Leslie Charteris - The Saint Closes the Case

Suddenly he flung himself at the Saint like a mad beast, blub­bering incoherently, tearing, kicking. ...

Orace caught him about the middle and swung him off his feet in arms of iron; and the Saint leaned against the table, rubbing a shin that he had not been quick enough to get out of the way of that maniacal onslaught.

"Lock him up again," said Simon heavily, and saw Orace depart with his raving burden.

He had just finished with the telephone when Orace re­turned.

"Get everybody's things together," he ordered. "Your own included. I've phoned for a van to take them to the station. They'll go as luggage in advance to Mr. Tremayne, in Paris. I'll write out the labels. The van will be here at four, so you'll have to move."

"Yessir," said Orace obediently.

The Saint grinned.

"We've been a good partnership, haven't we?" he said. "And now I'm clearing out of England with a price on my head. I'm sorry we've got to ... break up the alliance. . . ."

Orace snorted.

"Ya bin arskin forrit, aintcha?" he demanded unsympathetically. "Ain't I tolja so arfadozen times? . . . Where ya goin' ta?" he added, in the same ferocious tone.

"Lord knows," said the Saint.

"Never bin there," said Orace. "Allus wanted ta, but never adno invitashun. I'll be ready ta leave when you are, sir."

He turned smartly on his heel and marched to the door. Simon had to call him back.

"Shake, you darned old fool," said the Saint, and held out his hand. "If you think it's worth it——"

" Tain't," said Orace sourly. "But I'll avta look arfter ya."

Then Orace was gone; and the Saint lighted a cigarette and sat down by the open window, gazing dreamily out over the lawn and the sunlit river.

And it seemed to him that he saw a cloud like a violet mist unrolled over the lawn and the river and the white houses and the fields behind, a gigantic cloud that crept over the country like a living thing; and the cloud scintillated as with the whirling and flashing of a thousand thousand sparks of violet fire. And the grass shrivelled in the searing breath of the cloud; and the trees turned black and crumpled in hot cinders as the cloud engulfed them. And men ran before the cloud, men agonised for breath, men with white, haggard faces and eyes glazed and staring, men . . . But the creeping of the cloud was faster than the swiftest man could run. . . .

And Simon remembered the frenzy of Vargan.

For the space of two cigarettes he sat there with his own thoughts; and then he sat down and wrote a letter.

TO CHIEF INSPECTOR TEAL,

CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DEPARTMENT,

NEW SCOTLAND YARD,

LONDON, S.W. 1.

DEAR OLD CLAUD EUSTACE,

Before anything else, I want to apologise for assaulting you and one of your men at Esher on Saturday, and also to apologise for the way a friend of mine treated you yesterday. Unfortunately, on both occasions, the circumstances did not permit us to dispose of you by more peaceful means.

The story that Roger Conway told you last night was noth­ing but the truth. We rescued Professor Vargan from the men who first took him — who were led, as Conway told you, by the celebrated Dr. Rayt Marius — and removed him to a place of safety. By the time you receive this, you will know our reason; and, since I have not the time to circularise the Press myself, I hope this explanation will be safe in your hands.

Little remains for me to add to what you already know.

We have tried to appeal to Vargan to suppress his invention on humanitarian grounds. He will not listen. His sole thought is the recognition which he thinks his scientific genius de­serves. One cannot argue with monomaniacs: therefore, we find ourselves with only one course open to us. . We believe that for this diabolical discovery to take its place in the armament of the nations of Europe, at a time when jealousies and fears and the rumours of wars are again lifting their heads, would be a refinement of "civilisation" which the world could well be spared. You may say that the exclusive possession of this invention would confirm Great Britain in an unassailable supremacy, and perhaps thereby secure the peace of Europe. We answer that no secret can be kept for ever. The sword is two-edged. And, as Vargan an­swered me by saying, "Science is international" — so I an­swer you by saying that humanity is also international.

We are content to be judged by the verdict of history, when all the facts are made known.

But in accomplishing what we have accomplished, we have put you in the way of learning our identities; and that, as you will see, must be an almost fatal blow to such an organisation as mine.

Nevertheless, I believe that in time I shall find a way for us to continue the work that we have set ourselves to do.

We regret nothing that we have already done. Our only regret is that we should be scattered before we have time to do more. Yet we believe that we have done much good, and that this last crime of ours is the best of all.

Au revoir!

SIMON TEMPLAR

("The Saint").

He had heard, while he wrote, the sounds of Orace despatch­ing luggage; and, as he signed his name, Orace entered with a tray of tea and the report that the van had departed.

Patricia came in through the French windows a moment later. He thought she could never have looked so slim and cool and lovely. And, as she came to him, he swung her up in one arm as if she had been a feather.

"You see," he smiled, as he set her down, "I'm not quite a back number yet."

She stayed close to him, with cool golden-brown arms linked round his neck, and he was surprised that she smiled so slowly.

"Oh, Simon," she said, "I do love you so much!"

"Darling," said the Saint, "this is so sudden! If I'd only known. . ., ."

But something told him that it was not a time for jesting, and he stopped.

But of course she loved him. Hadn't he known it for a whole heavenly year, ever since she confessed it on the tor above Baycombe—that peaceful Devonshire village—only a week after he'd breezed into the district as a smiling swashbuckler in search of trouble, without the least notion that he was waltzing into a kind of trouble to which he had always been singularly immune? Hadn't she proved it, since, in a hundred ways? Hadn't the very night before, at Bures, been enough in itself to prove the fact beyond question for all time?

And now, in the name of fortune and all the mysteries of women, she had to blurt it out of the blue like that, almost as if ... "Burn it!" thought the Saint. "Almost as if she thought I was going to leave her!"

"Darling old idiot," said the Saint, "what's the matter?"

Roger Conway answered, from the Saint's shoulder, having entered the room unnoticed. He answered with a question.

"You've seen Vargan?"

"I have."

Roger nodded.

"We heard some of the noise. What did he say?"

"He went mad, and gibbered. Orace rescued me, and car­ried him away—fighting like a wild cat. Vargan's a lunatic, as Norman said. And a lunatic said . . . 'No.' "

Conway went to the window and looked up the river, shad­ing his eyes against the sun. Then he turned back.

"Teal's on his way," he said, in a matter-of-fact voice. "For the last half-hour the same energetic bird has been scuttling up and down the river in a motorboat. We spotted him through the kitchen window, while we were drinking beer and wait­ing for you."

"Well, well, well!" drawled the Saint, very gently and thoughtfully.

"He was snooping all round with a pair of binoculars. Pat being out on the lawn may have put him off for a bit. I left Norman on the lookout, and sent Orace out for Pat as soon as we heard you were through."