The Saint Meets His Match (30 page)

“I do not think you will escape, Mees
Trelawney,” he
said, “so I will
excuse myself. I will send my friend away,
and then I will come back and talk to you.” The bright
little eyes gleamed under the brim of his hat.
“I have very
interesting things
to say to you—very interesting.”

And as the door closed
behind him something like a
cold ghostly hand seemed
to touch the back of her neck,
sending a clammy tingle
over her scalp and an icy numb
ness sinking down into the pit of her stomach.

Now that she knew he had
nothing to do with the Saint,
she wondered if the Saint knew anything about
him—— if it
were possible that the Saint
might have noticed him at
some time. It meant, at least, that the story
of the Saint’s
arrest was probably untrue,
mere bait for the trap into
which
she had walked so blindly. But how soon would the
Saint find out, and, even then, what could he do?
Such a
little time could make so much
difference… . And on the upturned dial of her wrist watch, almost under her
eyes, three impersonal hands traced
the crawling of time
into eternity.

She watched their
remorseless movements with a dull
apathy of
fascination, and saw the plodding minutes lengthen into an hour. She had no
idea what Gugliemi
could be doing; it did not seem to be useful to wonder.
Probably he was drinking… . One hour became two. Something seemed to snap
in her brain and make her
insensible to the
passage of time. What would the Saint
be
doing? … She was getting cramp and her nose was
tickling… .

And then footsteps sounded outside, and the
handle of
the door turned with a rattle that
made her heart leap
into her mouth
and flop back into a furious hammering.
A crazy hope that it might even be the Saint himself swept
through her head—she had unconsciously attained to
such
a faith in the Saint, had fallen
so deeply under his spell,
without knowing it at the time, that she
could have be
lieved him capable of any
miracle… . But the sound
heralded only the return of the dapper
Gugliemi, now
lightened of his hat and
coat.

He came into the room and
locked the door behind
 
him, and the girl raised her head.

“You’ve been a long time with your
friend,” she re
marked.

“Yes.” He
smiled. “He was a little difficult. But I have
sent him away now, and
he will not come back for two
hours. That
will give me plenty of time. I hope you are
becoming interested.”

“Not enough to raise
my temperature. And I didn’t
invite you to sit down.
Even if you are disguised as a
gentleman——
”

“Mees Trelawney——
”

“Or perhaps you
aren’t disguised as a gentleman. I ad
mit the disguise
wasn’t very successful, but I thought that
was
what it was meant to be.”

Gugliemi adjusted his tie
with delicately manicured
hands.

“Do you know what is
going to happen to you?” he
inquired.

His English had become
more fluent, perhaps because his first agitation, which had not been entirely
simulated,
was wearing off.

“I told you I wasn’t
interested,” she said.

Watching him, she
appreciated the circumstances cold
bloodedly. Even her
useless automatic had been taken
from her; and she knew, from the grip that he
had once
taken on her wrists, that even if she
had not been strapped
to the chair he
could have handled her as he pleased,
slight
as he was. And then
…
Of course, the story of the
Saint’s arrest might possibly be true; but it was
unlikely.
Her thoughts were muddled
by the feeling of exaspera
tion which
ran through them. For her, after turning the laws of England inside out, and
making enough trouble
to whiten the
hair of every man in Scotland Yard, to have
fallen for a bushel of birdseed like that! But how long
would it
be before the Saint missed her?

Since she had been
installed in the studio he had called at least every other day. Sometimes on
consecutive days. At the best, reckoning upon his previous habits, he could
not be expected to call again before to-morrow; and two
hours,
according to Gugliemi, were all the time that there
was to spare.
      

And yet things were
moving faster than they had been before, and it was more than possible that the
Saint might
have reason to see her again that
night. And when once
he missed her, he wouldn’t
be likely to accumulate so
much moss under his feet
that it would seriously interfere
with his
travelling. But could she hold out so long—long enough to give him the time he
would require to make up
the lost ground?

“It is necessary,” said Gugliemi,
“that you should be
killed. I have been
told so, and I myself have been
paid
to do it. I did not know before that these things were
done in England, but now I am told that they are.
In
Italy, of course, if anyone is a trouble he disappears—
poof!—like that. But I did not know it was done in
England until I was told that you must
disappear. And
they told me that if
you disappeared completely they
would
not send me back to Italy. That is very important, because if I went back to
Italy I should be sent to prison
at
once.”

She stared at him, hardly
believing her ears.

“Who told you this?” she asked in a
strained voice.

“I was told,”
said Gugliemi. “But I was not told to do
it
like this. This was an idea of my own. I was told to take
my little gun and find out where you lived, and go in and
shoot you and walk out again, and no questions would be
asked. But I saw you once, when you looked out of the
window I was watching in the street outside, and I decid
ed that it could not be done like that. Not with anyone
so young and beautiful.”

