The Saint Closes the Case (29 page)

“Science needs no justification.”

“In France, to-day, there are millions
of men buried who
might have been alive now. They were killed in a war. If
that
war had been fought before science applied itself to the perfection of
slaughter, they would have been only thousands in
stead of millions.
And, at least, they would have died like men. Does science need no
justification for the squandering of those
lives?”

“Do you think you can stop war?”

“No. I know I can’t. That’s not the
argument. Listen again.
In England to-day there are thousands of men
blind, maimed,
crippled for life, who might have been whole now. There
are
as many again in France, Belgium, Germany, Austria. The
bodies that
God gave, and made wonderful and intricate and
beautiful—torn and
wrecked by your science, often made so
hideous that men
shudder to see them… . Does science need
no justification for
that?”

“That is not my business.”

“You’re making it your business.”

The Saint paused for a moment: and then he
went on in a
voice that no one could have interrupted, the passionate
voice
of a prophet crying in the wilderness.

“There is science that is good and
science that is evil. Yours is the evil science, and all the blessings that
good science has given to mankind are no justification for your evil. If we
must
have science, let it be good science. Let it be a science in which
men can
still be men, even when they kill and are killed. If
there must be war,
let it be holy war. Let men fight with the
weapons of men, and
not with the weapons of fiends. Let us
have men to fight and
die as champions and heroes, as men
used to die, and not as the beasts that
perish, as men have to
die in our wars now.”

“You are an absurd idealist——
”

“I am an absurd idealist. But I believe
that all that must
come true. For, unless it comes true, the world will be
laid desolate. And I believe that it can come true. I believe that,
by the
grace of God, men will awake presently and be men
again, and colour and
laughter and splendid living will return
to a grey
civilisation. But that will only come true because a
few men will believe
in it, and fight for it, and fight in its name
I against everything
that sneers and snarls at that ideal. You are
such a thing.”

“And you are the last hero—fighting
against me?”

Simon shook his head.

“Not the last hero,” he said
simply. “Perhaps not a hero at
all. I call myself a soldier of life.
I have sinned as much as any
man, and more than most. I have been a hunted
criminal. I
am that now. But everything I’ve done has been done for
the
glory of an invisible ideal. I never understood it very clearly
before, but
I understand it now. But you… . Why haven’t you even told me that you want
to do what you want to do for the glory of your own ideal—for the glory, if you
like,
of England?”

A fantastic obstinacy flared in Vargan’s eyes.

“Because it wouldn’t be true,” he
said. “Science is inter
national. Honour among scientists is
international. I’ve of
fered my invention first to England—that’s
all. If they’re
fools enough to refuse to reward me for it, I shall find a
country that will.”

He came closer to the Saint, with his head
sideways, his
faded lips curiously twisted. And the Saint saw that he
had
wasted all his words.

“For years I’ve worked and slaved,” babbled Vargan.
“Years!
And what have I got for it? A
few paltry letters to put after my
name.
No honour for everybody to see. No money. I’m
poor! I’ve starved myself, lived like a pauper, to save money
to carry on my work! Now you ask me to give up
everything
that I’ve sacrificed the
best years of my life to win—to gratify
your Sunday-school sentimentality! I say you’re a fool, sir
—an
imbecile!”

The Saint stood quite still, with Vargan’s
bony hands claw
ing the air a few inches from his face. His impassivity
seemed
to infuriate the professor.

“You’re in league with them!” screamed Vargan. “I
knew it.
You’re in league with the devils
who’ve tried to keep me
down! But I
don’t care! I’m not afraid of you. You can do your
worst. I don’t care if millions of people die. I
hope you die
with them! If I could kill you——”

Suddenly he flung himself at the Saint like
a mad beast, blub
bering incoherently, tearing, kicking.
…

Orace caught him about the middle and swung
him off his
feet in arms of iron; and the Saint leaned against the
table,
rubbing a shin that he had not been quick enough to get out
of the way
of that maniacal onslaught.

“Lock him up again,” said Simon
heavily, and saw Orace
depart with his raving burden.

He had just finished with the telephone when
Orace re
turned.

“Get everybody’s things together,”
he ordered. “Your own
included. I’ve phoned for a van to take them
to the station.
They’ll go as luggage in advance to Mr. Tremayne, in
Paris. I’ll
write out the labels. The van will be here at four, so
you’ll
have to move.”

“Yessir,” said Orace obediently.

The Saint grinned.

“We’ve been a good partnership, haven’t
we?” he said. “And
now I’m clearing out of England with a price
on my head. I’m
sorry we’ve got to
…
break up
the alliance… .”

Orace snorted.

“Ya bin arskin forrit, aintcha?” he
demanded unsympathet
ically. “Ain’t I tolja so arfadozen times? …
Where ya goin’
ta?” he added, in the same ferocious tone.

“Lord knows,” said the Saint.

