Leslie Charteris - Knight Templar, or The Avenging Saint

Marius stepped slowly back; and the Saint slid silently along the wall until he was beside the door. And the door opened.

As it opened it hid the Saint; and the German came right into the room. And then Simon closed the door gently, and had his back to it when the man whipped round and saw him.

"Du bist me eine Blume," murmured the Saint cordially, and a glimmer of the old lazy laughter was trickling back into his voice. "Incidentally, I'll bet you haven't jumped like that for years. Never mind. It's very good for the liver. . . . And now would you mind joining your boss over in the corner, sweet Ludwig? And if you're a very good boy, perhaps I'll let you go to sleep. . . .'

"GOOD OLD SAINT!"

The commendation was wrung spontaneously from Roger Conway's lips; and Simon Templar grinned.

"Hustle along this way, son," he remarked, "and we'll have you loose in two flaps of a cow's pendulum. Then you can be making merry with that spare coil of hawser while I carry on with the good work —— Jump!"

The last word detonated in the end of the speech like the fulmination of a charge of high explosive at the tail of a length of fuse. And Roger jumped— no living man could have failed to obey that trumpet-tongued command.

A fraction of a second later he saw—or rather heard—the reason for it.

As he crossed the room he had carelessly come between the Saint and Marius. And, as he jumped, ducking instinctively, something flew past the back of his neck, so close that the wind of it stirred his hair, and crashed into the wall where the Saint had been standing. Where the Saint had been standing; but Simon was a yard away by then. . . .

As Roger straightened up he saw the Saint's automatic swinging round to check the rush that followed. And then he saw the telephone lying at the Saint's feet.

"Naughty,'' said the Saint reproachfully.

"Why didn't you shoot the swine?" snapped Roger, with reasonable irritation; but Simon only laughed.

"Because I want him, sonny boy. Because it wouldn't amuse me to bounce him like that. It's too easy. I want our Angel Face for a fight. . . . And how I want him!"

Roger's hands were free, but he stood staring at the Saint helplessly.

He said suddenly, foolishly: "Saint—what do you mean? You couldn't possibly ——"

"I'm going to have a damned good try. Shooting is good—for some people. But there are others that you want to get at with your bare hands. ..."

Very gently Simon spoke—very, very gently. And Roger gazed in silent wonder at the bleak steel in the blue eyes, and the supple poise of the wide limber shoulders, and the splendid lines of that reckless fighting face; and he could not find anything to say.

And then the Saint laughed again.

"But there are other things to attend to first. Grab that rope and do your stuff, old dear—and mind you do it well. And leave that iron on the floor for a moment—we don't want anyone to infringe our patent in that pickpocket trick."

A moment later he was cutting the ropes away from Sonia Delmar's wrists. Lessing came next; and Lessing was as silent during the operation as the girl had been, but for an obviously different reason. He was shaking like a leaf; and, after one comprehensive glance at him, Simon turned again to the girl.

"How d'you feel, lass?" he asked; and she smiled.

"All right, "she said.

"Just pick up that gun, would you? . . . D'you think you could use it?"

She weighed the Bowery Boy's automatic thoughtfully in her hand.

"I guess I could, Simon."

"That's great!" Belle was back in the Saint's sleeve, and he put out his free hand and drew her towards him. "Now, park yourself right over here, sweetheart, so that they can't rush you. Have you got them covered?"

"Sure."

"Attababy. And don't take your pretty eyes off the beggars till Roger's finished his job. Ike, you flop into that chair and faint in your own time. If you come blithering into the line of fire it'll be your funeral. . . . Sonia, d'you feel really happy?"

"Why?"

"Could you be a real hold-up wizard for five or ten minutes, all on your ownsome?"

She nodded slowly.

"I'd do my best, big boy."

"Then take this other gat as well." He pressed it into her hand. "I'm leaving you to it, old dear— I've got to see a man about a sort of dog, and it's blamed urgent. But I'll be right back. If you have the least sign of trouble let fly. The only thing I ask is that you don't kill Angel Face—not fatally, that is .... S'long!"

He waved a cheery hand, and was gone—before Roger, who had been late in divining his intention, could ask him why he went.

But Roger had not understood Hermann's mission.

And even the Saint had taken fully a minute to realize the ultimate significance of the way that hurtling telephone had smashed into the wall; but there was nothing about it that he did not realize now, as he raced down the long, dark drive. That had been a two-edged effort—by all the gods! It was a blazing credit to the giant's lightning grasp on situations—a desperate bid for salvation, and simultaneously a vindictive defiance. And the thought of that last motive lent wings to the Saint's feet. . . .

He reached the lodge gates and looked up and down the road; but he could see no car. And then, as he paused there, he heard, quite distinctly, the unmistakable snarl of the Hirondel with an open throttle.

The Saint spun round.

An instant later he was flying up the road as if a thousand devils were baying at his heels.

He tore round a bend, and thought he could recognize a clump of trees in the gloom ahead. If he was right, he must be getting near the cliff. The snarl of the Hirondel was louder. . . .

He must have covered the last hundred yards in a shade under evens. And then, as he rounded the last corner, he heard a splintering crash.

With a shout he flung himself forward. And yet he knew that it was hopeless. For one second he had a glimpse of the great car rearing like a stricken beast on the brink of the precipice, with its wide flaming eyes hurling a long white spear of light into the empty sky; and then the light went out, and down the cliff side went the roar of the beast and a racking, tearing thunder of breaking shrubs and battered rocks and shattering metal. . . . And then another crash. And a silence. . . .

The Saint covered the rest of the distance quite calmly; and the man who stood in the road did not try to turn. Perhaps he knew it would be useless.

"Mr. Prosser, I believe?" said the Saint caressingly.

The man stood mute, with his back to the gap which the Hirondel had torn through the flimsy rails at the side of the road. And Simon Templar faced him.

"You've wrecked my beautiful car," said the Saint, in the same caressing tone.

And suddenly his fist smashed into the man's face; and Mr. Prosser reeled back, and went down without a sound into the silence.

WHICH WAS CERTAINLY very nice and jolly, reflected the Saint, as he walked slowly back to the house. But not noticeably helpful. . . .

He walked slowly because it was his habit to move slowly when he was thinking. And he had a lot to think about. The cold rage that had possessed him a few minutes before had gone altogether: the prime cause of it had been duly dealt with, and the next thing was to weigh up the consequences and face the facts.

For all the threads were now in his hands, all ready to be wormed and parcelled and served and put away—all except one. And that one was now more important than all the others. And it was utterly out of his reach—not even the worst that he could do to Marius could recall it or change its course. . . .

"Did you get your dog, old boy?" Roger Conway's cheerful accents greeted him as he opened the door of the library; but the Saintly smile was unusually slow to respond.