Leslie Charteris - The Saint Closes the Case

Marius stood still.

"Then His Highness wishes to say that he disclaims all responsibility for the consequences of your foolishness——"

"One minute!"

It was Norman Kent, trying painfully to struggle up on to his sound leg. The Saint was beside him in a moment, with an arm about his shoulders.

"Easy, old Norman!"

Norman smiled faintly.

"I want to stand up, Simon."

And he stood up, leaning on the Saint, and looked across at Marius. Very dark and stern and aloof he was.

And—

"Suppose," said Norman Kent—"suppose we said that we hadn't got Vargan?"

"I should not believe you."

Roger Conway cut in: "Why should we keep him? If we'd only wanted to take him away from you, he'd have been re­turned to the Government before now. You must know that he hasn't been sent back. What use could we have for him?"

"You may have your own reasons. Ransom, perhaps. Your Government should be prepared to pay well for his safety——"

Norman Kent broke in with a clear, short laugh that shat­tered Marius's theory more fatally than any of the words that followed could have done,

"Think again, Marius! You don't understand us yet! . . . We took Vargan away for the sake of the peace of the world and the sparing of millions of good lives. We hoped to persuade him to turn back from the thing he proposed to do. But he was mad, and he would not listen. So this evening, for the peace of the world . . ."

He paused, and passed a hand across his eyes.

Then he drew himself erect, and his dark eyes gazed with­out fear into a great distance, and there was no flinching in the light in his eyes.

His voice came again, clear and strong.

"I shot him like a mad dog," he said.

"You——"

Harding started forward, but Roger Conway was barring his way in an instant.

"For the peace of the world," Norman Kent repeated. "And—for the peace of my two dearest friends. You'll under­stand, Saint. I knew at once that you'd never let Roger or me risk what that shot meant. So I took the law into my own hands. Because Pat loves you, Simon, as I do. I couldn't let her spend the rest of her life with you under the shadow of the gallows. I love her, too, you see. I'm sorry. . . ."

"You killed Vargan?" said Marius incredulously.

Norman nodded. He was quite calm.

And, outside the window, the shadows of the trees were lengthening over the quiet garden.

"I found him writing in a notebook. He'd covered sheets and sheets. I don't know what it was about, or whether there's enough for an expert to work on. I'm not a scientist. But I brought them away to make sure. I'd have burnt them before, but I couldn't find any matches. But I'll burn them now before your eyes; and that'll be the end of it all. Your lighter, Saint——"

He was fumbling in his pocket.

Roger Conway saw Marius's right hand leap to his hip, and whirled round with his automatic levelled at the centre of the giant's chest.

"Not just yet, Marius!" said Roger, through his teeth.

The Saint, when he went to support Norman, had dropped one gun into his coat pocket. Now, with one arm holding Norman, he had had to put his other gun down on the arm of the sofa while he searched for his petrol-lighter.

He had not realised that the grouping of the others had so fallen that Conway could not now cover both Harding and Marius. Just two simple movements had been enough to bring about that cataclysmic rearrangement—when Norman Kent stood up and Marius tried to draw. And Simon hadn't noticed it. He'd confessed that he was as slow as a freight car that day, which may or may not have been true; but the fact remained that for a fraction of a second he'd allowed the razor-edge of his vigilance to be taken off. And he saw his mis­take that fraction of a second too late.

Harding reached the gun on the arm of the sofa in two steps and a lightning dive; and then he had his back to the wall.

"Drop that gun, you! I give you three seconds. One—— "

Conway, moving only his head to look round, knew that the youngster could drop him in his tracks before he had time to more than begin to move his automatic. And he had no need to wonder whether the other would carry out his threat. Harding's grim and desperate determination was sufficiently arrested by the mere fact that he had dared to make the gamble that gave him the gun and the strategic advantage at the same time. And Harding's eyes were as set and stern as the eyes of a young man can be.

"Two—— "

Suppose Roger chanced his arm? He'd be pipped, for a mil­lion. But would it give Simon time to draw? But Marius was ready to draw, also. . . .

"Three!"

Roger Conway released his gun, even as Harding had had to do not many minutes before; and he had all the sense of bitter humiliation that Harding must have had.

"Kick it over to me."

Conway obeyed; and Harding picked up the gun, and swung two automatics in arcs that included everyone in the room.

"The honour of the British Secret Service!" drawled the Saint, with a mildness that only emphasised the biting sting of his contempt.

"The truce is over," said Harding, dourly. "You'd do the same in my place. Bring me those papers!"

The Saint lowered Norman Kent gently; and Norman rested, half-standing, half-sitting, on the high arm of the settee. And Simon tensed himself to dice the last foolhardy throw.

Then a shadow fell on him; and he looked round and saw that the number of the congregation had been increased by one.

A tall, soldierly figure in grey stood in the opening of the window. A figure utterly immaculate and utterly at ease. . . . And- it is, of course, absurd to say that any accident of breeding makes a man stand out among his fellows; but this man could have been nothing but the man he was.

"Marius," spoke the man in grey, and Marius turned.

"Back, Highness! For God's sake——"

The warning was rapped out in another language, but the man in grey answered in English.

"There is no danger," he said. "I came to see why you had overstayed your time limit."

He walked calmly into the room, with no more than a care­less glance and a lift of his fine eyebrows for Gerald Harding and Gerald Harding's two circling guns.

And then the Saint heard a sound in the hall, beyond the door, which still stood ajar.

He reached the door in a reckless leap, and slammed it. Then he laid hold of the heavy bookcase that stood by the wall, and with a single titanic heave toppled it crashing over to fall like a great bolt across the doorway. An instant later the table from the centre of the room had followed to reinforce the bookcase.

And Simon Templar stood with his back to the pile, breath­ing deeply, with his head thrown back defiantly. He spoke.

"So you're another man of honour—Highness!"

The Prince stroked his moustache with a beautifully mani­cured finger.

"I gave Marius a certain time in which to make my offer," he said. "When that time was exceeded, I could only presume that you had broken the truce and detained him, and I ordered my men to enter the house. They were fortunate enough to capture a lady——"

The Saint went white.

"I say 'fortunate' because she was armed, and might have killed some of them, or at least raised an alarm, if they had not taken her by surprise. However, she has not been harmed. I mention the fact merely to let you see that my intrusion is not so improvident as you might otherwise think. Are you Simon Templar?"

"I am."

The Prince held out his hand.

"I believe I owe you my life. I had hoped for an opportunity of making your acquaintance, but I did not expect that our meeting would be in such unpropitious circumstances. Nevertheless, Marius should have told you that I am not insensitive to the debt I owe you."