Featuring the Saint

Featuring The Saint

By LESLIE CHARTERIS

THE LOGICAL ADVENTURE
THE most exciting stories of the Saint come, it seems to me, from among his later exploits, from the days when he was working practically alone-although Patricia Holm was never far away, and Roger Conway was always within call at times of need. I often think that it best suited the Saint’s peculiar temper to be alone: he was so superbly capable himself, and so arrogantly confident of his own capability, that it irked him to have to deputize the least item of any of his schemes to hands that might bungle it, and exasperated him beyond measure to have to explain and discuss and wrangle his inspirations with minds that leaped to comprehension and decision less swiftly and certainly than his own. These trials he suffered with characteristic good humour; yet there is no doubt that he suffered sometimes, as may be read in other tales that have already been told of him. It is true that the Saint once became something perilously like a gang; there came about him a band of reckless young men who followed him cheerfully into all his crimes, and these young men he led into gay and lawless audacities that made the name of the Saint famous-or infamous -over the whole world; but even those adventures were no more than episodes in the Saint’s life. They were part of his development, but they were not the end. His ultimate destiny still lay ahead; he knew that it still lay ahead, but he did not then know what it was. “The Last Hero” he was called once; but the story of his last heroism is not to be told yet, and the manner of it he never foresaw even in his dreams.

This story, then is one of a handful that I have unearthed from my records of those days of transition, when the Saint was waiting upon Fate. They were days when he seemed to be filling up time; and, as might have been expected of the man, he beguiled the time in his own incomparable fashion, with his own matchless zest; but it is inevitable that his own moods should be reflected in these tales which are exclusively his- that the twist of the tales should indicate what he himself felt about them at the time: that they were not really important and yet that they were none the less fantastically delightful interludes. For Simon Templar was incapable of taking anything of life half-heartedly-even an interlude. And it may be that because of all these things, because he had that vivid sense of the pleasant unimportance of all these adventures, the spirit of laughing devil-may-care quixotry that some have called his greatest charm dances through these tales as it does through few others.

I am thinking particularly of the adventure on which this story is based-a slight story, but a story. Yet it began practically from nothing-as, indeed, did most of the Saint’s best stories. It has been said that Simon Templar had more than any ten men’s fair share of luck in the way of falling into ready-made adventures; but nothing could be farther from the truth. It was the Saint’s own unerring, uncanny genius, his natural instinct for adventure, that made him question things that no ordinary man would have thought to question, and sent him off upon broad, clear roads where no ordinary man would have seen the vestige of a trail; and some volcanic quality within himself that startled violent action out of situations that the ordinary man would have found stillborn. And if there is any story about the Saint that illustrates this fact to perfection it is this story which opens-ordinarily enough-upon the American Bar of the Piccadilly Hotel, two Manhattans, and a copy of the Evening Record.

“Eight to one,” murmured the Saint complacently-“and waltzed home with two lengths to spare. That’s another forty quid for the old oak chest. Where shall we celebrate old dear?”

Patricia Holm smiled.

“Won’t you ever take an interest in something outside the racing reports?” she asked. “I don’t believe you even know whether we’ve got a Conservative or a Labour Government at the moment.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” said the Saint cheerfully. “Apart from the fact that a horse we’ve never seen has earned us the best dinner that London can provide, I refuse to believe that anything of the least importance has happened in England to-day. For instance”-he turned the pages of the newspaper-“we are not at all interested to learn that ‘Evidence of a sensational character is expected to be given at the inquest upon Henry Stobbs, a mechanic, who was found, dead in a garage in Balham yesterday.’ I don’t believe the man had a sensational character at all. No man with a really sensational character would be found dead in a garage in Balham… Nor are we thrilled to hear that ‘Missing from her home at South Norwood since January last, the body of Martha Danby, a domestic servant, was discovered in a disused quarry near Tavistock early this morning by a tramp in an advanced state of decomposition.’ Not that we don’t feel sorry for the tramp -it must be rotten for the poor fellow to have to cruise about the world in an advanced state of decomposition-but my point is—”

“That’ll do,” said Patricia.

“O.K.,” said the Saint affably. “So long as you understand why I’m so— Hullo-what’s this?”

