Leslie Charteris - Knight Templar, or The Avenging Saint

"It's not even Sunday any longer," he re­marked, "so we shan't be bawled out."

And once again she was bewildered by a mind that could remember such pleasant far-off things at such a time—Scribes and Pharisees, old family Bibles, fields of Palestine!

Presently they came to a gate; the Saint ran his fingers lightly along the top, feeling for wire; then he stood still.

"What is it? "she asked.

"The road!"

He might have been Cortez at gaze before the Pacific; his ravishment could not have been greater.

He vaulted over; she followed more cautiously, and he lifted her down, with a breath of laughter. They went on. Road he might have called, but it was really no more than a lane; yet it was something—a less nerve-racking surface for her feet, at least. For about half a mile they took its winding course, until she had lost her bearings altogether. With that loss she lost also an iota of the fickle enthusiasm that had helped her over the fields; about a road, or even a lane, there was a brusque reminder of more prosaic atmospheres and more ordinary nights. And it was definitely the threshold of a destination. . . .

But Simon Templar was happy; as he walked he hummed a little tune; she could feel, as by a sixth sense, the quickened spring in his step, though he never set a pace that would have spent her en­durance. His presence was even more vital for this restraint. For the destination and the destiny were his own; and she knew that there was a song in his heart as well as on his lips, an exultation that no one could share.

So they were following the lane. And then, of a sudden, he stopped, his song stopping with him; and she saw that the lane had at last brought them out upon an unquestionable road. She saw the telegraph poles reaching away on either side—not very far, for they stood between two bends. But it was a road. . . .

"I don't see a signpost," she remarked dubiously. "Which way shall we—"

"Listen!"

She strained her ears, and presently she was able to pick up the sound he had heard—the purr of a powerful car.

"Who cares about signposts?" drawled the Saint. "Why, this bird might even give us a lift—it might even be Roger!"

They stood by the side of the road, waiting. Slowly the purr grew louder. Simon pointed, and she saw the reflection of the headlights as a pale nimbus in the sky; then, suddenly a clump of trees stood out black and stark against a direct glare.

"Stand by to glom the Saltham Limited!"

The Saint had slipped out into the middle of the road. Beyond him, at the next bend in the road, a hedge and a tree were picked out in a strengthening shaft of light. The voice of the car was rising to a querulous drone. Then, all at once, the light began to sweep along the hedge; then, in another instant, it blazed clear down the road itself, corrugating the tarmac with shadows; and the Saint stood full in the centre of the blinding beam, waving his arms.

She heard the squeal of the brakes as he stepped aside; and the car slid past with an expiring swish of wind, and came to rest a dozen yards beyond.

The Saint sprinted after it, and Sonia Delmar was only just behind him.

"Could you tell me—"

"Ja!"

The monosyllable cracked out with a guttural swiftness that sent the Saint's hand flying to his hip, but the man in the car already had him covered. Simon grasped the fact—in time.

But the girl was not a yard away, and she also had a gun. Simon tensed himself for the shot. . . .

"Put up your hands, Herr Saint."

There was a note of leering triumph in the harsh voice, and the Saint, blinking the last of the glare of the headlights out of his eyes, recognized the man. Slowly he raised his hands, and his breath came in a long sigh.

"Bless my soul!" said the Saint, who was never profane on really distressing occasions. "It's dear old Hermann. And he's going to give us our lift!"

ROGER CONWAY'S foot shifted off the accelerator and trod ungently upon the brake, and the Hiron­del skidded to a protesting standstill.

"We've arrived," said Roger grimly.

The man beside him glanced at the big iron gates a few yards down the road and gained one momen­tary glimpse of them before the headlights went out under Roger's hand on the switch.

"This is the place?" he asked.

"It is."

"And where is your friend?"

"If I were a clairvoyant, Sir Isaac, I might be able to tell you. But you saw me get out and look for the message where he arranged to leave one if he could—and there was no message. That's all I know, except — Have you ever seen a man shot through the stomach, Sir Isaac?"

"No."

"You probably will," said Roger; and Lessing was silent.

He had no idea why he should have been silent. He knew that he ought to have said things—angry and outraged and ordinary things. He ought to have been saying things like that all the way from London. But, somehow, he hadn't said them. . He'd certainly started to say them, once, two hours ago, when he had been preparing his second after-dinner Corona, and this curt and crazy young man had forced his way past butler and footman and penetrated in one savage rush to the sanctum sanctorum of the Oil Trade; he had nobly gone on trying to say them for a while after that, while the butler and the footman, torn between duty and discretion, had wavered apoplectically before the discouragement of the automatic in the curt and crazy young man's hand; and yet ... Somehow that had been as far as he'd got. The young man had had facts. The young man, com­pelling audience at the business end of his Webley, had punched those facts home one on top of the other with the shattering effect of a procession of mule kicks; and the separate pieces of that pre­posterous jig-saw had fitted together without one single hiatus that Sir Isaac Lessing could dis­cover—and he was a man cynically practised at discovering the flaws in ingenious stories. And the whole completed edifice, fantastic as were its foundations, and delirious as were the lines on which it reared itself, stood firm and unshakable against the cyclone of reasonable incredulity that he loosed upon it when he got his turn. For the young man spoke freely of the Saint; and that name ran through the astounding structure like a web-work of steel girders, poising its most extrava­gant members, bearing it up steadfast and inde­feasible against the storm. And the climax had come when, at the end of narrative and cross-examination, the crazy young man had laid his gun on the table and invited the millionaire to take his choice—Saltham or Scotland Yard....

"Come on, "snapped Roger.

He was already out of the car, and Lessing fol­lowed blindly. Roger had his finger on the bell be­side the gate when Lessing caught up with him— Lessing was not built for speed. He stood beside his guide, breathing heavily, and they watched a window light up in the cottage that served for a lodge. A grumbling figure came through the gloom to the other side of the gates.

"Who is that?"

"A message for the prince.''

"He is not here."

"I said from the prince. Open quickly, fool!"

A key grated in the massive lock, and, as the gate swung open on creaking hinges, Roger slipped through in a flash. The muzzle of his gun jabbed into the man's ribs.

"Quiet," said Roger persuasively.

The man was very quiet.

"Turn round."

The gatekeeper obeyed. Roger reversed his gun swiftly, and struck accurately with the butt and in­tent to do enduring damage.. . .

"Hurry along, please," murmured Roger brisk­ly.

He went padding up the drive, and Sir Isaac Lessing plodded after him short-windedly. It was a long time since the millionaire had taken any exer­cise of this sort; and his palmiest athletic days were over, anyway; but Roger Conway hustled him along mercilessly. Having hooked his fish, accord­ing to the Saint's instructions, he meant to keep it on the line; but he was in no mood to play it with a delicate hand. He had never seen Isaac Lessing in his life before, and his first glimpse of the man had upset all his expectations, but he had a fundamen­tal prejudice against the Petroleum Panjandrum which could not be uprooted merely by discovering that he neither lisped nor oleaginated.