Leslie Charteris - Knight Templar, or The Avenging Saint

"O.K. again, son," he drawled. "I'll promise to recommend you for promotion when I'm caught. You're a smart lad. . . . But you won't catch me. ... "

The Saint was on his toes, his hands rising with a little smile on his lips and a twinkle of laughter in his eyes. And suddenly the policeman must have realized that perhaps after all he had been a blistered boob—that he ought to have kept his discovery to himself until he could usefully reveal it. For the Saint didn't look an easy man to arrest at that moment. . . .

And, suddenly, the policeman yelled—once.

Then the Saint's fists lashed into his jaw, left and right, with two crisp smacks like a kiss-cannon of magnified billiard balls, and he went down like a log.

"And that's that," murmured the Saint grimly.

He reached the window in three strides, and stood there, listening. And out of the gloom there came to him the sound of hoarse voices and hurrying men.

"Well, well, well!" thought the Saint, with characteristic gentleness, and understood that a rapid exit was the next thing for him. If only the cop hadn't managed to uncork that stentorian bellow. . . . But it was too late to think about that—much too late to sit down and indulge in vain lamentations for the bluff that might have been been put over the villagers while the cop lay gagged and bound in the station master's office, if only the cop had passed out with his mouth shut. "It's a great little evening," thought the Saint, as he slipped over the sill.

He disappeared into the shadows down the plat­form like a prowling cat a moment before the leading pair of boots came pelting over the con­crete. At the end of the platform he found a board fence, and he was astride it when a fresh outcry arose from behind him. Still smiling abstractedly, he lowered himself onto a patch of grass beside the road. The road itself was deserted—evidently all the men who had followed them to the station had rushed in to discover the reason for the noise—and no one challenged the Saint as he walked swiftly and silently down the dark street. And long before the first feeble apology for a hue and cry arose behind him he was flitting soundlessly up the cliff road, and he had no fear that he would be found.

IT WAS EXACTLY half-past four when he closed the door of Marius's library behind him and faced six very silent people. But one of them found quite an ordinary thing to say.

"Thank the Lord," said Roger Conway.

He pointed to the open window; and the Saint nodded.

"You heard?"

"Quite enough of it."

The Saint lighted a cigarette with a steady hand.

"There was a little excitement," he said quietly.

Sonia Delmar was looking at him steadfastly, and there was a shining pity in her eyes.

"You didn't get through," she said.

It was a plain statement — a statement of what they all knew without being told. And Simon shook his head slowly.

"I didn't. The telephone line's down between here and Saxmundham, and I couldn't get any answer from station telegraph. Angel Face knew about the telephone — that's one reason why he heaved his own at me."

"And they spotted you in the village?"

"Later. I had to break into the post office — the dames in charge were away — but I got away with that. Told the village cop I was a secret agent. He swallowed that at first, and actually helped me break into the station. And then he got out a map to find out how far it was to Saxmundham, and pulled out his Police News with my photograph in it at the same time. I laid him, of course, but I wasn't quite quick enough. Otherwise I might still have got something to take us into Saxmundham —

I was just fixing that when the cop tried to earn his medal."

"You might have told him the truth," Roger ventured.

He expected a storm, but the Saint's answer was perfectly calm.

"I couldn't risk it, old dear. You see, I'd started off with a lie, and then I'd called him a blistered boob when I was playing the Secret Service gag—and I'd sized up my man. I reckon I'd have had one chance in a thousand of convincing him. He was as keen as knives to get his own back, and his kind of head can only hold one idea at a time. And if I had convinced him, it'd have taken hours, and we'd still have had to get through to Saxmundham; and if I'd failed—"

He left the sentence unfinished. There was no need to finish it.

And Roger bit his lip.

"Even now," said Roger, "we might as well be marooned on a desert island.''

Sonia Delmar spoke again.

"That ambulance," she said. "The one they brought me here in ——''

It was Marius who answered, malevolently from his corner.

"The ambulance has gone, my dear young lady.

It returned to London immediately afterwards."

In a dead silence the Saint turned.

"Then I hope you'll go on enjoying your tri­umph, Angel Face," he said, and there was a ruthless devil in his voice. "Because I swear to you, Rayt Marius, that it's the last you will ever enjoy. Others have killed; but you have sold the bodies and souls of men. The world is poisoned with every breath you breath. . . . And I've changed my mind about giving you a fighting chance."

The Saint was resting against the door; he had not moved from it since he came in. He rested there quite slackly, quite lazily; but now his gun was in his hand, and he was carefully thumbing down the safety catch. And Roger Conway, who knew what the Saint was going to do, strove to speak casually.

"I suppose," remarked Roger Conway casually, "you could hardly run the distance in the time. You used to be pretty useful ——"

The Saint shook his head.

"I'm afraid it's a bit too much," he answered. "It isn't as if I could collapse artistically at the finish. . . . No, old Roger, I can't do it. Unless I could grow a pair of wings ——"

"Wings!"

It was Sonia Delmar who repeated the word— who almost shouted it—clutching the Saint's sleeve with hands that trembled.

But Simon Templar had already started up, and a great light was breaking in his eyes.

"God's mercy!" he cried, with a passionate sincerity ringing through the strangeness of his oath. "You've said it, Sonia! And I said it. ... We'd forgotten Angel Face's aëroplane!"

THE SAINT'S GUN was back in his pocket; there was a splendid laughter in his eyes, and a more splendid laughter in his heart. And it was with the same laughter that he turned again to Marius.

"After all, Angel Face," he said, "we shall have our fight!"

And Marius did not answer.

"But not now, Saint!" Roger protested in an agony; and Simon swung round with another laugh and a flourish to go with it.

"Certainly not now, sweet Roger! That comes afterwards—with the port and cigars. What we're going to do now is jump for that blessed avion."

"But where can we land? It must be a hundred miles to Croydon in a straight line. That'll take over an hour—after we've got going—and there's sure to be trouble at the other end ——"

"We don't land, my cherub. At least, not till it's all over. I tell you, I've got this job absolutely taped. I'm there!"

The Saint's cigarette went spinning across the room, and burst in fiery stars against the opposite wall. And he drew Roger and the girl towards him, with a hand on each of their shoulders.

"Now see here. Roger, you'll come with me, and help me locate and start up the kite. Sonia, I want you to scrounge round and find a couple of helmets and a couple of pairs of goggles. Angel Face's outfit is bound to be around the house somewhere, and he's probably got some spares. After that, find me another nice long coil of rope—I'll bet they've got plenty—and your job's done. Lessing,"—he looked across at the millionaire, who had risen to his feet at last—"it's about time you did something for your life. You find some stray bits of string, without cutting into the beautiful piece that Sonia's going to find for me, and amuse yourself splicing large and solid chairs onto Freeman, Hardy, and Willis over in the corner. Then they'll be properly settled to wait here till I come back for them. Is that all clear?"