He had been folding the paper into a convenient size for the nearest waste basket when his eye was caught by a name that he knew; and he read the paragraphs surrounding it with a sudden interest. These paragraphs figured in that admirable feature “Here and There,” conducted by that indefatigable and ubiquitous gossip “The Eavesdropper.”

“Well, well, well!” drawled the Saint, with a distinct saintliness of intonation; and Patricia looked at him expectantly.

“What is it?”

“Just a little social chatter,” said Simon. “Our friend is warbling about the progress of civil aviation, and how few serious accidents there have been since light aëroplane clubs started springing up all over the country, and how everyone is taking to the air as if they’d been born with wings. Then he says: ‘There are, of course, a few exceptions. Mr. Francis Lemuel, for instance, the well-known cabaret impresario, who was one of the founders of the Thames Valley Flying Club, and who was himself making rapid progress towards his “A” license, was so badly shaken by his recent crash that he has been compelled, on medical advice, to give up all idea of qualifying as a pilot.’ The rest is just the usual kind of blurb about Lemuel’s brilliant career as a cabaret impresario. But that is interesting-now, isn’t it-to know that dear Francis was sighing for the wings of a Moth!”

“Why?”

The Saint smiled beatifically, and completed the operation of preparing the Evening Record for its last resting place.

“There are many interests in my young life,” he murmured, “of which you are still in ignorance, dear lass. And little Francis is one of them-and has been for some time. But I never knew that he was a bold, bad bird-man-outside of business hours… . And now, old Pat, shall we dine here or push on to the Berkeley Arms?”

And that was all that was said about Francis Lemuel that night, and for ten days afterwards; for at that time, bowing before Patricia’s pleading, Simon Templar was trying to lead a respectable life. And yet, knowing her man, she was a little surprised that he dropped the subject so quickly; and, knowing her man again, she heaved a little sigh of rueful resignation when he met her for lunch ten days later and showed quite plainly in his face that he was on the trail of more trouble. At those times there were a renewed effervescence about the Saint’s always electric personality, and a refreshed recklessness about the laughter that was never far from the surface of his blue eyes, that were unmistakable danger signs. The smooth sweep of his patent-leather hair seemed to become sleeker and slicker than ever, and the keen brown face seemed to take on an even swifter and more rakish chiselledness of line than it ordinarily wore. She knew these signs of old, and challenged him before he had finished selecting the hors d’aeuvres.

“What’s on the programme, Saint?”

Simon sipped his sherry elegantly.

“I’ve got a job.”

“What’s that?”

“You know-work. Dramatis persona: Simon Templar, a horny-handed son of toil.”

“Idiot! I meant-what’s the job?”

“Private Aviator Extraordinary to Mr. Francis Lemuel,” answered the Saint, with dancing eyes. “And you can’t laugh that off!”

“Is that what you’ve been so mysterious about lately?”

“It is. I tell you, it wasn’t dead easy. Mr. Lemuel has an eccentric taste in aviators. I got a lot of fun out of convincing him that I was a really shabby character. Try to imagine the late lamented Solomon applying, incog., for the job of ‘Ask Auntie Abishag’ on the staff of the Lebanon Daily Leader… .” The Saint grinned reminiscently. “But as an ex-R.A.F. orficer, cashiered for pinching three ailerons, four longerons, and a brace of gliding angles, I had what you might call a flying start.”

“And what are you supposed to do?”

“Propel him about the bright blue sky.”

“Where?“The Saint bisected a sardine with precision and dexterity.

“That,” he answered, “is the point. According to rumours, Francis is proposing to extend his cabaristic activities into the other capitals of Europe. But why by air? The latest and most rapid means of transport,’ says you, intelligent-like. Oh, every-time. But the whole of civilized Europe is served by very comfortable public airways-very comfortable-and my researchers into Mr. Lemuel’s character never made me think he was the sort of cove who’d sacrifice his armchair in a pukka flying Pullman and go batting through the blue in an open two-seater air-louse just to save an hour here and there. Mystery Number One. That’s why I was so interested to read that Brother Francis had been trying to aviate solo-you remember?”

Patricia nodded.

