A Little Melodrama
Carn sprang to his feet, his hand flying to his hip, and the Saint
laughed softly.
“He’s gone,” Templar said. “He ducked as soon as I spoke. But maybe
now you realise how hard it is not to be killed when someone’s really
out for your blood. It looks so easy in stories, but I’m finding it a
bit of a strain.”
The Saint was talking in his usual mild leisurely way, but there was
nothing leisurely about his movements. He had turned out the lamp at
the same instant as Carn had jumped up, and his words came from the
direction of the embrasure.
“Can’t see anything. This bunch are as windy as mice trying to nibble
a cat’s whiskers. I’ll take a look outside. Stay right where you are,
sonny.”
Carn heard the Saint slither out, and there were words in the kitchen.
A few seconds later Orace came in, bearing a lighted candle and
clasping his beloved blunderbuss in his free hand. Orace did not
speak. He set the candle down in a corner, so that the light did not
interfere with his view of the embrasure, and waited patiently with
the enormous revolver cocked and at the ready.
“You have an exciting life,” remarked Carn, and Orace turned an
unfriendly eye—and the revolver upon the Doctor.
“Um,” said Orace noncommittally.
The Saint was back in ten minutes by the clock.
“Bad huntin’,” he murmured. “It’s as black as coffee outside, and he
must have hared for home as soon as I scared him. . . . Beer, Orace.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said the silent one, and faded out as grimly as he
had entered.
Carn gazed thoughtfully after the retreating figure with its
preposterous armoury and its preposterous strut.
“Any more in the menagerie?” he enquired.
“Nope,” said the Saint laconically.
He was relighting the lamp, and the flare of the match threw his face
into high relief for an instant. Carn became more thoughtful. His life
had been devoted to dealing with men of all sorts and conditions. He
had known many clever men, not a few dangerous men, and a number of
mysterious men, but at that moment he wondered if he had ever met a
man who looked more cleverly and dangerously and mysteriously
competent to deal with any kind of trouble that happened to be
floating around.
“I’d rather have you on my side than against me, Saint,” said Carn.
“You’d get a rake-off. Think it over.”
Hands on hips, the Saint regarded the red-faced man quizzically.
“Can I take that as official?”
“Naturally not. But you can take it from me that it can be arranged on
the side.”
“Thanks,” said the Saint. “I don’t feel impressed with your balance
sheet. Taken by and large, the dividend don’t seem fat enough to tempt
this investor. Now try this one: come in with me, and I’ll promise you
one third. Think it over, Detective Inspector Carn.”
“Dr. Carn.”
The Saint smiled.
“Need we keep it up?” he asked smoothly. “What on earth, dear lamb,
did you think you were getting away with?”
Carn wrinkled his nose.
“Just as you like,” he agreed. “You have the advantage of me, though.
I’m hanged if I can place you.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard for some time,” said the Saint
cheerfully.
Carn rose to go after a couple of pints of beer had vanished, and
Templar rose also.
“Better let me see you home,” said the Saint. “I’ll feel safer.”
“If you think I need nursing,” began Carn with some heat, but Simon
linked his arm in that of the detective with his most charming smile.
“Not a bit. I’d enjoy the stroll.”
Carn was living in a miniature house the grounds of which backed on
the larger grounds of the Manor. Templar had already noticed the
house, and had wondered whom it belonged to; and for some
unaccountable reason, which he could only blame on his melodramatic
imagination, he felt relieved at the news that Patricia had a real
live detective within call.
On the walk, the Saint learned that Carn had been on the spot for
three months. Carn was prepared to be loquacious up to a point: but
beyond that limit he could not be lured. Carn was also prepared to
talk about the Saint—a fact which pleased Simon’s egotism without
hypnotising his caution.
“I think it should be an interesting duel,” Carn said.
“I hope so,” agreed Templar politely.
“The more so because you are the second most confident crook I’ve ever
met.”
The Saint’s white teeth flashed.
“You’re premature,” he protested. “My crime is not yet committed.
Already an idea is sizzling in my brain which might easily save me the
trouble of running against the law at all. I’ll write my solicitor
to-morrow and let you know.”
He declined Carn’s invitation to come in for a doch-an-doris, and,
saying good-bye at the door, set off briskly in the general direction
of the Pill Box.
This expedition, however, lasted only for so long as he judged that
Carn, if he were curious, would have been able to hear the departing
footsteps. At that point the Saint stepped neatly off the road on to
the grass at the side and retraced his steps, moving like a lean grey
shadow. A short distance away he could see the gaunt lines of Sir John
Bittle’s home, and it had occurred to him that his investigations
might very well include that wealthy upstart. It was just after ten
o’clock, but the thought that the household would still be awake never
gave the Saint a moment’s pause: his was a superbly reckless bravado.
