The Saint is Dense
Bloem wheeled with a smothered exclamation, for the interruption came
from behind him. Then the Boer slowly lowered his automatic—because
Orace was carrying the enormous revolver which was his pride and joy,
and that fearsome weapon was waving in a gentle semicircle so that it
covered everyone in the room in turn. Orace leaned on the windowsill,
well pleased with the timeliness of his entrance and the sensation it
had caused.
“Snoldup,” declared Orace brightly. “Ni jus’ come in the nicker time.
Looks like a dangerous carrickter, too. Orfcer,” said Orace, with a
lordly sweep of his free hand, “you ’ave the bracelets. Do yer dooty!”
“My good fellow——”
Orace waggled the blunderbuss threateningly in Bloem’s direction.
“Lay orf ‘me good fellerin’’ me!” commanded Orace ferociously. “Caught
in the yack, that’s wot you are, an’ jer carn’t wriggle out av it!
Constible! Wot the thunderin’ ’ell are yer wytin’ for? Look slippy an’
clap the joolry on ’im! An’ jew jusurryup an’ leggo that popgun, or
I’ll plugua!”
Bloem let the automatic fall, and the Saint picked it up, in case of
accidents.
“I can explain,” persisted Bloem.
“Corse yer can,” agreed Orace scornful. “Never knew a crook ’oo
couldn’t.”
“Oh, but he can,” said the Saint. “You can stop flourishing that
cannon, Orace, and come right in. I was just wondering how to get hold
of you.”
Orace looked doubtful, but eventually he obeyed, clambering lamely
over the sill and treating Bloem to a menacing glare as he did so.
“Yessir?”
“A simple case of mistaken identity,” remarked the Saint to the
assembled company, in the manner of counsel opening the defence. “But
Mr. Bloem was so very obstinate. . . . Well, this is Orace, late of
His Majesty’s Royal Marines, and my servant for years. Orace will now
testify that I reached home just after eleven, and didn’t leave again
until about twenty to twelve.”
The Saint did not even look at Orace as he spoke, for he knew his man.
Carn, however, did, and saw Orace register surprise.
“Tha’s so,” said Orace. “’Oo said yer didn’t?”
“You see,” Simon explained, “Mr. Bloem there was held up by an armed
man to-night, and he had the idea that it was me, so he’s been trying
to arrest me.”
Orace nodded, tilting his head away from Bloem as if the man offended
his nostrils.
“Ar,” said Orace derisively. “The idea!”
The Saint turned to Bloem.
“Perhaps you will now apologise?” he suggested. “Come, Mr. Bloem,
admit that you didn’t get a good view of your assailant, and for
reasons of your own you jumped to the conclusion that it was me. He
might even have been masked. . . .”
The two men’s eyes met. There was no misconstruing the Saint’s
meaning. He was offering Bloem a graceful retreat. Bloem knew that he
had weakened his case by confessing that no one but himself had seen
the bandit, and his story would never hold water in the face of
Simon’s alibi. Orace was the one factor which the Tiger, by some
incomprehensible oversight, had utterly overlooked. It might even be
said that only Orace’s arrival at that precise moment made him a
factor to be considered: if any time had elapsed between the arrest
and its coming to Orace’s ears, Orace might by then have been trapped
into admitting that he had not seen the Saint since dinner, and
possibly the Tiger had banked on some such manœuvre. But Orace had
turned up just when he was wanted, which he had an uncanny gift for
doing, and thereby he had upset the Tiger’s applecart irretrievably.
And Bloem knew it. He did not show it with a muscle of his face, but
his eyes glowed venomously. And the Saint, smiling a little, gazed
back with a little blue devil of unholy glee dancing about just behind
his lazily lowered lids. For the Saint was thinking of the whack
behind the ear which Bloem had suffered for the good of the cause, and
that thought made his ribs ache with noiseless laughter. . . .
“I am deeply humiliated,” said Bloem in a strangled voice. “As a
matter of fact, the man was masked. I let him leave the room, and then
followed. When I came out of the garden, I saw Mr. Templar walking
away, and immediately concluded that it was he. The real man must have
gone off in another direction. I apologise.”
