Alias the Saint (16 page)

“Yes?” Her voice was faint.

“I wish you’d speak. I was—afraid—you might be going to die. I had to drug you. You know I drugged you? I couldn’t explain then—I had to bring you here, where we could be alone. Now I’ll untie you.”

His fingers tugged at the ropes he had put on her. Presently her hands were free, and he was fumbling with her feet, crooning like a child. She tried to master her trembling. : ” Miles, you must let me go!”

“I’m letting you go.” He held up the cords for her tosee. “And now—we’re all right. Just you and me. You’ll be—nice to me—won’t you, Moyna?”

His arms went round her, dragging her towards him.

“Miles.” She strove to speak calmly, though she was weak with fear. “You must be sensible! You’ve got to get me back to London. Mother will be wondering what’s happened to me—”

“London?” He seemed to grasp the word dully.

“Why?’ “You know I can’t stay here. But you can come and see me to-morrow morning—”

His blank eyes gazed at her.

“London? To-morrow? I don’t understand.” Suddenly he seized her again. “Moyna, you wouldn’t run away! You’re not going to—to leave me. I can’t go to London. You know I can’t. I shall be killed. We’ve got to stay here.”

She was as helpless as a babe in his hands. He heard nothing more that she said,

“Moyna, I love you. I’m going to be good to you. I’m going to look after you—tell you—every-thing—”

“Miles,” she sobbed, “oh, let me go—”

“Just—you and me. And we’ll stay here. And we

—won’t die—ever. We won’t—die—”

“Oh, don’t—”

“You mustn’t be afraid. Not of me. We won’t be afraid of anything. We’re going to stay here—years—hundreds of years—thousands of years. Moyna, you mustn’t be frightened. It’ll be quite all right—’

“Take your hands off me—”

“But you do love me, don’t you? And you’re not going to leave me alone. I shan’t be frightened of anything if you’re here. In the dark, I can see Perry—sometimes. But I shan’t mind—”

She fought back at him desperately, but against his tremendous strength she felt as weak as a kitten.

She screamed aloud.

Somewhere a shout answered her. She heard a splintering crash, then someone leaping up the stairs.

Another shout:

“Moyna, where are you?”

She cried out again. Hallin let her go. She fell off the bed and flung herself at the door. He caught her again there.

“They’re coming,” he said stupidly.

Then his eyes blazed. He dragged her away with a force that sent her flying across the room. In an instant he had reached her. She stared in horror at his face, pale and twisted under the smears of blood, only a few inches from her own.

“They’re going to kill me,” he gasped. ‘I’m going to die! Moyna, I’m going to die—die! .., And I haven’t lived yet. Love you—”

She half rose, but he threw her down again. The strength that she had found went from her. She felt that she would faint at any moment. Her dress tore in his hands, but the sound seemed to come from an infinite distance.

There was a mighty pounding on the door.

“Open it, Hallin!” someone was shouting. “You can’t get away!”

Hallin’s whole body was shaking.

“They can’t kill me!” he croaked. “Moyna, you know that, don’t you? I can’t be killed. No one can ever kill me.”

“You fool!” came a voice outside. “You won’t break the door down that way. Why don’t you shoot the lock out?”

Hallin raised himself slowly from the bed. His eyes were like a babe’s.

“Shoot out the lock,” he said dreamily. “Yes-shoot out the lock—”

With her hand to her mouth Moyna Stanford watched him reel across the room.

He spoke again,

“It’s dreadful to die,” he said.

On the landing outside, the Saint was focusing his flashlight on the door, and Teal’s automatic was crowded against the keyhole.

The lock shattered inwards with a splintermg crash, and Simon hurled himself forward.

Inside the room he heard a heavy fall, and the door jammed half open, Then Teal and Nigel Perry added their weight to the attack, and they went in.

” Nigel!”

The girl struggled up and stumbled, and Perry caught her in his arms.

But Teal and the Saint were looking at the man who lay on the floor, very still, with a strange serenity on his upturned face.

“He wasn’t so lucky after all,” said the detective stolidly.

Simon shook his head.

“We never killed him,” he said.

He fell on his knees beside the body; and when he stood up again his right hand was red and wet, and something lay in his palm. Teal blinked at it. It was a key.

“How did that get there?” he demanded.

“It was in the lock,” said the Saint.

10

In the full panoply of silk hat, stock, black coat, flowered waistcoat, gold-mounted umbrella, white gloves, striped cashmere trousers with razor-edged crease, white spats, and patent leather shoes (reading from north to south), Simon Templar was a vision to dazzle the eyes; and Chief-Inspector Claud Eustace Teal, meeting the Saint in Piccadilly in this array, was visibly startled.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I have already been,” said the Saint. “They do these things at the most ungodly hours. If you want to know, an infant has this day been received into the Holy Catholic Church. I personally sponsored the reception.”

The detective was suitably impressed.

“Moreover,” said the Saint, “it was christened Simon, Now I call that real handsome.”

“What does Perry call it?” inquired Teal; and the Saint was shocked.

They walked a little way together in silence, and then Teal said: “The Commissioner’s been waiting for an answer to his letter.”

“I have meditated the idea, “said the Saint. “As a matter of fact, I thought of beetling down to see him this afternoon.”

“What were you going to say?”

Simon’s umbrella swung elegantly in his hand.

He sighed.

“The idea is amusing,” he murmured. “And yet I can’t quite see myself running on the side of Law and Order. As you’ve so kindly pointed out on several occasions, dear old horseradish, my free-lance style is rather cramped now that you all know so much about me; but I’m afraid—oh. Teal, my bonny, I’m terribly afraid that yours is not the only way. I should become so hideously respectable before you finished with me. And there is another objection.”

“What’s that?”

The Saint removed his shining headpiece and dusted it lovingly with a large silk handkerchief.

“I could not wear a bowler hat,” he said.

Teal stopped, and turned.

“Are you really going to refuse?” he asked; and Simon nodded.

“I am,” he said sadly,: “It would have been a hopeless failure. I should have been fired in a week anyway. Scotland House would become a bear garden. The most weird and wonderful stories would be told in the Old Bailey, Gentlemen would write to the Times—Teal, I don’t want to be a wet blanket, but I might want that arm again—”

“Templar,” said the detective glumly, “that’s the worst news I’ve heard for a long time!”

“Is it?” drawled the Saint, appearing slightly puzzled. “I thought everyone knew. It’s the arm I drink with.”

“I mean, if you really are going on in the same old way—”

“Oh, that!”

The Saint smiled beatifically. He glanced at his watch.

“Let us go and have lunch,” he said, “and weep over my wickedness, I’m such a picturesque villain, too.” He sighed again. “Tell me, Teal, where can a policeman and a pirate lunch together in safety?”

“Anywhere you like,” said Teal unhappily,

Simon Templar gazed across Piccadilly Circus.

“I seem to remember a very good restaurant in the Law Courts themselves,” he remarked. “I lunched there one day just after I’d murdered someone or other. It gave me a great sensation. And this, I think, is my cue to repeat the performance. Come, Archibald, and I will tell you the true story about the Bishop and the Actress.”

WATCH FOR THE SIGN OF THE SAINT. HE Will BE BACK ON OTHER CHARTER BOOKS.