The Saint Goes On (26 page)

“If you can take your mind off poetry for a while and concentrate on what I’m saying, it may be useful,” he said. “I want you to know what this is all about-just in case of accidents.”

And he went on talking for about half an hour, sorting out the facts and putting them together with infinite deference to the limitations of Mr. Uniatz’s cerebral system, until he had made sure that even Hoppy had assimilated as much of the secret as he knew himself. He had never expected to produce any sensational reactions; but Mr. Uniatz bit the end from a cigar and spat it out with a phlegmatic practicality which was equivalent to the flabbergasted incoherence of any lesser man.

“Whadda we do, boss?” he asked.

“We hang around,” said the Saint. “It may happen tonight or it may happen a month from now; but we can take it as written that a job like this isn’t planned and worked out on that scale without there’s something pretty worthwhile in it, and when the balloon goes up we’ll be around to inspect the boodle.”

He had a cool estimate of his own danger. The Garthwait outfit had acquired bigger and better reasons to dislike him, whatever part they had decided he was playing in the pageant. The Jeffroll fraternity might be equally puzzled about his status, but in the next ten minutes he had three separate indications of their esteem.

While he sat talking on the hill his keen eyes had caught the stirring of a bush at the edge of the wooded patch below him, and he had seen the movement of a scrap of white behind it. Walking down again as casually as if he had noticed nothing, he let the path lead him towards the place where he had seen the watcher. It was Major Portmore, leaning against the bole of a tree where the shrubbery almost hid him from the hill-top-but for the flash of his white shirt, he might have been passed unobserved while he stood still. He had a pipe between his teeth and a shot-gun under his arm, and he nodded unconcernedly when the Saint greeted him.

“Thought I might get a rabbit,” he said amiably. “You often see them sunning themselves up there.”

Simon raised a faintly quizzical eyebrow.

“I should have thought tigers would have been more in your line,” he murmured.

“Tigers,” said the Major, taking out his pipe, “or rats. It’s all the same to me.”

The Saint let his eyes dwell gently on the other’s shepherd’s-warning complexion.

“If the rats are pink ones, on bicycles,” he said gravely, “don’t shoot.”

He left the gallant Major a shade darker in colour, and bore thoughtfully to the left, towards the garage. Slipping into his car, he adjusted the throttle and ignition, and pressed the starter. The engine turned over several times without firing, and he abandoned the effort to save his batteries. Doubtless an expert investigation would show what had been done to put it out of action, but it required no investigation to tell him that Major Portmore’s sudden transfer of interest from fishing to rabbiting had the same reason as the disabling of the Hirondel.

He wandered round to the front of the hotel, and found Captain Voss sitting on a bench beside the door with a newspaper on his knee, his face wrinkled up against the glare till he looked like a grey-haired lizard. He said “Good morning” briefly in answer to the Saint’s cheery nod, and returned to his paper; but the Saint knew that he did not read another line until they had passed on into the hall.

Simon Templar went into the lounge and sat on a window seat with his feet up, considering these three tributes with the aid of a cigarette. The change of attitude since last night was not lost on him. Then, the principal idea had been to persuade him to move on, and he had gathered that if he moved on without fuss everybody would have been quite happy and asked no questions. Now, even if the idea was not actually to keep him there, it was at least plain that he was not to go anywhere without being watched-the tampering with his car fitted in with that scheme equally well, for it was flagrantly a hopeless car for anyone to try to follow. Simon sat thinking it over with profound interest, while Hoppy Uniatz sat beside him and chewed one end of his cigar and smoked the other in a sublime complacency of unhelpfulness. He heard a small car grind fussily down the road and stop with a squeak outside, without letting it interrupt his meditations; and then, through the half-open window over his head, he heard something else that stiffened him into attention with a jerk.

“Morning, Voss-is Jeffroll inside?”

It was the thin desiccated voice of the man he had met on the Axminster road in the small hours of that morning-the man who, according to Garthwait himself, might have paid ten thousand pounds for the rescue of that prodigious pun-pie on the cosmos.