He kissed his fingers to her, elegantly.

“So I have brought you to my little home.
You have
disappeared, and so the police will
be satisfied. As for
me, I also will
be satisfied, and everything will be quite
all right.”

The ridiculous
preciousness of his speech and gesture
made
the situation grotesque, and yet
…

She looked round the bare,
mean room, made dingier,
if possible, by the fact
that it was lighted only by a feeble gas jet in one corner. And while Gugliemi
deliberated his next sentence, rocking gently in his chair, she listened in
the silence, and heard no other sound in the house.
Probably it was empty—Gugliemi would not have risked
leaving her ungagged in a place where she might cry out
and attract attention.

He seemed to read her thoughts with the
restless dark
eyes that searched her face
with blatant appreciation of
her
beauty.

“No,” he said,
“there is ho one here. We are in Lam
beth,
and this is the caretaker’s room over an empty ware
house. You can cry out
if you like, but no one will hear
you. And
as soon as you promise me that you will behave
yourself, I will take those straps away and you will be
free.”

“So,” she said calmly, “Mr.
Templar hasn’t been ar
rested?”

He spread out his hands.

“How should I know?
That was a story I made up.
When he left your house, I did not follow him
any more.
I was not interested in him.
Perhaps he has been arrested,
perhaps
he has not. Who can say?”

She grasped that one fact
as a drowning man might
clutch at a straw.

And then, as if in answer
to her thoughts, somewhere
down in the depths below
there was
&
thunder of knock
ing on the door.

Chapter XI

HOW
 
SIMON
 
TEMPLAR
 
INTERRUPTED
 
A
PARTY,

AND MR. CULLIS WAS AT
HOME

G
UGLIEMI
must have thought that it was his friend return
ing, for his dark eyes opened wide when he saw Simon 
Templar.

“What do you
want?” he demanded.

“Who are you?”
inquired the Saint, inspecting him
from crown to toe with a disparaging
eye.

“I am the
caretaker.”

“Then I hope you will
take great care,” said the Saint.

The Italian was starting
to push the door in his face, but Simon pushed harder, and walked in.

“What do you want?” asked Gugliemi
again, and this time he asked it more dangerously.

Simon carefully detached a
fragment of cobweb from
his sleeve. He was in his
dinner jacket, without hat or
overcoat, and his shirt gleamed snowy white in
the dim
light.

“I really don’t want you to think me
interfering, Signor
Oleaqua,” said the
Saint diffidently. “But don’t you think
it’s time you let Miss
Trelawney go home?”

“I know nothing about
Mees Trelawney.”

“But, my dear Signor
Gazebo,” protested the Saint, in
accents of shocked
innocence, “think of the proprieties!
Think
of what the bishop would say if he knew that you
were
alone with a fair lady at this hour!”

“I do not
understand,” said Gugliemi stubbornly. “I
know
no Mees Trelawney, I tell you.”

The Saint’s eyebrows lifted half an inch.

“Really?” he
said. “But a friend of yours has just told
me
that he brought her here with you.”

Gugliemi shrugged eloquent shoulders.

“Perhaps you make the
fairy tale?” he said.

“Perhaps,” agreed
the Saint, “But of course you’ll let
me
have a look round, just to make sure, won’t you?”

“I shall not.”
Gugliemi straightened up. “You have
forced
your way in here, and if you do not go quickly I
will call for the
police.”

Simon straightened up
also.

“Your ideas of
hospitality are deplorable,” he remarked
genially. “But I’m
sure you don’t mean it. You’re just one
of
these strong men with no trimmings, and you wouldn’t
be really
troublesome for the world, would you?”

A shining automatic had
appeared from nowhere in
his hand. He flourished it airily, and Gugliemi
became aware of an unpleasant sinking feeling.

“I’m not very used
to these little toys,” said the Saint
mildly,
as the gun flourished round and settled down di
rectly
opposite the sinking feeling. “I am a man of peace,
though nobody ever seems to believe it. But I understand
that if you squeeze these gadgets in the wrong place they
go bang and make holes in things. I should be frightfully
interested to see if that’s true. Do you happen to know,
by any chance?” His fingers flickered carelessly over the
trigger, and Gugliemi went pale. “But what’s the idea,
my little
andante capriccioso?
A spot of kidnaping?
Some
of this heavy desert love stuff you’ve seen on the
cinematografo
?”

He waggled his automatic
perilously with every ques
tion.

Gugliemi reached behind
him, but the Saint was a little
quicker. He reached out
and caught the Italian’s wrist in
time, and Gugliemi dropped his gun with
a yelp of pain.
Simon pushed him away and picked
it up.

“And what are your
views,” asked the Saint conversa
tionally, “on
the subject of supralapsarianism? They
should
be valuable. Only a few hours ago——
”

“All right,”
snarled Gugliemi. “I find you Mees Trelawney
. Only put that gun
away.”