“I accept your apology, Mr. Bloem,” said the Saint stiffly. “Don’t let
it occur again.”
His dignity was terrific, and for that shrewd cut he was rewarded with
a look from Bloem which ought by rights to have made him vanish in a
puff of smoke, leaving a small greasy stain on the carpet, but the
Saint’s armour was impregnable.
“I’m very sorry, Doctor,” said Bloem unevenly. “Try to forgive me,
Miss Holm. I’d better go.”
The Saint stepped up with the automatic.
“You might need this, with a hold-up man in the neighbourhood,” he
murmured mockingly. “If you meet him again, I trust you will not spare
the lead.”
Bloem gazed back malignantly.
“You need have no fear of that, Mr. Templar,” he replied.
He was just going out when Mr. Hopkins awoke to the realisation that
he had been cheated of the glory of arresting an armed desperado, and
that this coolly smiling man who, was getting off scot-free had flung
him across the room, bruised and shaken him severely, and nearly
broken his arm.
“’Ere,” said the constable, whose idiom was much the same as that of
Orace, “wassal this? Whatever you say, that don’t dispose of the
charge of assaultin’ the police.”
“When an innocent man is treated like a criminal,” said Simon
virtuously, “he may be pardoned for losing his temper. I’m sure Mr.
Bloem will agree with me? . . . In fact,” added the Saint, taking Mr.
Hopkins coaxingly by the arm, “I’m sure that if you mentioned the
matter to Mr. Bloem, he’d stand you a glass of milk and put a penny in
your money-box. Wouldn’t you, Mr. Bloem?”
“Naturally,” said Bloem, without enthusiasm, “naturally I must accept
the responsibility for that.”
“Spoken like a gent,” approved the Saint. “Now toddle along and talk
big business under the stars, like good children.”
And he urged Bloem and the constable towards the door. They went
obediently, for different reasons. It was a victory that the Saint
could not help rubbing in.
He slammed the front door on the pair, and returned hilariously.
“Honour is vindicated, _mes enfantes_,” he said happily. “What about
splitting another lemonade on it, Carn?”
The detective looked at the Saint and nodded slowly.
“I think we might,” he assented. “Such luck ought to be celebrated. I
suppose it would be indiscreet to ask how Orace came to arrive so
fortunately?”
“But why indiscreet?” cried the Saint. “All’s fair and above board.
Orace, tell the gentleman how you happened to blow in on your cue.”
Orace cleared his throat.
“Being accustomed to take a constitooshnal,” he began, in the stilted
language which he would have employed before his orderly officer, “I’m
in the ’abit of walking this wy of a nevenin’; and the winder bein’
open an’ me ’avin’ good eyesight——”
“Of course I believe you,” said Carn. “You deserve to be believed.
There’s some whisky in the kitchen, Orace.”
Orace saluted and marched out, and the Saint doubled up with silent
mirth.
“Orace is unique,” he said.
“Orace is all that, and then some,” Carn returned ruefully.
Soon afterwards Simon and Patricia left. They walked the short
distance to the Manor without speaking, for the Saint was enjoying the
novel experience of finding his flow of small talk entirely dried up.
He had thought of nothing to say until the girl was opening the door,
and then he could only make a postponement.
“May I see you to-morrow morning?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“I’ll come right after breakfast.”
Suddenly she remembered Agatha Girton.
“I think—would you mind if I came over to you instead?”
“I’d love you to. And if I haven’t bored you to tears by then, you can
stay for lunch. Tell me what time you’ll be leaving, and I’ll send
Orace over to fetch you.”
She was surprised.
“Is that necessary?”
“Very necessary,” replied the Saint gravely. “Tigers have nasty
suspicious minds, just like me, and by this time one Tiger is
wondering just how dangerous you are, Pat. Yes, I know it’s
screamingly funny, but let me send Orace—for my own peace of mind.”
“Well—— About half-past ten, if you like.”
“I do. And Orace will adore it. One other thing. Will you do me a
great favour?”
