Alias the Saint (7 page)

“I am afraid that is impossible, Miss Tregarth,” he said. “It is the only privilege that I am forced to deny you.”

She nodded.

“It doesn’t matter, really,” she said flatly. “I didn’t think you’d let me.”

“Circumstances forbid me,” said Raxel, and put the letters in his pocket. “The car will be ready for you directly after dinner, if not before. You will remain in your room until then. In any case you would be busy with your packing. Good-afternoon.”

He left the room, Marring following him, and locked the door again on the outside.

9

At half-past five that afternoon Crantor returned. The Saint heard the car draw up outside the hotel, and opened his window. It was quite dark, but he could hear voices below, and several men seemed to be moving about in the road. Then the car was turned so that the headlights shone seawards, and they began to flicker. Simon read the Morse message: “Send boat.” The men did not go into the hotel, but walked about outside, stamping their feet and conversing in undertones. Presently a lamp winked up from the shore, and Crantor’s voice could be heard gathering the men together. They set out to cross the patch of waste land that lay between the road and the sea—Simon saw the torch which Crantor carried to light the way bobbing and dipping down towards the edge of the water. He waited patiently and saw lights spring out on the ship.

After some time the light came flickering over the foreshore like a will-of-the-wisp, but it was Crantor alone who crossed the road and entered the hotel.

The Saint was about to close his window when the door of the hotel opened again, and three people came out. They could be seen in the shaft of light that was flung out into the road by the lamp in the hall. One was Raxel, the other Marring, in hat and coat; the third was a muffled figure in furs. Simon realized who it must be, and his lips hardened.

A moment later Tope came out, carrying a couple of heavy suitcases. These he packed into the back of the car. Then the girl walked to the car alone and got into the front seat. Raxel and Marring stood for a few minutes on the doorstep. Their voices drifted clearly up to the listener above their heads. Only four sentences were spoken.

“You have not forgotten to pack your revolver, my dear Marring?”

“Is it likely?”

“Then, au revoir—and a pleasant voyage.”

Marring chuckled.

“I shall breakfast with you on Thursday,” he said. “Au revoir. Professor”

He went round to the driver’s seat and clambered in.

Simon Templar watched the car drive away. Raxel, standing on the doorstep, watched it out of sight also, and then turned and went indoors. The door closed.

“Hell!” said the Saint.

The balloon was now fairly launched, and he’d been compelled to stand by and watch the performance. And the Saint hated standing by. Yet he’d had to let the girl go, and never make a move to stop her, or even try to get a word with her before she went, because he realized quite clearly that there was nothing he could have done. She must have known that he was in the hotel—even if she didn’t, and she had been taken away against her will, she could have cried for help and hoped that he would hear. But she seemed to have left quite willingly. She had walked to the car of her own accord, and although she had not joined in the conversation of Raxel and Marring, there did not seem to have been any coercion. And he realized, of course, that he had nothing to go on, anyway—to all intents and purposes she had been one of the gang. The rest was merely theory—a theory which he would cling to till the bitter end, he admitted, but at the same time a theory which the girl herself had done precious little to encourage. If she’d wanted to see him before she left, she’d have tried to. She wouldn’t have gone as quietly as that.

At that moment he heard the voices of Raxel and Crantor coming down the corridor outside. Simon slid noislessly across the room and stood motionless at the side of the door, in such a position that if it were opened he would be hidden.

His intuition had served him well, for he had hardly taken up his position when the handle rattled under somebody’s hand, and there was a knock.

The Saint kept silence. The knock was repeated, and then the door opened. Simon held his breath, but Raxel only took one step into the room.

“He’s not here,” said the Professor’s voice. “We might have expected that he was out. If I have correctly diagnosed the relationship between our Mr. Smith and our Miss Tregarth, one might safely say that he would not have let her leave without trying to get at least a few minutes’ conversation with her.”

“Thasso,” said Crantor. “He seems to spend most of his time out of doors, walking. I guess he’s out on a tramp now.”

“We shall be ready for him when he returns,” said Raxel, and the door closed.