The house was surrounded by a high stone wall that increased its
sinister and secretive air, making it look like a converted prison.
The Saint worked round the wall with the noiseless surefootedness of a
Red Indian. He found only two openings. There was a back entrance
which looked more like a mediæval postern gate, and which could not
have been penetrated without certain essential tools that were not
included in Templar’s travelling equipment. At the front there was a
large double door a few yards back from the road, but this also was
set into the wall, which would have formed a kind of archway at that
spot if the doors had been opened.
It was left for the Saint to scale the wall itself. Fortunately he was
tall, and he found that by standing on tiptoe and straining upwards he
was able to hook his fingers over the top. Satisfied, he took off his
coat and held it with the tab between his teeth; then, reaching up, he
got a grip and hauled himself to the full contraction of his muscles.
Holding on with one hand, he flung his coat over the broken glass set
into the top of the wall, and so scrambled over, dropping to the
ground on the other side like a cat.
The Saint moved swiftly along the wall to the back entrance which he
had observed, conducted a light-fingered search for burglar alarms,
and found one which he disconnected. Then he unbarred the door and
left it slightly ajar in readiness for his retreat.
That done, he went down on his knees and crawled towards the house. If
the light had been strong enough to make him visible, his method of
progress would have seemed to border on the antics of a lunatic, for
he wriggled forward six inches at a time, his hands waving and weaving
about gently in front of him. In this way he evaded two fine alarm
wires, one stretched a few inches off the ground and the other at the
level of his shoulder. He rose under the wall of the house, chuckling
inaudibly, but he was taking no chances.
“Now let’s take a look at the warrior who looks after himself so
carefully,” said the Saint, but he said it to himself.
The side of the house on which he found himself was in darkness, and
after a second’s thought he worked rapidly round to the south. As soon
as he rounded the angle of the building he saw two patches of light on
the grass, and crept along till he reached the french windows from
which they were thrown. The curtains were half-drawn, but he was able
to peer through a gap between the hangings and the frames.
He was looking into the library—a large, lofty, oak-panelled room,
luxuriously furnished. It was quite evident that Sir John Bittle’s
parsimony did not interfere with his indulgence of his personal
tastes. The carpet was a rich Turkey with fully a four-inch pile; the
chairs were huge and inviting, upholstered in brown leather; a costly
bronze stood in one corner, and the walls were lined with bookshelves.
These things the Saint noticed in one glance, before anything human
caught his eye. A moment later he saw the man who could only have been
Bittle himself. The late wholesale grocer was stout: the Saint could
only guess at height, since Bittle was hunched up in one of the
enormous chairs, but the millionaire’s pink neck overflowed his collar
in all directions. Sir John Bittle was in dinner dress, and he was
smoking a cigar.
“Charming sketch of home life of Captain of Canning Industry,”
murmured the Saint, again to his secret soul. “Unconventional
Portraits of the Great. Picture on Back Page.”
The Saint had thought Bittle was alone, but just as he was about to
move along he heard the millionaire’s fat voice remark:
“And that, my dear young lady, is the position.”
The Saint stood like a man turned to granite.
Presently a familiar voice answered:
“I can’t believe it.”
The Saint edged away from the wall, so that he could see into the room
through the space between the half-drawn curtains. Patricia was in the
chair opposite Bittle, tight-lipped, her handkerchief twisted to a rag
between her fingers.
Bittle laughed—a throaty chuckle that did not disturb the comfortable
impassiveness of his florid features. Templar also chuckled. If that
chuckle could have been heard, it would have been found to have an
unpleasant timbre.
“Even documents—bonds—receipts—won’t convince you, I suppose?” asked
the millionaire. He pulled a sheaf of papers from the pocket of his
dinner jacket and tossed them into the girl’s lap. “I’ve been very
patient, but I’m getting tired of this hanky-panky. I suppose just
seeing you made me silly and sentimental—but I’m not such a
sentimental fool that I’m going to take another mortgage on an estate
that isn’t worth one half of what I’ve lent your aunt already.”
“It’ll break her heart,” said Patricia, white-faced.
“The alternative is breaking my bank.”
The girl started up, clutching the papers tensely.
“You couldn’t be such a swine!” she said hotly. “What’s a few thousand
to you?”
“This,” said Bittle calmly: “it gives me the power to make terms.”
