Leslie Charteris - Knight Templar, or The Avenging Saint

A chorus of affirmatives answered him.

"Then we'll go," said the Saint.

And he went; but he knew that all that he had ordered would be done. The new magnificent vitality that had come to him, the dazzling dare­devil delight, was summed up and blazoned to them all in the gay smile with which he left them; it swept them up, inspired them, kindled within them the flame of his own superb rapture; he knew that his spirit stayed with them, to spur them on. Even Lessing. . . .

And Roger. . . .

And Roger said awkwardly as they turned the corner of the house and went swiftly over the dark grassland: "Sonia told me more about that cruise while you were away, Saint."

"Did she now?"

"I'm sorry I behaved like I did, old boy."

Simon chuckled.

"Did you think I'd stolen her from you, Roger?"

"Do you want to?" Roger asked evenly.

They moved a little way in silence.

Then the Saint said: "You see, there's always Pat."

"Yes."

"I'll tell you something. I think, when she first met me, Sonia fell. I know I did—God help me— in a kind of way. I still think she's—just great. There's no other word for her. But then, there's no other word for Pat."

"No."

"More than once, it did occur to me —— But what's the use? There are all kinds of people in this wall-eyed world, and especially all kinds of women. They're just made different ways, and you can't alter it. I suppose you'll call that trite; but I give you my word, Roger, I had to go on that cruise last night before I really understood the saying. And so did Sonia. But I got more out of it than she did, because it was the sequel that was so frightfully funny, and I don't think she'll ever see the joke. I don't think you will, either; and that's another reason why ——"

"What was the joke?" Roger asked.

"When we met Hermann," said the Saint, "and Hermann pointed a gun at me, Sonia also had a gun. And Sonia didn't shoot. Pat wouldn't have missed that chance." He stopped, and raised the lantern he carried. "And that's our kite, isn't it?" he said.

A little way ahead of them loomed up the squat black shape of a small hangar. They reached it in a few more strides, and the Saint pulled back the sliding doors. And the aëroplane was there—a Gypsy Moth in silver and gold, with its wings demurely folded. "Isn't this our evening?" drawled the Saint.

Roger said cautiously: "So long as there's enough juice."

"We'll see," said the Saint, and he was already peering at the gauge. His murmur of satisfaction rang hollowly between the corrugated iron walls. "Ten gallons. . . It's good enough!"

They wheeled the machine out together, and the Saint set up the wings. Then he hustled Roger into the cockpit and took hold of the propeller.

"Switch off—suck in!"

The screw went clicking round; then:

"Contact!"

"Contact!"

The engine coughed once, and then the propeller vibrated back to stillness. Again the Saint bent his back, and this time the engine stuttered round a couple of revolutions before it stopped again.

"It's going to be an easy start," said the Saint. "Half a sec. while I see if they've got any blocks."

He vanished into the hangar, and returned in a moment with a couple of large .wooden wedges that trailed cords behind them. These he fixed under the wheels, laying out the cords in the line of the wings; then he went back to the propeller.

''We out to do it this time. Suck in again!''

Half a dozen brisk winds and he was ready.

"Contact!"

"Contact!"

A heaving jerk at the screw. . . . The engine gasped, stammered, hesitated, picked up with a loud roar. . . .

"Hot dog!" said the Saint.

He sprinted round the wing and leaped to the side, with one foot in the stirrup and a long arm reaching over to the throttle.

"Stick well back, Roger. . . . That's the ticket!"

The snarl of the engine swelled furiously; a gale of wind buffeted the Saint's face and twitched his coat half away from his shoulders. For a while he hung on, holding the throttle open, while the bellow of the engine battered his ears, and the machine strained and shivered where it stood; then he throttled back, and put his lips to Roger's ear.

"Hold on, son. I'll send Sonia out to you. Switch off the engine if she tries to run away."

Roger nodded; and the Saint sprang down and disappeared. In a few moments he was back at the house, with the mutter of the engine scattered through the dark behind him; and Sonia Delmar was waiting for him on the doorstep.

"I've got all the things you wanted," she said.

Simon glanced once at her burdens.

"That's splendid." He touched her hand. "Roger's out there, old dear. Would you like to take those effects out to him?"

"Sure."

"Right. Follow the noise, and don't run into the prop. Where's Ike?"

"He's nearly finished."

"O.K. I'll bring him along."

With a smile he left her, and went on into the library. Lessing was just rising from his knees; a glance showed Simon that Marius, the German, and the Bowery Boy had been dealt with as per invoice.

"All clear, Ike?" murmured the Saint; and Lessing nodded.

"I don't think they'll get away, though I'm not an expert at this game."

"It looks good to me—for an amateur. Now, will you filter out into the hall? I'll be with you in one moment."

The millionaire went out submissively; and Simon turned to Marius for the last time. Through the open window came a steady distant drone; and Marius must have heard and understood it, but his face was utterly inscrutable.

"So," said the Saint softly, "I have beaten you again, Angel Face."

The giant looked at him with empty eyes.

"I am never beaten, Templar," he said.

"But you are beaten this time," said the Saint. "Tomorrow morning I shall come back, and we shall settle our account. And, in case I fail, I shall bring the police with me. They will be very in­terested to hear all the things I shall have to tell them. The private plotting of wars for gain may not be punishable by any laws, but men are hanged for high treason. Even now, I'm not sure that I wouldn't rather have you hanged. There's something very definite and unromantic about hanging. But I'll decide that before I return. ... I leave you to meditate on your victory."

And Simon Templar turned on his heel and went out, closing and locking the door behind him.

Sir Isaac Lessing stood in the hall. He was still deathly pale, but there was a strange kind of courage in the set of his lips and the levelling of the eyes with which he faced the Saint—the strangest of all kinds of courage.

"I believe I owe you my life, Mr. Templar," he said steadily; but the Saint's nod was curt.

"You're welcome."

"I'm not used to these things," Lessing said; "and I find I'm not fitted for them. I suppose you can't help despising me. I can only say that I agree with you. And I should like to apologize."

For a long moment the Saint looked at him, but Lessing met the clear blue gaze without flinching. And then Simon gripped the millionaire's arm.

"The others are waiting for us," he said. "I'll talk to you as we go."

They passed out of the door; and the Saint, glancing back, saw a man huddled in one corner of the hall, very still. By the lodge gates, a little while before, he had seen another man, just as still. And, later, he told Roger Conway that those two men were dead. "You want to be careful how you bash folks with the blunt end of a gat," said the Saint. "It's so dreadfully easy to stave in their skulls." But he never told Roger what he said to Sir Isaac Lessing in the small hours of that morning as they walked across the landing field under the stars.

"AND SO WE LEAVE YOU," said the Saint.

He had been busy for a short time performing some obscure operation with the rope that Sonia Delmar had brought; but now he came round the aëroplane into the light of the lantern, buckling the strap of his helmet. Lessing waited a little way apart; but Simon called him, and he came up and joined the group.