She had found the switch in the hall, and she turned on the light to
see his face better, but he was not joking.
“Lock your door, and put the key under the pillow. Don’t open to
anybody—not even your aunt. I don’t really think anything’ll happen so
soon, but Tigers can hustle. Will you?”
She nodded.
“You’re very alarming,” she said.
“I’m full of ideas to-night,” he said. “I’ve had a taste of the
Tiger’s speed, and nobody ever stung the Saint in the same way twice.
Don’t believe any messages except they’re brought by Orace. Don’t
trust anybody but me, Orace, or old Carn at a pinch. I know it’s a
tall order, but there are one or two rough days—not to mention rough
nights—in store for the old brigade. You’ve been perfectly marvellous
so far. Can you keep it up?”
“I’ll try,” she said.
He took her hand.
“God bless you, Pat, old pal.”
“Saint——”
He was going when she stopped him. It was odd to hear that nickname
fall from her lips—the name wherewith the Saint had been christened in
strange and ugly places, by hard and godless men. He had grown so used
to it that he had come to accept it without question, but now the
sound of it brought a flood of memories. Once again he stood in the
Bosun’s smoky bar at the back of Mexico City, looking from the huddled
corpse of Senhor Miguel Grasiento to the girl called Cherry, and heard
the _rurales_ pounding on the door. He had got her away, on an English
tramp bound for Liverpool. “‘Saint,’” she had said—“that was a true
word spoken in jest.” And he had never heard the name uttered in the
same tone since until that moment. . . .
“Saint, did you really go to Bloem’s?”
“I did not,” he answered. “That was a frame-up. But Mynheer Bloem is
certainly one of the Tiger Cubs. Watch him! I’ll tell you the whole
yarn to-morrow. Bye-bye, kid.”
The Saint found Orace in the lane, curled up under the hedge,
philosophically smoking his pipe.
“We’ll work inland round the village,” said Simon, “I’m hoping the
Tiger’s had enough for one night, but you never know. Nobody’s got any
proof that Bloem was lying about that hold-up merchant, except me, and
a fairy tale like that cuts both ways. If our bodies were found in a
field in the morning, the whole thing’d fit in beautifully.”
Nevertheless, they were not molested on the way back—a fact which
might well have been due to the Saint’s foresight. It took an hour of
the Saint’s killing pace to do the journey which would have lasted
only fifteen minutes by the obvious route, and even then Simon was not
satisfied.
When the outline of the Pill Box loomed dimly up against the dark sky,
he stopped.
“Booby traps have caught mugs before now,” he murmured. “Just park
yourself in the nettles here, Orace, while I snoop round.”
The Saint could have given most shikars points when it came to moving
across country without being noticed. Orace simply saw a tall shape
melt soundlessly away into the gloom, and thereafter could trace
nothing until the tall shape materialised again beside him.
“All clear,” said Simon. “That means our Tiger’s burning the midnight
oil thinking out something really slick and deadly.”
The Saint was right. Although he and Orace never relaxed their
vigilance, taking it in turns to sleep and keep watch, they were left
in peace. The Tiger had taken one blind shot, and it had not come off.
Moreover, if his organisation had been only a shade less thorough, it
might have landed him in the tureen. As it was, he had come out of the
encounter none too well. And for the future he intended to have his
moves mapped out well in advance, with every possible set-back and
development legislated for.
None of these reflections disturbed the Saint’s sleep. He had taken
the first watch, and so the sun was shining gaily through the
embrasures when he awoke for the second time, to find Orace setting a
cup of tea down by his bedside.
“Nice morning,” remarked Orace, according to ritual, and vanished
again.
Since the episode of the bullet out of the blue, Simon had reluctantly
decided to forgo his morning dip until the air had become clearer.
However, he skipped and shadow-boxed in the sun with especial vigour,
and finished up with Orace splashing a couple of buckets of water over
him, what time the Saint lay on the grass drawing deep grateful
breaths and blessing his perfect condition. For the Saint saw a fierce
and wearing scrap ahead, and he reckoned that he would need all his
strength and stamina if he was going to be on his feet when the gong
clanged for the last round.
