Catch the Saint (13 page)

“Go look, can’t
you!” a heavy voice shouted.
The Saint tensed
his legs. His ears strained to detect what at
last
he heard—a distant tumbling succession of thuds far down
in the house.

Then he unleashed all the coiled power in his
leg-muscles. He
sprang out from the side of
the house, and swinging in again
sailed feet first through the window he
had chosen.

All his astonishingly
quick perceptions were required to pull together the fragmented impressions
that came as he smashed
through the window-glass
and hurtled into the room where he
knew Adrian was
held prisoner. Even coming so suddenly from
darkness into light,
even in the split second of landing on his feet
and throwing aside the rope, he saw it all: the big easels to his
right, the slight bearded man cowering beside
them, the much
broader back of another
man who was heading for the door of
the
room as the Saint made his acrobatic entrance.

Even though he had never
felt called upon to perform such a
feat, Simon might
have passed his hand safely beneath the
smashing spring of a
rat trap between the time it was released and
the
time it struck home. He moved just as swiftly now. The man
at the door was still in the process of spinning
round to see what had happened to the window behind him when the Saint struck.
There was no need for even a short struggle. The
guard’s head
was simply carried
straight and heartily into the wall by the
Saint’s flying leap. This vigourous encounter of oak and bone produced a
most satisfying result, from Simon’s point of view at any rate. For his victim
it meant instant escape from all worldly cares and responsibilities, at least
until he woke up with a mild
concussion some hours later.

As he drew his automatic,
Simon said soothingly to the frightened young man on his right, “I’m here
to help you. Don’t move.
Don’t do anything. Just
tell me, how many guards are here with
you
tonight?”

“Three, I think.”

Satisfied that his first
captive had told the truth, Simon
switched off the
light and moved into the corridor. He could
make
out the head of the stairway by a dim strip of light which
escaped through the door of another room. The air was heavy
with smoke. He heard a groan below.

“If you are
awake,” he called cheerfully, “don’t move or I will
shoot you dead.”

Apparently a groan was
about all that the man at the foot of
the stairs was
capable of. Simon could see that he was sprawled
awkwardly,
with his right arm at an unnatural angle, broken or
thrown
out of joint by his crash. With his pistol aimed at the in
jured man’s head, Simon went down the steps and made him se
cure, if not
more comfortable, with the same piece of wire which
had caused his downfall.

Back in Norcombe’s room
with the light again, Simon had his
first good look at
the young artist. Long brown hair and beard
wreathed
his countenance so that he looked like a gnome peering out of a bird’s nest. He
was very pale, probably more so on this
occasion
than usual; his long boney hands fluttered apprehen
sively
as he watched the unconscious man on the floor being tied
hand and foot.

“My name is Simon
Templar,” the Saint introduced himself, rising to lounge easily on the arm
of a chair, with his automatic back in its holster. “I’ve come to get you
out of this mess. Your
sister’s outside waiting
for you.”

“Julie!” Adrian
exclaimed eagerly. “Is she all right? They told
me
if I didn’t do what they wanted they’d do dreadful things to
her.”

“She’s fine. How
about you?”

“I’m all right. Are
you the police?”

“No, I’m just a
friend. Julie knows what you’re supposed to do
now,
while I finish rounding up the rest of this gang. I’m going to leave you with
her, and you do exactly what she says. She can ex
plain
everything.”

Simon walked over to the two easels, admiringly
compared
the original with Adrian’s almost
completed imitation, and took
the
true Rembrandt off its supports.

“This will go back
to its owner,” he told Adrian. “Now come
on
downstairs.”

“Is the house on
fire?” Adrian queried, as he followed.

“No. That was just a
smoke-screen.”

Simon shepherded the
artist out the front door of the house,
and
then came one of those vaguely foreseeable but unpredicta
ble things
which can give the agley treatment to the best-laid
plans of mice. But not necessarily of men—or some men. The
lights
of a car appeared on the narrow road leading in towards
the house.

“Run!” snapped the Saint, giving
Adrian a shove. “Straight
back
there—you’ll find Julie about a hundred yards into the
woods. Don’t either of you wait or come near here
again!”

Adrian did not need
urging. He sprinted away towards the
frontier of trees
with surprising speed. Simon spun round and dashed back into the house, closing
the door behind him just as
the automobile’s lights
swept full across the roof of the old well.
He put the painting
safely aside, wished he had time to douse the
smouldering
rags which were filling the place with smoke, drew his automatic again, and
stood behind the bolted door.

Footsteps. One man’s
footsteps. Then six knocks in the password pattern. Smoothly the Saint freed
the latch and opened the
door, keeping his face in
the darkness.

“My God, is the place on fire?” cried
the man on the threshold.

The Saint felt one of those
moments of supreme satisfaction
which helped make his
adventures worthwhile from much more than a financial point of view.

“No, indeed, Mr.
Pargit-Fawkes. Just a little something I was
cooking
up. As a matter of fact, everything is under perfect con
trol.” He then confronted the art dealer with his pistol in a manner
that caused Pargit’s refined hands to rise directly into the air
like a pair of hoisted flags. “But in view of the uncomfortable
conditions here, I’d be much obliged if you could drive me in to
London. I’d like us to pay a call together on a colleague of
yours.”