Simon breathed again. The ancient ruse of hiding behind an opening door had worked for the thousandth time in history. He waited a moment, and then opened the door a cautious two inches. He was in time to hear another door close farther up the passage, and crept out.

He padded down the corridor on tiptoe, listening at each door as he passed, and located the two men in the laboratory.

He paused, listening. Their voices came to him quite distinctly. Raxel was speaking.

“The Megantic makes a steady twenty-five knots. My inquiries have been very complete. Here is the route—I have marked it out in red ink for you. They sail punctually at six o’clock to-morrow morning. By six o’clock on Thursday morning they should therefore be—here.”

“That’s right,” said Crantor. “Here, pass me those compasses. I’ll just check that, and work out ithe position now.”

There was a silence, and then Crantor spoke again.

“I’ve jotted down the position against your imark,” he said, and mentioned some figures. “So that’s that. We’ve only got to wait till Smith comes back, and then we can be off.”

“I’ve told. Tope to watch for him and report as soon as he arrives.” said Raxel.

“What are you doing about Duncarry?” asked Crantor.

“For a time,” answered Raxel, “I thought of enlisting him. He seemed to me to have distinct possibilities. But I have since revised that opinion. It is just an idea of mine—I feel that Duncarry might be dangerous. We will leave him behind.”

“Right,” said Crantor. “My bag’s packed. If yours is ready we might send them down to the boat now. Then we can beat it as soon as we’ve got rid of Smith.”

Simon Templar turned the handle and kicked the door open. He stepped into the room. Crantor jumped up with an exclamation, but the Professor was unperturbed.

“We have been expecting you, Mr. Smith,” he remarked,

“Then you’ve got whatyou wanted, old dear,” said the Saint cheerfully. “Stick your hands up, both of you.”

He showed his gun, and Crantor obeyed, but Raxel’s hand went to his pocket, and Simon pressed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

“It is now your turn to put up your hands, Mr. Smith,” said Raxel, and his silenced automatic gleamed in his hand. “It was careless of you to leave your gun in your bedroom when you went to your bath this morning, but it gave me an invaluable opportunity of unloading it.”

Simon’s hands went up slowly.

“I congratulate you,” he said.

“You flatter me,” said the Professor, “it was really quite easy. On the other hand, I am able to thank you for saving us the trouble of waiting for you any longer.”

The Saint smiled.

“If the bit of conversation I heard before I came in hadn’t been so helpful, you might have had to wait a lot longer,” he murmured, “However— since we’re all happy, may I smoke?”

Raxel produced his own case.

“So,” he remarked, “you are no longer mystified?”

“Well—no,” admitted the Saint. “Not exactly. I never imagined you and Marring and Crantor went into partnership to discuss new ways of accelerating the growth of sweet peas. On the other hand, I definitely didn’t know what was going on, though I’ve been watching you ever since you teamed up. Then when I took a peek at your workshop—”

“You were enlightened?”

“To the extent of four or five candlepower,” said the Saint carefully. “I won’t say that I jumped to the meaning of the bottled onions right away, and the diphenylcyanarsine was ‘way beyond my scienitific powers, but I got some expert advice that cleared a lot of air. And now you’ve answered the Mother questions yourselves, so that lets me out. It was only Betty Tregarth that I hadn’t one good clue about.”

“Ah—you were interested?”

Simon lounged against the wall. He had no idea what turn the situation would take next; so, characteristically, he declined to overheat his brain with the problem.

“I was curious,” he said. “But even that riddle is rapidly untangling itself with the help of other information recently acquired. I seem to remember that when you murdered Inspector Henley, who was also interested in you, there was a woman in the house. At least, the police found traces of her presence, though they had nothing to help them to identify her. And it appears that Betty Tregarth is your tame chemist.” The Saint’s eyes rested thoughtfully on Bernhard Raxel. “Now suppose— just suppose—a trio of tough babies had figured out a dandy scheme of up-to-date piracy, using poison gas and all that sort of dope. They’d want someone to make the stuff for them, wouldn’t they? Anyone out of the street can’t walk into a shop and ask for half a dozen cylinders of assorted smells to be sent round right away in a plain van. And the number of crooked chemists isn’t so colossal that people would be queuing up in front of your house to get the billet. But suppose you had located a very good woman for the job, full of qualifications and knowledge, but still feminine enough to be frightened— and then suppose you framed her for a murder that you were going to commit anyway, framed her well enough to convince her even if the police never noticed it—and then demanded her services as the price of your protection? It might work—women have been blamed fools before now—and a scheme like that would just suit your kind of brain.