Patricia was frozen as she stood. There was a silence that ticked out
a dozen sinister things in as many seconds. Then she said, in a
strained, unnaturally low voice:
“What terms?”
Sir John Bittle moved one fat hand in a faint gesture of deprecation.
“Please don’t let’s be more melodramatic than we can help,” he said.
“Already I feel very self-conscious and conventional. But the fact is,
I should like to marry you.”
For an instant the girl was motionless. Then the last drop of blood
fled from her cheeks. She held the papers in her two hands, high above
her head.
“Here’s my answer, you cad!”
She tore the documents across and across and flung the pieces from
her, and then stood facing the millionaire with her face as pale as
death and her eyes flaming.
“Good for you, kid!” commented the Saint inaudibly.
Bittle, however, was unperturbed, and once again that throaty chuckle
gurgled in his larynx without kindling any corresponding geniality in
his features.
“Copies,” he said simply, and at that point the Saint thought that the
conversational tension would be conveniently relieved with a little
affable comment from a third party.
“You little fool!” said Bittle acidly. “Did you think I worked my way
up from mud to millions without some sort of brain? And d’you imagine
that a man who’s beaten the sharpest wits in London at their own game
is going to be baulked by a chit of a country child? Tchah!” The
millionaire’s lips twisted wryly. “Now you’ve made me lose my temper
and get melodramatic, just when I asked you not to. Don’t let’s have
any more nonsense, please. I’ve put it quite plainly: either you marry
me or I sue your aunt for what she owes me. Choose whichever you
prefer, but don’t let’s have any hysterics.”
“No, don’t let’s,” agreed the Saint, standing just inside the room.
Neither had noticed his entrance, which had been a very slick specimen
of its kind. He had slipped in through one of the open french windows,
behind a curtain, and he stepped out of cover as he spoke, so that the
effect was as startling as if he had materialised out of the air.
Patricia recognised him with a gasp. Bittle jumped up with an
exclamation. His fat face, which had paled at first, became a deeper
red. The Saint stood with his hands in his pockets and a gentle smile
on his open face.
Bittle’s voice broke out in a harsh snarl.
“Sir——”
“To you,” assented the Saint smoothly. “Evening. Evening, Pat. Hope I
don’t intrude.”
And he gazed in an artlessly friendly way from face to face, as cool
and self-possessed and saintly-looking a six-foot-two of toughness as
ever breezed into a peaceful Devonshire village. Patricia moved nearer
to him instinctively, and Simon’s smile widened amiably as he offered
her his hand. Bittle was struggling to master himself: he succeeded
after an effort.
“I was not aware, Mr. Templar, that I had invited you to entertain us
this evening,” he said thickly.
“Nor was I,” said the Saint ingenuously. “Isn’t it odd?”
Bittle choked. He was furious, and he was apprehensive of how long
Templar might have been listening to the duologue; but there was
another and less definite fear squirming into his consciousness. The
Saint was tall, and although he was not at all massive there was a
certain solid poise to his body that vouched for an excellent
physique in fighting trim. And there was a mocking hell-for-leather
light twinkling in the Saint’s level blue eyes, and something rather
ugly about his very mildness, that tickled a cold shiver out of
Bittle’s spine.
“Shall we say, as men of the world, Mr. Templar—it’s hardly necessary
to beat about the bush—that your arrival was a little inopportune?”
said Bittle.
The Saint wrinkled his brow.
“Shall we?” he asked vaguely, as though the question was a very
difficult riddle. “I give it up.”
Bittle shrugged and went over to a side table on which stood decanter,
siphon, and glasses.
“Whisky, Mr. Templar?”
“Thanks,” said the Saint, “I’ll have one when I get home. I’m very
particular about the people I drink with. Once I had a friend who was
terribly careless that way, and one day they fished him out of the
canal in Soerabaja. I should hate to be fished out of anywhere.”
“To show there’s no ill-feeling. . . .”
“If I drank your whisky, son,” said the Saint, “I’m so afraid there
might be all the ill-feeling we could deal with.”
Bittle came back to the table and crushed the stump of his cigar into
an ashtray. He looked at the Saint, and something about the Saint’s
quietness sent that draughty shiver prickling again up Bittle’s
vertebræ, The Saint was still exactly where he had stood when he
emerged from behind the curtain; the Saint did not seem at all
embarrassed; and the Saint seemed to have all the time in the world to
kill. The Saint, in short, looked as though he was waiting for
something and in no particular hurry about it, and Bittle was
beginning to get worried.
“Hardly conduct befitting a gentleman, shall we say, Mr. Templar?”