VIII
THERE was no doubt that his bald use of Voss’s surname, without prefix, was not meant impertinently; equally beyond question was the implied acceptance of the familiarity in Voss’s pleasant reply:
“He’s in the office-sorry I can’t come in with you.”

“Not at all,” said the dry voice punctiliously.

Simon was peering between the curtains, trying to catch a glimpse of the owner of the voice; and then he heard footsteps in the hall and sank back hurriedly, snatching out a handkerchief to cover his face. Pretending to blow his nose vigorously, but not so noisily as to make himself the object of undesirable curiosity, he saw the man come through the archway which communicated the lounge and the hall. It was a small man, who walked easily under the low beams, and the chief impression it gave was one of studied and all-permeating greyness. Everything about him seemed to be grey-from the top of his baldish head and the parchment pallor of his face, down through his rusty swallow-tail coat and striped trousers, to his incongruously foppish suede shoes. He carried a small black briefcase in a grey-gloved hand; and Simon searched for a moment for the one unmistakable thing that linked his whole appearance to his dry dusty voice. In another moment he got it. The Saint refused to believe that anyone who looked and dressed and spoke so exactly like a rather seedy lawyer could possibly have any other reason for existence.

And this grey old bird was the mysterious unknown who had recognised him on the Axminster road. Simon’s eyes narrowed fractionally as he remembered the parched undertone of humour in the man’s accounting for that recognition. “That is my business …” Undoubtedly it was-but why was this bloke, whom Garthwait promptly called upon in his emergency, calling in such a friendly fashion on the men who had tied Garthwait up and apparently planned to fatten eels on him?

Simon bit his lips. He would have given much to overhear what was happening in the office; but his explorations had already revealed that there were only two approaches to Jeff-roll’s sanctum, either through the back of the bar or along the passage from the kitchen, and a moment’s reflection showed both of those routes to be impracticable. The Saint swore comprehensively under his breath, damning and blasting everything about the hotel, from the amblyopic architect who had first conceived its fatuous layout down to the last imbecile grandchild of the paranoiac plumbers who had inexplicably omitted to drown themselves in its drains; and when he took out his cigarette-case again for the soothing compensation of tobacco, it was empty.

He got up restlessly, and went out again to the road. An ancient Morris stood outside, and he recognised it as the car he had met during the night-the identification of the grey dry man was absolutely complete, beyond question. But what the hell was it all about? The lawyer knew that he had been associated with Garthwait, must have known that his voice was easily recognisable; if he had been on such friendly terms with the hotel garrison as his approach and reception seemed to prove, he seemed to be taking an insane risk in coming back to see them after having been caught in his duplicity. Or was it something more than an insane risk? The Saint realised that unless that action were absolutely insane, the danger might be transferred to himself. He had to catch up with the development and put himself in front of it again, quickly. He still wanted a cigarette… .

“Going for a walk?” said a quiet voice at his elbow. “Mind if I come with you?”

He had set off to walk down to the village almost automatically, remembering a tobacconist’s shop that he had noticed on his earlier stroll; and he had been concentrating so fiercely on his new problem that for the instant his mind had let slip the knowledge that he was under very thinly veiled surveillance.

“I’m only going out for some cigarettes,” he said.

“That’s just what I want,” replied Captain Voss blandly.

For a moment Simon coldly considered whether he should pick up the wizened little man and throw him forcefully over Larkstone Point into the sea; but he controlled himself. He did only want a packet of cigarettes just then, and it would be time enough to start throwing his weight about when he had something more important on hand. But he stopped a little way down the hill to make a pretence of tying his shoelace, and looked back at the hotel. The big black-haired man, Kane, was sitting outside now, exactly as Voss had been sitting, turning the pages of the same newspaper. The door was still guarded while Hoppy remained inside-Voss must have given some signal to call out the reserve watchdog when he left his post.

Simon bought a packet of cigarettes, while Voss made a similar purchase, and turned back up the hill. He was walking slowly, but his brain was tearing along, trying to place itself inside the minds of at least three people at once. In spite of that, while he had built up and demolished a score of theories, he hadn’t a single settled hypothesis standing at the end of this quarter of an hour’s walk.

