"If you could spare me a moment—" began the Saint warily.

But Heinrich Dussel had half turned, drawing breath, his mouth opening for one obvious pur­pose.

He could hardly have posed himself better.

And before that deep purposeful breath had reached Dussel's vocal cords on the return journey, his mouth closed again abruptly, with a crisp smack, under the persuasive influence of a pile-driving uppercut.

"Come into my study," invited the Saint, in a very fair imitation of Heinrich Dussel's guttural accent.

"Thank you," said the Saint in his own voice.

And his arms were already around Heinrich Dussel, holding up the unconscious man; and, as he accepted his own invitation, the Saint stooped swiftly, levered Dussel onto his shoulder, moved up the hall, and passed through the nearest door.

He did not stay.

He dropped his burden unceremoniously on the floor, and passed out again, locking the door behind him and putting the key in his pocket. Then, certainly, luck was with him, for, in spite of the slight disturbance, none of the household staff was in view. The Saint went up the stairs as lightly as a ghost.

The broken window had been on the first floor, and the room to which it belonged was easy to locate. The Saint listened for a couple of seconds at the door, and then opened it and stepped briskly inside.

The room was empty.

"Bother," said the Saint softly.

Then he understood.

"If the cop had insisted on coming in, he'd have wanted to see this room. So they'd have shifted the invalid. One of the gang would have played the part. And the real cripple—further up the stairs, I should think...."

And Simon was out of the empty room in an instant, and flashing up the next flight.

As he reached the upper landing, a man—a villainous foreign-looking man, in some sort of livery—emerged from a door.

The Saint never hesitated.

"All right?'' he queried briefly.

"Yes," came the automatic answer.

No greater bluff could ever have been put up in two words and a stride. It was such a perfect little cameo of the art that the liveried man did not realize how he had been bluffed until three seconds after the Saint had spoken. And that was about four seconds too late. For by that time the Saint was only a yard away.

"That's fine," said the Saint crisply. "Keep your face shut, and everything will still be all right. Back into that room...."

There was a little knife in the Saint's hand. The Saint could do things with that knife that would have made a circus performer blink. But at that moment the Saint wasn't throwing the knife—he was just pricking the liveried man's throat with the point. And the liveried man recoiled instinctively.

The Saint pushed him on, into the room, and kicked the door shut behind him. Then he dropped the knife, and took the man by the throat....

He made very little noise. And presently the man slept....

Then the Saint got to his feet and looked about him.

The invalid lay on the bed—an old man, it seemed, judging by the thick gray beard. A shabby tweed cap was pulled down over eyes shielded by dark glasses, and his clothes were shapeless and ill-fitting. He wore black gloves, and above these there were ropes, binding his wrists together; and there were ropes also about his ankles.

The Saint picked him up in his arms. He seemed to weigh hardly anything at all.

As swiftly and silently as he had come, the Saint went down the stairs again with his light load.

Even then, it was not all perfectly plain sailing. A hubbub began to arise from below as Simon reached the first floor; and as he turned the corner onto the last flight, he saw a man unlocking the door of the room in which Heinrich Dussel had been locked. And Simon continued calmly downwards.

He reached the hall level in time to meet two automatics—one in the hand of the man who had unlocked the door, and one in the hand of Heinrich Dussel.

"Your move, Heinrich," said the Saint calmly. "May I smoke while you're thinking it over?"

He put the shabby old man carefully down on a convenient chair, and took out his cigarette case.

"Going to hand me over to the police?" he murmured. "If you are, you'll have to figure out a lot of explanations pretty quickly. The cop outside heard me say I was your doctor, and he'll naturally want to know why you've waited such a long time before denying it. Besides, there's Convalescent Cuthbert here. ..." The Saint indicated the old man in the chair, who was trying ineffectually to say something through a very efficient gag. "Even mental cases aren't trussed up quite like that."

"No," said Dussel deliberately— "you will not be handed over to the police, my friend."

"Well, you can't keep me here," said the Saint, puffing. "You see, I had some words with the cop before I came to your door, and I told him I shouldn't be staying more than half an hour— voluntarily. And after the excitement just before I walked in, I should think he'll still be waiting around to see what happens."

Dussel turned to his servant.

"Go to a window, Luigi, and see if the policeman is still outside."

"It is a bit awkward for you, Heinrich, old dear, isn't it?" murmured Simon, smoking tranquilly, as the servant disappeared. "I'm so well known to the police. I'd probably turn out to be well known to you, too, if I told you my name. I'm known as the Saint. ..." He grinned at Dussel's sudden start. "Anyway, your pals know me. Ask the Crown Prince—or Dr. Marius. And remember to give them my love...."

The Saint laughed shortly; and Heinrich Dussel was still staring at him, white-lipped, when the servant returned to report that the constable was watching the house from the opposite pavement, talking to a newspaperman.

"You seem annoyed, Heinrich," remarked the Saint, gently bantering, though the glitter behind Dussel's thick glasses should have told him that he was as near sudden death at that moment as it is healthy for any man to be. "Now, the Crown Prince never looks annoyed. He's much more strong and silent than you are, is Rudolf...."

Simon spoke dreamily, almost in a whisper, and his gaze was intent upon his cigarette end. And, all the while, he smiled.... Then—

"I'll show you a conjuring trick," he said suddenly. "Look!"

He threw the cigarette end on the carpet at their feet, and closed his eyes. But the other two looked.

They heard a faint hiss; and then the cigarette burst into a flare of white-hot eye-aching light that seemed to scorch through their eyeballs and sear their very brains. It only lasted a moment, but that was long enough. Then a dense white smoke filled the hall like a fog. And the Saint, with the old man in his arms again, was at the front door. They heard his mocking voice through their dazed blindness.

"Creates roars of laughter," said the Saint. "Try one at your next party—and invite me. . . . So long, souls!"

The plop of a silenced automatic came through the smoke, and a bullet smacked into the door beside the Saint's head. Then he had the door open, and the smoke followed him out.

"Fire!" yelled the Saint wildly. "Help!" He rushed down the steps, and the policeman met him on the pavement. "For heaven's sake try to save the others, officer! I've got this old chap all right, but there are more in there—"