CHAPTER 10

Chief Inspector Claud
Eustace Teal arrived at his Scotland Yard
office
at 9:35 in the morning to discover that others than the
Lord move in mysterious ways, and that the axiom about His
helping those who help themselves occasionally makes an excep
tion for
those whose minds are on other things entirely.

Not that Teal had
completely forgotten Templar and their
mysteriously
abbreviated visit to the Leonardo Galleries, but he
would
hardly have associated it at first with the mystery that greeted him when he
walked into his Spartan chambers. Before
he
could be told the business of the bearded young man and
slender girl who waited in his ante-room, a telephone was
thrust
into his plump hand, and the voice of his superior, the Assist
ant Commissioner, came through in tones
startlingly lacking their
habitual
acerbity.

“Teal, I must
congratulate you! A good job. I’ve just had a
call
from Lord Oldenshaw on the return of his painting. He’s
pleased as Punch, which isn’t surprising, considering the thing
turns out to be worth half a million. Have you been back in
touch with the Dorset police this morning?”

Mr Teal was beginning to
exhibit the symptoms of any unemployed handyman who has just been informed
that he has been
awarded the Nobel Prize for Physics.

“Not yet,” he
improvised. “I wanted to get a few more details sorted out first—”

“They’re holding the
three for us in Dorset until we decide if
we
want them here,” the Assistant Commissioner informed him.
“Lord Oldenshaw was under the impression you’d be
rounding
up the ringleaders here in London.
What are you doing about it?”

“I
…
I’m setting it up now,” Teal said. “It’s a ticklish busi
ness. I’ve got to be sure there aren’t any loose
ends.”

“Carry on!” the
Assistant Commissioner said. “Report back
to
me as soon as you can, and the best of British luck.”

Chief Inspector Teal,
trying feverishly to fathom his chief’s un
wonted
cordiality, hung up the telephone and shakily stuffed a
stick of spearmint into his mouth. His cherubic countenance glis
tened, moist and red. Through his brain hurtled awful
fantasies
of some Saintish prank that would
make him, earnest and hard
working Chief Inspector
Teal, the immortal dunce of Scotland
Yard.

“What happened in
Dorset?” he asked his secretary, keeping
his
voice low.

“The Norcombes notified the local police
where they could
pick up the gang who’d been
holding Mr. Norcombe a prisoner.”

“Norcombes?”
Teal said blankly.

“Those are the
Norcombes, waiting to see you.”

Teal decided wisely that
the less he said the less his ignorance
would
become manifest to the world. He went out again into the
ante-room.

“Mr and Mrs
Norcombe?”

“Not Mr and
Mrs,” the girl replied. “I’m Julie Norcombe.
This
is my brother, Adrian.”

Adrian jumped to his feet
and stuck out his hand. Teal shook
it warily.

“Would you come into my office,
please?” he said.

In that sanctuary he soon
heard the whole story, in which the
names of Caffin,
Pargit, and Templar were frequently involved.
It
was a story that was almost complete: Adrian rescued from his
kidnappers, the genuine Rembrandt revealed as genuine and al
ready returned to a delighted Lord Oldenshaw. The only thing
that remained undone was the capture of the leaders.

Teal was goaded out of his
normal passivity by the challenge.
The Saint had already
done most of the work singlehanded.
Hours had passed. If
the masterminds of the plot escaped, Teal
would
feel the barbs of his failure for ever each time he saw,
Simon Templar’s mocking grin.

“Thank you very much
Mr Norcombe, Miss Norcombe.
You’ll be taken care of
here until we finish this job. My secre
tary will take your
statements in writing, and of course we’ll need you for purposes of
identification. Would you please wait outside a little longer?”

He sat at his desk and
proceeded to set wheels in motion with
what
for him was a positive frenzy of momentum. There would
be
simultaneous raids on Caffin’s and Pargit’s residences, as well
as the Leonardo Galleries. A subordinate was sent post-haste to
obtain search warrants. Pargit, being a softer type of crook and
less organised, could be expected to fall most easily into the
hands of the police. Caffin, a known gang boss, would get Teal’s
personal attention. Caffin’s flat had been under surveillance before
for various reasons, and a Flying Squad car was despatched
to cover the known exits and verify his presence until Teal could
arrive on the scene.

As soon as he knew that
all the cogs in his machinery were
meshing smoothly,
Teal left his office by another door, settled
his bowler hat on his
perspiring head, and clomped downstairs to
the
unmarked car that he had ordered to wait for him.

Although he could never
have been called loquacious, his co
horts had seldom seen him so muted by
his own tension. The de
tective-sergeant
driver had to remind him that he had yet to give
them their destination.

“We’re going to pick
up Sam Caffin,” Teal said rigidly, and
added a scrap of
fingernail to the gum he was chewing.

“Caffin,” the
sergeant repeated cautiously.

“Sam Caffin. You know him and where he
lives.”

“Yes, sir,” said
the sergeant, and decided it would be wiser not to ask any more questions.