Saint's Getaway (12 page)

He whizzed the prince’s automatic neatly from
his pocket and went on to disarm the chauffeur in the same way. With
their
artillery transferred to his own person, he leaned on the side panel of the
limousine and regarded the two men affec
tionately.

“This has been what I call a really jolly little
evening,” he
drawled. “I suppose
we’ve all lost a certain amount of sleep, but you can’t have it both
ways.” He tapped the strong-box which he carried under his left arm.
“Would you like me to
send you a priced catalogue of the boodle
when I’ve had time
to look it over? You
might like to buy one of the items as a
souvenir.”

For a while the prince stared at him in
silence. And then
he also smiled.

“You win, my dear Mr. Templar. Accept my congratula
tions.” After a moment’s hesitation, he drew
a crocodile-skin case from his breast pocket. “If I were not afraid you
would
laugh at me,” he said apologetically, “I should ask you
to ac
cept a cigar as well.”

“Don’t tempt me, Rudolf,” said the
Saint amiably. “You
know my sense of humour.”

The prince laughed.

“All the same,” he said, “I
wish you could believe that there are depths of childishness to which even I
have not yet de
scended.” He extended the case diffidently.
“In the circum
stances, this is the only sporting gesture I can
make.”

Simon glanced down disparagingly.

And at that instant, before he could make a
movement to
protect himself, a jet of liquid ammonia struck him
squarely between the eyes, and everything was blotted out in an agon
izing
intensity of blindness. It seared his eyeballs like the ca
ress of
red-hot irons, and his gasp of pain sucked the acrid
fumes chokingly down
into his lungs. He staggered sideways
and fired twice as he did so; and then
the gun was torn out of
his hand and he was flung to the ground under
a crushing
weight

A vise-like constriction of thick, powerful fingers fastened on
his windpipe. He struck out savagely and tore at the throt
tling hands; but he was half paralyzed with pain,
and his chest
seemed to be filled
with nothing but the stinging vapour of ammonia. The blood roared in his ears,
and he felt everything
receding from
him… .

And then he heard the prince’s infinitely
distant voice.

“That will be sufficient, Ludwig.”

Almost imperceptibly, it seemed, the pressure
was loosened
from his throat, and the air flowed back into his lungs.
The
weight lifted from his chest, and he rolled away with his hands
covering
his eyes.

Presently, out of the spangled darkness, he
heard the prince
speaking
again.

“An unfortunate necessity, my dear young
friend. I have
never felt comfortable in such a position as the one in
which
you placed me. But your distress, I assure you, is only temporary.”

Simon lay still, with his lungs heaving. He
heard the strik
ing of a match and thought he could distinguish the light
of
it from the pungent flashes of colour that kaleidoscoped
across his
optic nerves.

“I think you had better enter the
car,” said the prince ur
banely—and Simon could visualize him vividly, with his ciga
rette glowing in the long jade holder and his dark
eyes satirically veiled. “I fear that your present attitude might provoke
undue curiosity.”

It was the chauffeur who dragged Simon to his
feet and hus
tled him into the limousine.

The Saint went without resistance. He knew
the futility of
squandering any more of his strength at that moment, while
he was still half blinded and unarmed. He allowed himself to
be bundled
roughly into a comer, and felt the prince’s
weight sinking onto
the cushions beside him, and the muzzle
of the prince’s gun
thrusting into his ribs. And then the Saint
managed to open one of
his twingeing eyes, and saw the lights
of a car coming down
the road.

2

“I need not bother to tell you,”
murmured the prince’s vel
vety intonation, “what would happen if
you were so unwise
as to endeavour to attract attention.”

Simon said nothing.

The headlights of the approaching car shone
straight into
the limousine, bathing the tableau in a garish blaze. Cer
tainly
there was nothing whatever about it to arouse suspicion.
Prince
Rudolf and the Saint, two amicable orphans of the
storm, were patiently
waiting to continue their fraternal jour
ney; what time their
chauffeur, diligently bent double over the hind quarters of the chariot, was
working to repair the mishap
that had delayed them. A mournful and pathetic
scene, no
doubt, but by no means so uncommon that it should have im
bued the
innocent wayfarer with anything but thankfulness
for his own better
fortune… . And yet the other car was
slowing up as it went
past them, and through the rear window
of the limousine they
could see it pull in to the side of the road
a few yards further
on… .

Prince Rudolf looked at the Saint again, and
spilled a short
cylinder of ash deliberately into the tray beside him.

“If this should be your friend,” he
said, “your actions will
have to be extraordinarily discreet.”

A man was walking towards them from the other
car. As he
drew nearer, a glint of light shimmered on his helmet and
flickered over the trappings of his uniform. He came to the
side of
the limousine and opened the door, standing stiffly in
the opening. His face was in the shadow.

“Entschuldigen Sie mich, mein Herr——
”

The Saint never moved a muscle; and yet the
whole of his inside was singing. For the stilted accent was impeccable, but
the voice
was Monty Hayward’s.

