Prelude for War (24 page)

He went over and opened the
bedroom door.

“Bring out the
zoo,” he said.

He stood there while the
captives filed out, followed by
Peter and Hoppy, and
waited until the door had closed
again behind the girl. For
a few seconds he paced up and
down the small room, intent
on his own thoughts. Then he picked up the telephone and dialled the number of
his apart
ment in Cornwall House.

Patricia answered the
ring.

“Hullo,
sweetheart,” he said. His voice was level, too
certain
of its words to show excitement. “Yes… . No
trouble
at all. Everything went according to plan, and
we’re
all sitting pretty—except the deputation from the
ungodly.
Now listen. I’ve got a job for you. Call Orace and
tell
him to expect you. Then get out the Daimler, and
tell
Sam Outrell to pull Stunt Number Three. As soon as you’re sure yon aren’t
followed, come over here. Hustle it… . No, I’ll tell you when you arrive.
There are listeners
… . Okay, darling. Be seein’
ya.”

He put down the phone and
turned to Bravache. The
pupils of his eyes were
like chips of flint.

“So you were going to
kill Lady Valerie and blame it on
to me,” he
said with great gentleness. “That was as far as
we’d
got, wasn’t it ? The Sons of France avenge the murder of one of their
sympathizers, and all sorts of high-minded
nitwits
wave banners. Do you see any good reason why you
shouldn’t
take some of your own medicine ?”

“You daren’t do
it!” said Bravache whitely. “The Sons
of
France will make you pay for my death a hundred times!”

Dumaire’s face was yellow
with fear.
Simon took him by the scruff of the
neck and heaved him
over to the window. He parted the
curtains and pointed
downwards.

“I suppose you came
here in a car,” he said. “Which of
those
cars is yours?”

The man shook like a leaf
but did not answer.

Simon turned him round and
hit him in the face. He held him by the lapels of his coat and brought him back
to the
window.

“Which of those cars
is yours?”

“That one,”
blubbered Dumaire.

It was a small black
sedan, far more suitable for the
transport of unwilling
passengers than the open Hirondel.

Simon released his
informant, who tottered and almost
fell when the
Saint’s supporting grip was removed. The
Saint
lighted another cigarette and spoke to Peter.

“You can use their
car. Take them to Upper Berkeley Mews.”

He looked up to find Hoppy
Uniatz’ questioning eyes
upon him. There were times
when Mr Uniatz had a ten
dency to fidget, and these
times were usually when he felt
that a very obvious and
elementary move had been delayed
too long. It was not that
he was a naturally impatient man,
but he liked to see
things disposed of in the order of their
importance.
Now he grasped hopefully for the relief of the
problem
that was uppermost in his mind.

“Is dat where we give
dem de woiks, boss?”

“That’s where you
give them the works,” said the Saint.
“Will
you come outside for a minute, Peter?”

He took Peter out into the
hall and gave him more de
tailed instructions.

“Did you hear enough while you were
waiting to convince
you that I haven’t been
raving?” he said.

“I always knew you
couldn’t be,” Peter said sombrely,
“because
you sounded so much as if you were. I’m damned
if
I know how you do it, but it always seems to be the way.”

“You’ll see it
through?”

“No,” said
Peter. “I’m going home to my mother.” His face was serious in spite
of the way he spoke. “But aren’t
you taking an
unnecessary risk with Bravache and friend?
Of
course I’m not so bloodthirsty as Hoppy——
”

The Saint drew at his
cigarette.

“I know, old lad.
Maybe I am a fool. But I don’t see my
self as a gangster.
Do it the way I told you. And when
you’ve finished,
bring Hoppy back here and let him pick up
the
Hirondel and drive it down to Weybridge. You can
stay
in town and wait for developments—I expect there ‘ll
be
plenty of them. Okay?”

“Okay, chief.”

Simon’s hand lay on Peter’s
shoulder, and they went
back into the living room
together. The Saint’s new sure
ness was like a steel
blade, balanced and deadly.

3

“You can’t do
this!” babbled Bravache. Little specks of
saliva
sprayed from his mouth with his words. “It is a
crime! You will be
punished—hanged. You cannot commit
murder in
cold blood. Surely you can’t do that!” His man
ner changed, became
fawning, wheedling. “Look, you are a
gentleman.
You could not kill a defenceless man, any more than I could. You have
misunderstood my leetle joke. It was
only
to frighten you——
”

“Put some tape on his
mouth, Hoppy,” ordered the Saint with cold distaste.

Pietri and Dumaire were
gagged in the same way, and
the three men were pushed
on out of the flat and crowded into the lift. Simon left them with Peter and
Hoppy in the
foyer of the building while he went
out to reconnoitre the car. It was nearly half-past two by his watch, and the
street was as still and lifeless as a graveyard. The Saint’s rubber-
soled shoes woke no echoes as they moved to their destina
tion. There was a man dozing at the wheel of the small
black sedan and he started to rouse as the Saint opened the
door beside him, but he was still not fully awake when the
Saint’s left hand reached in and took hold of him by the
front of his coat and yanked him out like a puppy.

