Leslie Charteris - The Saint Returns

“And... tell Mildred,” he mumbled, “that who she marries is her own business, if that’s how it has to be. I won’t stand in the way.”

“I’ll deliver the message. It seems like a wise one.”

The Saint looked at Drew more intently. His final request, toward which it might be said that all the earlier part of his conversation had been secretly building, would have to be phrased in such a way as to arouse no suspicions. To slip now would be like settling weight on a false footing just inches before reaching the top of a precipice.

“There’s just one thing I’m curious about,” he said.

“What?” Drew asked.

“You’re very concerned about who has captured your daughter, and all about my character. I’m sure you’ll have me checked out thoroughly before I get my hands on that money tomorrow. The one thing you haven’t thought to ask is whether or not the kidnappers have your daughter.”

Drew was obviously taken aback. He looked a bit like a schoolboy caught in a ridiculous arithmetical error.

“Well,” he said defensively, “Brine and Mullins are far overdue in contacting me — which seems to confirm your story. My daughter, after all, is missing. And you’re so anxious for me to trust in your honesty: it was you who was with her, and who told me you left her in the house where you found the note. I don’t even understand what you mean, now...”

“I mean,” said Simon, “that I have never seen your daughter — before yesterday. Do you have a picture of her?”

Drew seemed flabbergasted that the Saint would bring up such a crucial question of identification at that late moment.

“Yes,” he said. “I brought this with me in case I had to ask the police to put out a public alarm.”

He went into the bedroom which adjoined the living room of the suite and returned with a large photograph in his hand.

Simon took it and studied it. Then he smiled.

“Yes,” he said, taking a last satisfied look. “That settles it.”

The fat man called Brine sat in an old Austin-Healey at the crossing of two unpaved roads six miles from the village of Birr. It was two minutes before nine o’clock, and though the man must have been tired, since he could have had little sleep in the past twenty-four hours, he was as alert as a sentry on the border of enemy territory. His head jerked toward the direction of the slightest sound, and the Saint was sure that his hand must never be far from the ignition key, so that he could start the engine and be off at the first threat of danger.

So the Saint, who was crouched in the trees just behind Brine’s car, had to be very quiet. The night was cloudy and thus exceptionally dark. That was one advantage. Another advantage was the mild but gusty wind which had come along with the cloudy weather. The noises it caused in the branches of trees and bushes would continually distract Brine and also tend to cover any sounds the Saint might make. Simon could have made do without those advantages, but their existence was convenient and seemed a good omen.

He crept forward like a stalking leopard into the road behind the car, carrying something in one hand which might have been even more alarming to Brine than a gun, had Brine been able to see it. It was a large can of white paint — a half gallon — with a strip of adhesive tape in the middle of both the top and the bottom.

When he had reached the rear of the car, Simon deftly and silently hooked the handle of the paint can over one of the bumper guards. Then he pulled the strips of tape from the top and bottom. Under each piece of tape was a small hole, and white paint began to drip slowly but regularly on to the dark earth of the road.

With as little sound as he had made in coming, the Saint moved away from the automobile and melted into the murky forest like a passing shadow.

When he was a safe distance from Brine, he quickened his pace and quickly covered the two hundred yards of woods which separated the Austin-Healey from his own car. He had arrived in the area before Brine and parked in an obscure little lane which was visible from neither of the roads which formed the crossing marked on the crude map the kidnappers had left behind at Kelly’s house. Now that his private mission with the can of paint was finished, it was a simple matter to start his engine, drive down to the crossroads, and arrive just on time for the meeting.

His car was facing Brine’s when he drove up, and in the glare of his own lights he could see Brine gesturing for him to drive alongside. Apparently the erstwhile detective wanted to keep the road ahead clear for a fast getaway, and also had no intention of leaving the security of the driver’s seat of his car.

Simon stopped so that his open window was less than two feet from Brine’s. He was greeted with a dim view of Brine’s pudgy face and the snout of a revolver.

“Got the money?” Brine asked nervously.

Simon, remaining in his car, picked up the attaché case which Drew had given him in the afternoon and handed it out through his window. Brine took it, dropped it onto the seat beside him, and kept his eye and gun on the Saint while his free hand fumbled with the latch. A few seconds later he held a handful of neatly stacked and banded bills alongside the gun, so that he could check their genuineness without dropping his guard. Then he put them back and inspected another handful. Obviously he was too nervous even to think of counting to see if the correct amount was there.

“This better be right,” he said. “Any tricks and it’s too bad.”

“It’s good money,” the Saint said lightly. “I wouldn’t mind having some of it myself.”

Brine snorted.

“Give me your car key,” he said.

Simon took the key from the ignition and handed it to Brine, who promptly threw it off into the bushes.

“Now, Mr. Brine,” said the Saint with mild reproach, “that isn’t very original. But at least it shows you learn by example. How long did you have to dive in that river the other day before you found yours?”

“I haven’t any time for talking, Templar.”

Brine started his car.

“What about Mildred and Kelly?” Simon asked.

“They’ll be let loose somewhere near a telephone.” He grinned. “Now if I were you I’d start hunting for that key.”

He pulled quickly away as Simon leaned down, tore a strip of tape from a niche under the dashboard, and inserted one of his spare keys into the ignition. The satisfaction he got from reaping the benefit of that bit of foresight was minor compared to his relief at seeing — when he flicked on his headlights and turned around — the spots of white paint clearly marking the route by which Brine’s car had disappeared.

Simon set a rate of speed which he felt would keep Brine from widening the gap between them. The white spots turned onto a paved road which led south for several miles, and then turned off into the woods again. The spots were difficult to see on the rocky lane, but it did not really matter since once on that particular pathway it would have been impossible for a car to deviate to one side or the other without leaving behind a swathe of broken undergrowth.

A little further on the woods became more sparse, and the crude road wound up the side of a hill. At the top of the hill was one of those broken-down castles which do so much to enhance the beauty of Irish tourist brochures.

Simon could see its single round tower black against the shredded clouds of the faintly luminous sky. With the lights of his car off, he drove to the edge of a grove which was within easy walking distance of the castle, but was far enough away that no one on top of the hill could have heard the sound of his engine or the careful opening and closing of the door.