Someone else had thought ahead of him-he saluted the fact grimly as he came up to the door of the inn again. The lawyer’s car was still standing outside, but the man himself was not in sight. Jeffroll was. He was standing beside Kane, watching them approach; and he nodded as the Saint came up.

“Good morning, Mr. Tombs-could you spare me a moment?”

“Any number,” said the Saint coolly.

At that moment he was tense and alert, keyed to a hair-trigger watchfulness, although there was not a trace of uneasiness to be read on his brown face.

“Come into the office,” said Jeffroll.

Simon realised that his face was curiously strained and haggard, his mouth twitching unconsciously as it had been the previous evening. Whatever this conversation was to be about, quite definitely it held something that the Saint hadn’t included in any of his theories.

Perhaps that was the principal reason why Simon Templar’s vigilance relaxed at that crucial moment. He had shrewdly summarised Jeffroll as a man who would never be a good actor, and he knew that that drawn anxiety was utterly genuine. He followed the landlord through the lounge and the curtains behind the bar, with his imagination whirling through a fresh burst of frantic effort to encompass this new and unexpected twist, but without the same grim vigilance, although he knew that Voss had come in also and was following behind him. That is, and ever after was, the only excuse he could make for himself; and the mistake have cost him his life.

Jeffroll opened the door of the office, and stood aside for the Saint to go in. Simon went in with a languid stride-Port-more and Weems were there, but the lawyer was surprisingly absent. Then something hard jabbed into his back, and he began to appreciate his error.

“Put up your hands.”

It was Jeffroll’s voice, behind him, speaking with a half-hysterical menace that held the Saint studiously motionless where a more callous and seasoned intonation might have encouraged him to lazy backchat or even a swift attempt to retrieve the situation. But he was old enough in outlawry to know that the innkeeper’s forefinger was as uncertain on the trigger as only the finger of a panic-stricken man can be; and he stood very still.

The weight of his automatic came off his hip pocket; and then he was pushed forward. Only then, when he could turn round and see Jeffroll’s face, and keep a wary eye on the man’s reactions, did he venture to indulge in any conversational amenities.

“Bless my soul,” he remarked mildly. “Do you know, for a moment I thought you were going to kiss me.”

Major Portmore reached down under the desk, where he was sitting, and brought up the shot-gun which he had been carrying in the wood that morning.

“Get over against the wall and shut up,” he ordered harshly.

Simon got over against the wall.

“Now then,” said Jeffroll, over the sights of his revolver, “where is Julia?”

The Saint’s mouth hardened as if it had been turned to stone. Then that was the explanation of the landlord’s strange whiteness. Ideas drummed through his brain-Hoppy Uniatz asleep, Garthwait who had escaped while he was away, the lawyer’s visit… . But he scarcely had time to pin down one of those speeding flashes of fact before Jeffroll’s voice was shrilling into his ears again.

“Hurry up, damn you! I’m going to count up to ten. If you
haven’t answered by that time”

“What happens?” asked the Saint, in his quietest voice. “You can hang yourself off that beam without bothering to shoot me-or would you rather have it done legally? And where does it get you, anyhow?”

Portmore nodded.

“That’s right,” he said impersonally. “I told you shooting was too quick, Jeffroll. Voss-Weems-you tie him up. I’ll see if I can make him talk.”

Weems got up limply out of his chair and produced a coil of wire. The Saint’s arms were twisted behind his back, and the wrists quickly and efficiently bound; then his ankles were similarly treated. Jeffroll’s mouth worked as if he was tempted to refuse interference and stick to his original threat, but he said nothing.

Portmore got up and came round the desk. He handed the shot-gun over to Voss and stood in front of the Saint.

“Will you answer that question, or have I got to thrash it out of you?” he demanded.

Simon looked at him steadily. Placed as he was, it required a superhuman effort to hold back the obvious defiance. Only the fact that he could understand and sympathise with the feelings of his inquisitors helped him to check his temper -that, and the knowledge that the same liberties could not be taken with a crazed amateur that could be taken with dispassionate professionals.