“Excuse me, sir, but do you know this man?”

He addressed the prince, and indicated Simon
with a curt
movement
of his head.

The prince smiled faintly.

“I cannot say,” he answered,
“that he is a friend of mine.”

“Your name, please?”

The prince took out his wallet and extracted a
card. Monty
carried it to one of the side lamps and studied it. When
he
came back, he clicked his heels.

“I beg your Highness’s pardon. Perhaps
your Highness
does
not know the identity of his guest?”

“I should like to be informed.”

“He is a desperate criminal who calls
himself the Saint. He is wanted on many charges. He has already to-night thrown
three detectives into the river.”

For a fraction of a second the prince paused.

And then, with a deprecatory shrug, he showed
his gun,

“I am not surprised,” he said
calmly. “As a matter of fact,
he has also attempted to rob me.”
He placed one hand on the strong-box which lay on the seat beside him. “I
have some
family heirlooms with me which would naturally attract a
thief of
his calibre. But happily my chauffeur and myself were
able to overpower
him. We were about to take him to the Po-
lizeiamt; but
possibly you could save us the trouble.”

Simon had to admire the consummate skill with
which the
part was played. It was an accomplished feat of impromptu
histrionics which won the unstinted applause of his artistic
soul. The
prince was a past master. His unruffled frankness, his
engaging modesty, his
felicitous rendering of the whole poise
of royalty
accidentally embroiled in the sordid excitements of common lawlessness—every
delicate touch was irreproachable.

Again Monty clicked his heels. The Saint knew
that he had
had three years at Bonn in which to perfect his German;
but
this performance revealed a new Monty Hayward, in the guise
of yet
another gifted actor lost to the silver screen.

“I shall be honoured to relieve your
Highness of further
inconvenience.”

And then the Saint pushed himself forward.

“It is nothing but lies!” he
protested furiously. “His High
ness is attempting to rob me. That box
is mine. I can take you
to his Highness’s castle and show you things
that will make
you believe me
——”

“Silence!” thundered the policeman
magnificently. “It
will not help you to insult the nobly born.”
He turned to the
prince. “Your Highness shall not be troubled any
longer.”

The prince produced a couple of notes from his
wallet.

“Yon will understand,” he said,
“that I do not wish for any
vulgar publicity.”

The policeman bowed.

“It is understood. Your Highness’s name
need not be mentioned. I am proud to have assisted your Highness.” He
turned
again to the Saint. “Outside, you scum!”

“But, for God’s sake, listen!”
cried the Saint desperately.
“Will you not understand that if you let
his Highness go, I
shall never see my property again? At least you must take
him to the Polizeiamt with me, so that the ownership of the
box can be
properly settled——
”

“The ownership of the box is settled to
my satisfaction,”
said the policeman stoically.

Simon clenched his fists.

“But that is only right!” he said,
with savagely direct emphasis. “You cannot take me without the box. I
have risked every
thing to keep it!”

“It will be no use to you in the
prison,” replied the police
man imperviously. “Will you come outside
or must I take
you?”

“I refuse—”

Simon stopped short. The policeman’s revolver
was pointed menacingly at his chest

“Heraus!”

The Saint grabbed the gun and hurled the
policeman back.
And then the chauffeur’s muscular arms wound round his
own below
the elbows. While they swayed and struggled in the
road, he felt two
bands of steel snapped on his wrists. Then he was released. He stood wrestling
with the handcuffs while the
policeman went back to the door of the
limousine.

“Your Highness’s servant.”

The policeman returned. He seized the Saint by
the shoul
der and pushed him roughly onwards. Fuming and cursing,
the Saint
suffered himself to be manhandled back to the waiting automobile. He was forced
into the front seat. The police
man stepped in beside him and took the wheel.
The car, with
its engine still running, went into gear and gathered
speed.

They had travelled a mile before the Saint
spoke.

“The hell of a fine partner in crime you
are,” he said sourly.

Monty kept his eyes on the road.

“And a hell of a fine crook you
are,” he said acidly. “If this
is your usual form,
it beats me why there’s ever been any fuss
about you at all.
It’s a wonder they didn’t lock you up the day
after you stole your
first sixpence. That’s what I think about
you. You prance about
and get into the most hopeless messes,
and expect me to get you out of
‘em——”

Patricia leaned over from the back seat.

“Don’t you see, boy? We had to get you away somehow, and
Monty did the only thing he could. I think he
worked it mar
vellously.”

Simon hammered the handcuffs on his knee in a frenzy.

“Oh, Monty was wonderful!” he
exploded bitterly. “Monty
was Mother’s Angel Child! Make your getaway at
any cost— that’s Monty. Throw up every stake in the game except your
own skin.
Damn the boodle that we’ve all been chancing our
necks for——
”

“It’ll do you good,” said Monty.
“Next time, you won’t be
in such a hurry to get your friends into
trouble.”

“But—damn your daft eyes! We had the game
in our hands!”