“Brekfuss narf a minnit,” said Orace.
The Saint was grinning as he dressed. Orace was nearly too good to be
true.
They were late that morning, and Orace left to fetch Patricia as soon
as he had served “brekfuss.” The girl arrived in half an hour, to find
the Saint spread-eagled in a deck chair outside the Pill Box. He had
managed to unearth another pair of flannel bags and another
shooting-jacket that were nearly as disreputable as the outfit which
had been wrecked in Bittle’s garden the night before, and he looked
very fresh and comfortable, for his shirt, as usual, would have put
snow to shame.
He jumped up and held out both his hands, and she gave him both of
hers.
“I haven’t seen you for ages,” he said. “How are we?”
“Fine,” she told him. “And nothing happened.”
She was cool and slim in white, and he thought he had never seen
anyone half so lovely.
“Something might have,” he said. “And when I was a Boy Scout they
taught me to Be Prepared.”
He rigged a chair for her and adjusted the cushions, and then he sat
down again.
“I know you’re bursting with curiosity,” he said, “so I’ll come
straight to the ’osses.”
And without further ado he started on the long history. He told her
about Fernando, dying out in the jungle with a Tiger Cub’s kris in
him, and he told her Fernando’s story. He told her about the Tiger,
who was for years Chicago’s most brilliant and terrible gang leader.
He told her about some of the Tiger’s exploits, and finally came to
the account of the breaking of the Confederate Bank. Some of the
details Fernando had told him; the rest he had gathered together by
patient investigation; the accumulation worked up into a plot
hair-raising enough to provide the basis of the wildest film serial
that was ever made.
“The Tiger’s very nearly a genius,” he said. “The way he got away with
that mint of money and carted it all the miles to here is just a
sample of his brain.”
Then he told her about the more recent events—the little he had
learned while he had been in Baycombe. How he had been suspected from
the day of his arrival, and how he had done his best to encourage that
suspicion, in the hope that the other side would give themselves away
by trying to dispose of him. Gradually the lie of the land took shape
in her mind, while the Saint talked on, putting in a touch of
character here and there, recalling points that he had omitted and
referring to details that he had not yet given. The story was not told
smoothly—it rattled out, paused, and rattled on again, decorated with
the Saint’s typical racy idiom and humorous egotism. Nevertheless, it
held her, and it was a convincing story, for the Saint had a gift for
graphic description. She saw the scenes at which she had been present
in a new light.
He ended up with a flippant account of the sport _chez_ Bittle after
he had helped her get away.
“And there you have it,” he concluded. “Heard in cold blood, with the
sun shining and all that, it sounds preposterous enough to make dear
old Munchausen look like gospel. But you’ve seen a bit of it yourself,
and perhaps that’ll make it easier for you to believe the rest. And
what it boils down to is that the Tiger is in Baycombe, and so am I,
and so are the pieces of eight; and the Tiger wants my head on a tin
tray, and I want his ill-gotten gains, and we’re both pretty keen to
hang on to our respective possessions. So, taken by and large, it
looks like we shall come to blows and other Wild and Woolly Western
expressions of mutual ill-feeling. And the point is, Pat, and the
reason why I felt you had a right to know all the odds—is that you’ve
gone and cut in on the game. By last night, the Tiger had to face the
risk that I might have talked to you, and the way you behaved
generally won’t have eased his mind any. You might be a danger or you
might not, but he can’t afford to take chances. To be on the safe
side, he’s got to assume that you and I are as thick as thieves. So
you see, old soul, you’re slap in the middle of this here jamboree,
whether you like it or not. You’re cast for second juvenile lead in
the bloodcurdling melodrama now playing, and your name’s up in red
lights all round the Tiger’s den—and the question before the house is,
What Do We Do About It?”
He was leaning forward so that he could see her face, and she knew
that he was desperately serious. She knew, also, instinctively, that
he was not a man to exaggerate the situation, however much he might
play the buffoon in other directions.