He read the accumulating confirmation in Raxel’s eyes even while he was elaborating his theory, and laughed.

That’s about it, isn’t it Uncle?’ He drawled.

Raxel nodded calmly.

“Your logic is admirable, Mr. Smith, If you had not been so foolish as to take up this case, your powers might have won you a high position in your profession. As it is–” He shrugged. “I fear our time is short. Will you kindly precede us to the cellar?” y “With all the pleasure in life,” answered the Saint politely.

They went down the corridor and down the stairs in procession. On the ground floor, Crantor opened a door under the staircase, and went through, switching on a torch as he did so. The Saint saw a flight of stone stairs leading down into darkness.

“What’s going to happen when I get down there?” he asked.

“We shall leave you,” answered’ Raxel. “I do not think you will live very long.”

He gave the Saint a glimpse of the small glass bulb that he had carried down with him from the laboratory—and Simon could recognize the contents of that on sight. And the Saint had led too full a life to doubt that Raxel’s intentions were perfectly deliberate and cold-blooded. He knew that Raxel intended to kill him. For an instrument there was the twinkling glass bowl of concentrated death in the Professor’s hand. And the quiet, unemotional ruthlessness of Raxel’s voice was very real. But for that, the whole situation might have seemed like the last fragment of a grotesque nightmare; but the Professor’s gentleness was more convincing than any vindictive outburst could have been.

“Nice of you,” said the Saint thoughtfully,

“I’m sorry,” said Raxel, although his deep-set faded blue eyes showed neither sorrow nor any other trace of humanity. “I bear you no malice. It is simply that my interest in my own safety demands it.”

Simon smiled.

“Of course, that’s an important consideration,” he murmured. “But I think you ought to do the thing in style while you’re about it. There’s a tradition in these matters, you know. I’ve never been executed before, and I’d like this to be something I 1can remember. It’s too late for breakfast, and I suppose it’d delay you too much to ask you to let me eat a final dinner, but at least you can give me a couple of bottles of beer.”

Crantor came up the stairs again, and was visibly relieved when he saw that the Saint was still holding up his hands.

“Why don’t you send him along down,” Professor?” he demanded. “We haven’t got a lot of time to waste.”

“The conventions must be observed,*’ said Raxel. “Mr. Smith has asked the privilege of being allowed to consume two bottles of beer, and I shall let him do so. Tope!”

Basher Tope came shambling out of the bar, and the Professor gave the order. The beer was brought. Simon poured it out himself, and drank the two glasses with relish. Then he picked up the bottles.

“I’ll take these with me,” he said, “as mementoes. Right away, Professor!”

Crantor led the way down the stairs, and the Saint followed. Raxel brought up the rear.

At the foot of the stairs was a short flagged passage, ending in a door. Crantor opened the door and motioned to the Saint to enter. Raxel came up, and the two men stood in the doorway, Crantor lighting up the cellar with his torch.

It was fairly large, and at one end was a row of barrels. The floor was covered with stqne paving, and the roof was supported by wooden buttresses. But the house was an old one, and Simon had banked everything on the walls not being bricked up, and his hopes went up a couple of miles when he saw that there was nothing but bare earth on three sides of the room.

He turned with a smile.

“Good-bye, Professor,” he said.

“Good-bye,” said Raxel.

His left hand swung up with the glass globe, and the green liquid it contained caught the light of the torch, and it shone like a monstrous jewel.

The next instant the bowl had smashed on the floor, and before the light of the torch was taken away Simon saw the green vapor boiling up from the stone.

Then the door slammed, and the key turned in the lock. The footsteps of Raxel and Crantor could be heard hurrying down the echoing passage and stumbling up the stairs; and Simon Templar, holding his breath, was knocking the bottoms off the bottles he carried, and packing them with earth torn from the walls of the cellar with desperate speed.