Bittle temporised.
“No,” said the Saint fervently. “Thank the Lord I’m not a gentleman.
Gentlemen are such snobs. All the gentlemen around here, for instance,
refuse to know you—at least, that’s what I’m told—but I don’t mind it
in the least. I hope we shall get on excellently together, and that
this meeting will be but the prelude to a long and enjoyable
acquaintance, to mutual satisfaction and profit. Yours faithfully.”
“You leave me very little choice, Mr. Templar,” said Bittle, and
touched the bell.
The Saint remained where he was, still smiling, until there was a
knock on the door and a butler who looked like a retired prize-fighter
came in.
“Show Mr. Templar the door,” said Bittle.
“But how hospitable!” exclaimed the Saint, and then, to the surprise
of everyone, he walked coolly across the room and followed the butler
into the passage.
The millionaire stood by the table, almost gasping with astonishment
at the ease with which he had broken down such an apparently
impregnable defence.
“I know these bluffers,” he remarked with ill-concealed relief.
His satisfaction was of very short duration, for the end of his little
speech coincided with the sounds of a slight scuffle outside and the
slamming of a door. While Bittle stared, the Saint walked in again
through the window, and his cheery “Well, well, _well_!” brought the
millionaire’s head round with a jerk as the door burst open and the
butler returned.
“Nice door,” murmured the Saint.
He was breathing a little faster, but not a hair of his sleek head was
out of place. The pugilistic butler, on the other hand, was not a
little dishevelled, and appeared to have just finished banging his
nose on to something hard. The butler had a trickle of blood running
down from his nostrils to his mouth, and the look in his eyes was not
one of peace on earth or goodwill towards men.
“Home again,” drawled the Saint. “This is a peach of a round game,
what? as dear Algy would say. Now can I see the offices? House-agents
always end up their advertisements by saying that their desirable
property is equipped with the usual offices, but I’ve never seen one
of the same yet.”
“Let me attim,” uttered the butler, shifting round the table.
The Saint smiled, his hands in his pockets.
“You try to drop-kick me down the front steps, and you get welted on
the boko,” said Simon speculatively, adapting style to audience. “Now
you want to whang into my prow—and I wonder where you get blipped this
time?”
Bittle stepped between the two men, and in one comprehensive glance
summed up their prospects in a rough-house. Then he looked at the
butler and motioned towards the door.
The ex-pug went out reluctantly, muttering profane and offensive
things, and the millionaire faced round again.
“Suppose you explain yourself?”
“Just suppose!” agreed Templar enthusiastically.
Bittle glowered.
“Well, Mr. Templar?”
“Quite, thanks. How’s yourself?”
“Need you waste time playing the fool?” demanded Bittle shortly.
“Now I come to think of it—no,” answered the Saint amiably. “But
granny always said I was a terrible tease. . . . Well, sonny, taken
all round I don’t think your hospitality comes up to standard; and
that being so I’ll see Miss Holm back to the old roof-tree. S’long.”
And he took Patricia’s arm and led her towards the french window,
while Bittle stood watching them in silence, completely nonplussed. It
was just as he seemed about to pass out of the house without further
parley that the Saint stopped and turned, as though struck by a minor
afterthought.
“By the way, Bittle,” he said, “I was forgetting—you were going to
pass over a few documents, weren’t you?”
Bittle did not answer, and the Saint added:
“All about your side line in usury. Hand over the stuff and I’ll write
you a cheque now for the full amount.”
“I refuse,” snapped the millionaire.
“Please yourself,” said the Saint. “My knowledge of Law is pretty
scrappy, but I don’t think you can do that without cancelling the
debt. Anyway, I’ll tell my solicitor to send you a cheque, and we’ll
see what happens.”
The Saint turned away again, and in so doing almost collided with
Patricia, who had preceded him into the garden. The girl was caught in
his arms for a moment to save a fall, and the Saint was surprised to
see that she was gasping with suppressed terror. A moment later the
reason was given him by a ferocious baying of great hounds in the
darkness.
In one swift movement Simon had the girl inside the room, and had
slammed the french windows shut. Then he stood with his back to the
wall, half-covering Patricia in the shelter of his wide shoulders, his
hands on his hips, and a very saintly meekness overspreading his face.
“Um—as Orace would say in the circumstances,” murmured the Saint.
“Bigger than Barnums. Do you mind playing the Clown while I open the
Unique Mexican Knife-throwing Act?”
And Bittle, with a tiny automatic in his hand, was treated to a
warning glimpse of the fine steel blade that lay along Simon Templar’s
palm.