“Now, here’s my suggestion,” said the Saint. “I know a bloke called
Terry Mannering, who lives on the other side of Devonshire, and he can
deal with fun and games as well as I can. He has a wife, whom you’ll
love, and a very good line in yachts, being nearly as rich as I should
like to be since his Old Man kicked the bucket. If I took you over and
told Terry that it’d be good for all your healths if you went cruising
off to the West Indies or somewhere else a long way off for a few
months, till the tumult and the shouting dies, so to speak, and the
Tigers and their Cubs depart—well, I know the three of you’d be on the
high seas in no time. And the Tiger and I would be rude to each other
for a bit, and when it was all over and he was decently buried I’d let
you know and you could come back. What about it?”
Patricia studied her shoe; and she said, in a very Saintly way:
“What, indeed?”
“You said?” rapped Simon.
“What about it?” queried Patricia. “It might be rather a good idea
some time, but you can’t rush it like that. Besides, I’m rather
enjoying myself in Baycombe.”
Simon got up.
“Well, I’m not enjoying your enjoyment,” he said bluntly. “That sort
of courage is all very fine when it’s to some purpose—but this time it
isn’t. I’ve never dragged a woman into my little worries yet, and I’m
not starting now. Perhaps you think this is going to be a picnic. I
thought I’d made it plain enough that it isn’t. If you want to pack a
few thrills into your young life, I’ll arrange a big-game shooting
trip, or something else comparatively tame, later. But this particular
spree is not in your line one bit, and you’d better be sensible and
admit it.”
Patricia raised her eyebrows.
“So I gather you propose to kidnap me,” she said calmly. “I believe
‘shanghai’ is the word. Well, I should start planning right
away—because nothing short of that is going to move me.”
“You’re a damned fool,” said the Saint.
She laughed, standing up to him and laying a hand on his shoulder.
“Dear man,” she said, “I refuse to lose my temper, because I know
that’s just what you want me to do. You think that if you’re rude
enough I’ll dash off and leave you to stew. And I can promise you I
shan’t do anything of the sort. I know it isn’t going to be a
picnic—but I’m sorry if you think I’m a girl that’s only fit for
picnics. I’ve always fancied myself as the heroine of a
hell-for-leather adventure, and this is probably the only chance I
shall ever have. And I’m jolly well going to see it through!”
Simon held himself in check with an effort. He had a frantic impulse
to take this stubborn slip of a girl across his knee and spank some
sense into her; and coincidently with that he had an equally
importunate desire to hug her and kiss her to death. For there was no
doubt that she was determined to ride on to the kill, however
dangerous the country her obstinate intention led her over. Why she
should be so set on it beat the Saint. He could imagine a
high-spirited girl fancying herself as the heroine of just such an
adventure, but he had never dreamed of meeting a girl who’d go on
fancying herself quite so keenly when it came to the point, and when
she’d had a peek at some of the stern and spiky disadvantages. But
there she was, smiling into his eyes, tranquilly announcing her
resolution to see the shooting-match through with him, and boldly
averring that she was perfectly prepared to eat the whole cake as well
as the icing. She was going to be the blazes of a nuisance and the
mischief of a worry to him—“But, Hell!” swore the Saint to
himself—“I’m darn glad of it!” Wherein he betrayed his egotism. It
would be a gruelling test for her, but he’d have her with him all the
time. And if she came through it with flying colours, well, maybe
after all he’d go the way of most confirmed bachelors. . . .
And since he saw that neither cajoling nor cursing would budge her, he
accepted the situation like a wise man. And even then (with such an
inferiority complex is Love afflicted) the sublime egotist did not
spot the foundation of her determination, though it stuck out a mile.
Nevertheless, in his blindness he was very near to blundering straight
into the heart of the affair. His scowl relaxed, and he took her hand
from his shoulder and held it.
“I’ve known some fool women,” said the Saint, “but I never met one
whose foolishness appealed to me more than yours.”
“Then—it’s a bet?” she asked.
He nodded.
“You said it, partner. And the Lord grant we win. It’s not my fault if
you insist on jazzing into the Tiger’s den, but it’ll be my
unforgivable fault if I don’t yank you out again safely. Shake!”
“Bless you,” said Patricia softly.