Leslie Charteris - The Saint Returns

“Nobody. But whatever you do, keep Mildred away from it.”

Kelly sat back impatiently and gulped at his drink.

“Now for heaven’s sake why is that?”

“Because every time I shake those two men who’re following her, they show up again faster than...”

“The SS, you mean?” Kelly interrupted.

“Except they’re not SS. According to her latest bulletin they’re private detectives hired by her father to catch her and bring her home before she can get married to some American actor.”

“And who might her father be this time?”

“For the moment, Eugene Drew.”

Kelly looked enlightened, and amazed.

“The rich fella,” he said. “It’s like a holy miracle, but I just looked at tomorrow’s paper I bought in the village and me eye fell on that story. A little squib in the back: rumored that Eugene Drew’s daughter has run away again — or somethin’ to that effect.”

“Was that all it said?” the Saint asked.

“It was only a couple of lines.” Kelly’s voice became alarmed. “But Simon, you helpin’ a runaway — and she here in me own house! It’s a dangerous game to be playin’ and for no good reason. And what’s this about detectives findin’ her, and her and the telephone and all? Shure and she’s not callin’ the very people she wants to get away from and tellin’ them where she is! She may be crazy, but that’s carryin’ insanity to obnoxious extremes.”

The Saint’s calmness was a marked contrast to Kelly’s excitement.

“I wouldn’t discount any possibility right now,” he said. “They knew I had a room at the hotel when they shouldn’t even have known my name. They caught up with us outside Dublin when they shouldn’t have had the faintest idea which way we were going.”

“Maybe she’s got one o’ them homin’ devices planted on her,” Kelly suggested. “I saw a film last week where they put some pin in this man’s lapel, and then they could know where he was no matter...”

Simon grinned and shook his head.

“There’s no need to make it so complicated,” he said. “Nothing has happened that can’t be explained by a little behind-the-scenes use of the common telephone.”

Kelly jumped to his feet impatiently and poured himself a fresh shot of whiskey.

“There ye are again — back to her and the telephone. If I’ve got a lunatic — or maybe two — under me roof, I’d at least like to know how she — or they — came to be here, so fill me in as directly as ye can.”

By the time Simon had given a strictly factual account of everything that had happened from the time he had left Kelly in the Gresham Grill until he and Mildred had arrived at Kelly’s cottage door, it was late enough that he definitely preferred sleep to the Irishman’s exotic speculations as to the truth behind the events.

“Let’s sleep on it, Pat,” the Saint said, getting to his feet. “The best thing you can do is see that Mildred doesn’t use the phone or leave your house.”

“Ye talk as if ye won’t be here,” said Kelly.

“Well, my car — or what’s left of it — is sitting with a bent axle in the woods somewhere west of Lucan. If you don’t mind, I’ll borrow your car and drive back there to see about having it towed out and repaired. I’m afraid I’d never get much action if I just telephoned. They’d probably want my personal authorization to take it, and it’s in a pretty obscure spot.”

“Ye’re welcome to me car,” Kelly said, “but we could all go if ye like.”

“I have a feeling you and Mildred will both be asleep, and I’d like to get an early start. Anyway, I’m afraid if we once let her out of the house we’ll mysteriously find that her chums are on our trail again.”

“But Simon, me boy, we can’t be holdin’ her prisoner, and why should we? I mean, it isn’t us that’s runnin’ away with her — and if me wife should come home unexpectedly and find her here, it’d be...”

“I’ll back up your story,” said the Saint. “And before I turn in I’ll explain what I have in mind. If Mildred’s story is on the level, she’ll be glad to hole up here till it’s time for her to meet her boy friend at the airport. She’d be a fool to show her face anywhere until the very last minute. Right?”

Kelly nodded his shaggy red head.

“Now,” Simon continued, “if she’s not telling the truth, and if she is the one keeping the hounds hot on her own trail, then the whole show must be for somebody else’s benefit.”

Kelly was swaying uncertainly on his feet, frowning in the intensity of his effort to understand what Simon was saying. He had drunk the entire contents of at least one of the bottles.

“Benefit,” he mumbled vaguely. “Whose benefit?”

“So far you and I are the only audience I know anything about,” the Saint replied.

“Ye mean it’s all a big joke?”

“No. I think it’s possibly a big show with a starring role written in for me. And since I’m one of the leading characters I just want to be sure there’s going to be a happy ending.”

“Ye’ve lost me,” said Kelly.

“Well, ponder on it,” Simon said, “and by morning I’m sure you’ll have come up with some of the same possibilities I have.”

“It’ll do me no earthly good to ponder at all,” Kelly said, showing the way to Simon’s room. “Me wife says I’m good for nothin’ but fightin’ and drinkin’ and sometimes I’m inclined to believe her.”

“You may have a chance to prove she’s right about the fighting if Mildred’s detective friends show up tomorrow.”

Kelly grunted.

“Listen — even the postman can’t find this place, let alone a couple of city yobbos like them. And if they do get here...”

He raised his fist expressively.

“That should discourage them,” Simon said. “Hold down the fort Pat, and if I’m gone when you get up I should be back by mid-afternoon.”

The next morning went according to the Saint’s plans. He needed no alarm clock to guarantee that he would wake up by a certain hour. He told himself before he fell asleep that he wanted to be awake at nine, and when he opened his eyes to the sun his wrist watch told him that his mental timer had been accurate almost to the minute. A short while later he was on the road that ran through Mullingar to Kilcock, about sixty miles from Kelly’s house. As he drove through the beautiful countryside, admiring the red and purple fuchsia against the whitewashed walls of cottages, he thought of the fishing he might be enjoying at this moment. Somehow or other he was going to extract a compensatory reward from this adventure, even if it took selling Mildred to an Arab slaver.

There were no more complications than might have been expected involved in having his car retrieved from the wilderness. He showed a towing truck from Kilcock the way, and the job was done in short order. The repair of the axle would take overnight, he was told, since parts would have to be obtained from Dublin. So he transferred his luggage from the trunk of his injured car to the trunk of Kelly’s, had a simple but decent lunch at a Kilcock hostelry, and drove back the same way he had come earlier.

It was after four when he stopped in front of Kelly’s cottage. The vine-covered gate was standing open. The door of the cottage was open a few inches also. In the living room, several pieces of furniture were overturned, one of the wooden African masks was broken in half and a Zulu assegai was embedded in the sofa. There was no blood, at least, and there were no bullet holes.

On the nail in the wall where the primitive mask had hung was a note on white paper. Simon took it down and read it.

Saint:

We have your friend and Mildred Drew. Tell Eugene Drew that if he wants to see her alive he must give you a hundred thousand pounds which you must deliver to us tomorrow night at the crossing marked on the map below at nine o’clock. Come alone, your friend wont be hurt if you cooperate, and neither will the girl. Otherwise we’ll kill them.