“Have you tried this
for insomnia?” asked the Saint con
versationally,
and brought up his right hand in a smashing
uppercut.

The man’s teeth clicked
together; his knees gave; he
buckled forward without a
sound, and Simon let him fall. He went back to the entrance of the building.

“All clear,” he
said in a low voice. “Make it snappy.”

He led the way back to the
black sedan and picked up
his sleeping patient.
There was a board fence on the op
posite side of the
road, above which rose the naked girders
of
another new apartment building under construction.
Simon
applied scientific leverage, and the patient rose into
the
air and disappeared from view. There was a dull
thud
in the darkness beyond.

Simon crossed the road
again. The loading of freight had
been completed with
professional briskness while he was away. Already Peter Quentin was at the
wheel; and Hoppy
Uniatz, sitting crookedly beside him in
the other front seat,
was covering the three men
who were bundled together in
the back. The engine
whirred under the starter.

Simon looked in at the
prisoners, and particularly at the staring cringing eyes of Bravache.

“It won’t hurt much,
Major,” he said, “and you ought to
be
proud to be a martyr for the flag… . On your way,
boys.”

He stood and watched the
receding taillight of the car
until it turned the corner
at the end of the street; and then
he strolled slowly
back to the entrance of the building. He waited there less than five minutes
before a dark Daimler
limousine swept into the
street and drew up in front of the door.

The Saint leaned in the
open window beside the driver
and kissed her.

“What’s been
happening?” asked Patricia.

In a few sentences he let her know as much as
he knew
himself; and while he was speaking
he rummaged in the nearest side pocket of the car. He found what he was look
ing for—a chauffeur’s blue cap—and set it at an
angle on
her curly head.

“I’ll be back in a
minute,” he said.

When he re-entered the flat
Lady Valerie Woodchester
was dressed. She came out
of the bedroom carrying a small
valise.

“What’s happened to
everyone?” she asked in surprise.

“Peter and Hoppy have
removed the exhibits,” he said
irrepressibly.
“They’ll get what’s coming to them somewhere
else.
We didn’t want to make any more mess for you here.”

The edges of pearly teeth
showed on her underlip.

“Could you call me a
taxi?”

“I could do better. I
sent for one of my more ducal cars,
and it’s waiting
outside now. You won’t mind if I see you as
far
as the Carlton, will you ? I don’t want you to be put to
the trouble of having to call me out again tonight.”

For a moment he thought
she was going to lose her
temper, and almost hoped
that she would. But she turned
her back on him and sailed out into the
corridor without a
word. He followed her
into the elevator, and they rode
down
in supercharged silence. At the door he helped her into
the Daimler and settled himself beside her. The
car moved
off.

They drove a couple of
blocks without a word being
spoken. Lady Valerie stared moodily out of the
window on
her side, scowling and biting her
lips. The Saint was bub
bling
inside.

“A penny for
them,” he said at last.

She turned on him with
sudden fury and looked him
wrathfully up and down.

“You make me
sick!” She flared.

The Saint’s eyebrows rose
one reproachful notch.

“Me?” he
protested aggrievedly. “But why, at the mo
ment?
What have I done now?”

She shook her shoulders
fretfully.

“Oh …
nothing,” she said. “I’m fed up, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry,”
said the Saint gravely. “Perhaps you’ve had a dull evening. You ought to
get about more—go places,
and meet people, and see
things. It makes a tremendous dif
ference.”

“You think you’re
very funny, don’t you?” she flashed.
“You
and your blonde girl friend—the world’s pet hero
and
heroine!” She paused, savouring the sting of her own
acid. “She is nice looking—I’ll give her that,” she went on
grudgingly. “But I just wish she’d never been born… .
Oh well, perhaps we can’t all be heroines, but there’s no
reason why the rest of us shouldn’t have a pretty decent
time. You’ll be a bit fed up yourself when Algy and Luker
get those papers, won’t you ?”

“Are you quite sure
you aren’t going to give them to
me?” he said.

She laughed.

“I suppose you think I
ought to give them to you for
saving my life,” she
jeered extravagantly. “With tears of
gratitude
streaming down my cheeks, I should stammer:
‘Here
they are—take them.’ That’s why you make me sick.
You
go about the place rescuing people and being the Robin
Hood of modern crime,
and then you go back to your blonde
girl
friend and have a grand time being told how wonderful
you are. So you may be; but it just makes me
sick.”

“Well, if you feel
sick, don’t keep on talking about it—
be sick,” said
the Saint hospitably. “Don’t worry about the
car—we
can always have it cleaned.”

She gave him a withering
glare and turned ostentatiously
away. She seemed to want
to make it quite clear that his
conversation was beneath
her contempt and that even to
endure his company was a
martyrdom. She huddled as far away from him as the width of the seat permitted
and re
sumed her scowling out of the window.

The Saint devoted himself
to the tranquil enjoyment of his cigarette and waited contentedly for the
climax which
he knew must come before long.

It came after another five
minutes.

All at once her eyes,
fixed vacantly on the window, froze
into a strange
expression. She sat bolt upright.