“I wondered—”

“Never give tongue before you’ve got the bluebottle by the blunt end,” said the Saint. “That’s my motto. But I always believe in taking two looks at anything that seems to have slipped the least bit off the main line, and that was a case in point. Particularly with a man like Francis Lemuel. I’ve al ways thought he was far too respectable to be above suspicion. Now we may start to learn things.”

She tried to find out how he had contrived to discover that Mr. Lemuel had been searching for a disreputable aviator; she was equally curious to know how the Saint had contrived to present himself for the job; but Simon Templar still had his own little secrets. About some of the preliminary details of his adventures he was often absurdly reticent.

“I heard about it,” he said, “and a bloke I met in a pub out at Aldgate landed me on the front door, so to speak… . Mystery Number Two, of course, is why the aviator should have been disreputable… .”

He talked energetically about this problem, and left her first questions otherwise unanswered. And with that she had to be content-until, abruptly, he switched off the subject altogether, and for the rest of that day refused to talk any more about what he was pleased to call “affairs of state.”

Other things happened afterwards-very shortly afterwards. A few other people entered the story, a few other threads came into it, a few diverting decorations blossomed upon it; but the foundations of the story were already laid, and it is doubtful whether any of the subsequent events herein described would have eventuated at all if Simon Templar had not chanced to catch sight of that innocent paragraph in the Evening Record. For of such material were the Saint’s adventures made.

And nothing can be more certain than that if the Saint had not been a man of such peculiar genius and eccentric interests he would not to this day carry an eight-inch scar on his right forearm as a memento of the adventure, and Mr. Francis Lemuel would not have experienced such a sudden and cataclysmic elevation, and one Jacob Einsmann might still have been with us, and M. Boileau, the French Minister of Finance, would not have been put to considerable inconvenience -and (which is perhaps even more important) a girl whose name used to be Stella Dornford would not now be married to a bank clerk with very ordinary prospects, and living in a very ordinary apartment in Battersea, and perfectly happy in spite of that.

2
The Calumet Club is situate (as the estate agents so beautifully put it) in a spacious basement in Deacon Street, Soho. This statement should be taken at its face value. There are, in fact, no premises whatsoever in any way ostensibly appertaining to the said club on the street level, or on any of the floors above. Entrance to the club is by means of a narrow flight of stone steps leading down into a microscopic area; and through a door opening upon this area one may (if one is known to the management) obtain access to the club itself, via a room which only an estate agent would have the nerve to describe as a vestibule, and past a porter who has been other things in his time.

The Calumet Club has an extensive if curiously exclusive membership. Things are discussed there-fascinating things. Money and other objects of virtue change hands there. And sometimes strange things are said to have happened there- very strange things. The Saint was distinctly interested in the Calumet Club. It was one of the irregular interests of his young life.

Nevertheless, the visit he paid to it on a certain evening began as a mere matter of routine, and was embarked upon without immediate malice premeditated.

For thus is the way paved for adventure, as far as human ingenuity can contrive it, with good sound non-skid tarmac. Upon learning, almost beyond dispute, that Mr. Phineas Poppingcove is a saccharine smuggler, you do not, whatever your principles and prowess, immediately invade his abode, beat him vimfully about the head with some blunt instrument, and so depart with the work of discouragement satisfactorily accomplished. If you discover, after patient investigation, that the rooms in which Miss Desiree Sausage professes to teach the latest ballroom dances (h. & c.) are in reality the dens where foolish young men are fleeced of their fathers’ money at wangled games of halma, you do not, even if you are the Saint, instantly force your way into those rooms, shoot the croupier, denounce Miss Sausage, and take the stake money home with you as a souvenir. Or, if you do, your promising career is liable to terminate abruptly and in a manner definitely glutinous. The Saint, it should be remembered, had been in that sort of game for some time; and he knew, better than anyone else, the value of painstaking preparation. When everything that could possibly be known about the lie of the land and the personal habits of its denizens was known, and the line of subsequent retreat had been thoroughly surveyed, mapped, dressed, ventilated, and upholstered-then, oh, yes, then the blunt instrument, wielded with decisive celerity and no uncertain hand. But not before.