“Never bin there,” said Orace.
“Allus wanted ta, but never
adno invitashun. I’ll be ready ta leave when
you are, sir.”

He turned smartly on his heel and marched to
the door.
Simon had to call him back.

“Shake, you darned old fool,” said
the Saint, and held out
his hand. “If you think it’s worth it——
”

” Tain’t,” said Orace sourly.
“But I’ll avta look arfter ya.”

Then Orace was gone; and the Saint lighted a
cigarette and sat down by the open window, gazing dreamily out over the
lawn and
the sunlit river.

And it seemed to him that he saw a cloud like
a violet mist unrolled over the lawn and the river and the white houses and the
fields behind, a gigantic cloud that crept over the country
like a
living thing; and the cloud scintillated as with the
whirling and flashing
of a thousand thousand sparks of violet
fire. And the grass
shrivelled in the searing breath of the
cloud; and the trees
turned black and crumpled in hot cinders
as the cloud engulfed
them. And men ran before the cloud,
men agonised for breath, men with
white, haggard faces and
eyes glazed and staring, men … But the
creeping of the
cloud was faster than the swiftest man could run… .

And Simon remembered the frenzy of Vargan.

For the space of two cigarettes he sat there
with his own thoughts; and then he sat down and wrote a letter.

T
O
C
HIEF
I
NSPECTOR
T
EAL,

C
RIMINAL
I
NVESTIGATION
D
EPARTMENT,

N
EW
S
COTLAND
Y
ARD,

L
ONDON,
S.W. 1
.

D
EAR OLD
C
LAUD
E
USTACE
,

Before anything else, I want to apologise for
assaulting
you and one of your men at Esher on Saturday, and also to
apologise
for the way a friend of mine treated you yesterday.
Unfortunately, on both occasions, the circumstances did not
permit us to dispose of you by more peaceful means.

The story that Roger Conway told you last
night was noth
ing but the truth. We rescued Professor
Vargan from the men
who first took him
—
who were led, as
Conway told you, by
the celebrated Dr. Rayt Marius
—
and
removed him to a place
of safety. By the time you receive this, you
will know our rea
son; and, since I have not the time to
circularise the Press
myself, I hope this explanation will be safe
in your hands.

Little remains for me to add to what you
already know.

We have tried to appeal to Vargan to suppress
his invention
on humanitarian grounds. He will not listen.
His sole thought
is the recognition which he thinks his
scientific genius de
serves. One cannot argue with monomaniacs:
therefore, we
find ourselves with only one course open to
us.
. We believe that for this diabolical discovery to take
its
place in the armament of the nations of Europe, at a time
when jealousies and fears and the rumours of wars are again
lifting
their heads, would be a refinement of “civilisation”
which the
world could well be spared. You may say that the
exclusive
possession of this invention would confirm Great Britain in an unassailable
supremacy, and perhaps thereby
secure the peace of Europe. We answer
that no secret can be
kept for ever. The sword is two-edged. And, as
Vargan an
swered me by saying, “Science is international”
—
so I
an
swer you by saying that humanity is also international.

We are content to be judged by the verdict of history,
when all the facts are made known.

But in accomplishing what we have
accomplished, we have put you in the way of learning our identities; and that,
as you will see, must be an almost fatal blow to such an organisation
as mine.

  
Nevertheless, I believe that in time I shall find a way for us
to
continue the work that we have set ourselves to do.

We regret nothing that we have already done.
Our only regret is that we should be scattered before we have time to
do more.
Yet we believe that we have done much good, and
that this last crime
of ours is the best of all.

Au revoir!

S
IMON
T
EMPLAR

(“The
Saint”).

He had heard, while he wrote, the sounds of
Orace despatch
ing luggage; and, as he signed his name, Orace entered
with
a tray of tea and the report that the van had departed.

Patricia came in through the French windows a
moment later. He thought she could never have looked so slim and
cool and
lovely. And, as she came to him, he swung her up in
one arm as if she had
been a feather.

“You see,” he smiled, as he set her
down, “I’m not quite a
back number yet.”

She stayed close to him, with cool
golden-brown arms linked round his neck, and he was surprised that she smiled
so slowly.

“Oh, Simon,” she said, “I do love you so
much!”

“Darling,” said the Saint,
“this is so sudden! If I’d only
known…, .”

But something told him that it was not a time
for jesting,
and he stopped.

But of course she loved him. Hadn’t he known
it for a whole
heavenly
year, ever since she confessed it on the tor above Bay
combe—that peaceful Devonshire village—only a week after
he’d breezed into the district as a smiling
swashbuckler in
search of trouble,
without the least notion that he was waltzing
into a kind of trouble to which he had always been singularly
immune? Hadn’t she proved it, since, in a hundred
ways?
Hadn’t the very night before,
at Bures, been enough in itself
to
prove the fact beyond question for all time?