Enter the Saint (21 page)

He wasn’t shaking with the anticipation of triumph, because he wasn’t that sort of crook. He simply felt rather satisfied with his own ingenuity. Not that he was preening himself. He found it as natural to win that game as he would have found it natural to win a game of stud poker from a deaf, dumb, and blind imbecile child. That was all.

Of course, he didn’t know the Saint except by reputation, and mere word-of-mouth reputations never cut much ice with Hilloran. He wasn’t figuring on the Saint’s uncanny intuition of the psychology of the crook, nor on the Saint’s power of lightning logic and lightning decision. Nor had he reckoned on that quality of reckless audacity which lifted the Saint as far above the rut of ordinary adventurers as Walter Hagen is above the man who has taken up golf to amuse himself in his old age-a quality which infected and inspired also the men whom the Saint led.

There was one desperate solution to the problem, and Hilloran ought to have seen it. But he hadn’t seen it-or, if he had, he’d called it too desperate to be seriously considered. Which was where he was wrong to all eternity.

He stood up in the stern of the boat, a broad dominant figure in black relief against the shimmering waters, and called out again: “I’m coming alongside now, Saint, if you’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” said the Saint; and the butt of the Lewis gun was cuddled into his shoulder as steadily as if it had lain on a rock.

Hilloran gave an order, and the sweeps dipped again. Hilloran remained standing. If he knew what happened next, he had no time to coordinate his impressions. For the harsh stammer of the Lewis gun must have merged and mazed his brain with the sharp tearing agony that ripped through his chest, and the numbing darkness that blinded his eyes must have been confused with the numbing weakness that sapped all the strength from his body, and he could not have heard the choking of the breath of his throat, and the cold clutch of the waters that closed over him and dragged him down could have meant nothing to him at all… .

But Dicky Tremayne, staring stupidly at the widening ripples that marked the spot where Hilloran had been swallowed up by the sea, heard the Saint’s hail. “Stand by for the mermaids!”

And at once there was a splash such as a seal makes in plunging from a high rock, and there followed the churning sounds of a strong swimmer racing through the water.

The two men, who were the boat’s crew, seemed for a moment to sit in a trance; then, with a curse, one of them bent to his oars. The other followed suit.

Dicky knew that it was his turn. He came to his feet and hurled himself forward, throwing himself anyhow across the back of the man nearest to him. The man was flung sideways and over onto his knees, so that the boat lurched perilously. Then Dicky had scrambled up again, somehow, with bruised shins, and feet that seemed to weigh a ton, and launched himself at the back of the next man in the same way.

The first man whom he had knocked over struck at him, with an oath, but Dicky didn’t care. His hands were tied behind his back, but he kicked out, swung his shoulders, butted with his head-fought like a madman. His only object was to keep the men from any effective rowing until the Saint could reach them.

And then, hardly a foot from Dicky’s eyes, a hand came over the gunwale, and he lay still, panting. A moment later the Saint had hauled himself over the side, almost overturning the boat as he did so. “O.K., sonny boy!” said the Saint, in that inimitably cheerful way that was like new life to those who heard it on their side, and drove his fist into the face of the nearest man.

The the other man felt the point of a knife prick his throat. “You heard your boss telling you to row over to the seaplane,” remarked the Saint gently, “and I’m very hot on carrying out the wishes of the dead. Put your back into it!”

He held the knife in place with one hand, with the other hand he reached for the second little knife which he carried strapped to his calf. “This way, Dicky boy, and we’ll have you loose in no time.” It was so. And then the boat was alongside the seaplane, and Dicky had freed the girl.

The Saint helped them up, and then went down to the stern of the boat and picked up the bag which lay fallen there. He tossed it into the cockpit, and followed it himself. From that point of vantage he leaned over to address the crew of the boat.

“You’ve heard all you need to know,” he said. “I am the Saint. Remember me in your prayers. And when you’ve got the yacht to a port, and you’re faced with the problem of accounting for all that’s happened to your passengers-remember me again. Because to-morrow morning every port in the Mediterranean will be watching for you, and on every quay there’ll be detectives waiting to take you away to the place where you belong. So remember the Saint!” And Simon Templar roused the engine of the seaplane and began to taxi over the water as the first shot spat out from the yacht’s deck and went whining over the sea.

A week later, Chief Inspector Teal paid another visit to Brook Street. “I’m very much obliged to you, Mr. Templar,”.he said. “You’ll be interested to hear that Indomitable picked up the Corsican Maid as she was trying to slip through the Straits last night. They didn’t put up much of a scrap.”

“You don’t say!” murmured the Saint mockingly. “But have some beer.”

Mr. Teal sank ponderously into the chair. “Fat men,” he declined, “didn’t ought to drink-if you won’t be offended. But listen, sir-what happened to the girl who was the leader of the gang? And what happened to the jewels?”

“You’ll hear to-day,” said the Saint happily, “that the jewels have been received by a certain London hospital. The owners will be able to get them back from there, and I leave the reward they’ll contribute to the hospital to their own consciences. But I don’t think public opinion will let them be stingy. As for the money that was collected in cash, some twenty-five thousand dollars. I-er-well, that’s difficult to trace, isn’t it?”

Mr. Teal nodded sleepily. “And Audrey Perowne, alias the Countess Anusia Marova?”

“Were you wanting to arrest her?”

“There’s a warrant-“

The Saint shook his head sadly. “What a waste of time, energy, paper, and ink! You ought to have told me that before. As it is, I’m afraid I-er-that is, she was packed off three days ago to a country where extradition doesn’t work-I’m afraid I shouldn’t know how to intercept her. Isn’t that a shame?”

Teal grimaced. “However,” said the Saint, “I understand that she’s going to reform and marry and settle down, so you needn’t worry about what she’ll do next.”

“How do you know that?” asked Teal suspiciously.

The Saint’s smile was wholly angelic. He flung out his hand.

“A little Dicky bird,” he said musically, “a little Dicky bird told me so this morning.”

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