The Saint Goes On (29 page)

After a moment’s hesitation he started into the tunnel. It was barely six feet high, so that he had to stoop slightly to move along it. Throughout the length he saw, it was neatly and expertly buttressed; but all these things were possible with an experienced engineer, which he knew Jeffroll to be, in charge, and four intelligent confederates to help him, of whom two at least must be retired sapper officers. The same electric bulbs dangled at long intervals along the sap, so that in between them there were patches of deep gloom practically amounting to complete darkness. Even so, the technique that must have been required to bring out the far end of the tunnel exactly under a pre-determined cell in Larkstone Prison was one of those astounding exercises of scientific ingenuity at which the Saint, as an uninitiated layman, would always have to gape in speechless awe.

As he moved deeper into the warren, he began to pick his steps more cautiously, until he was travelling almost noiselessly, a mere foot at a time. Then he heard a patter of scurrying feet somewhere ahead of him; and Portmore’s voice boomed hollowly down the echoes with eerie distinctness.

“Look out!”

Instinctively the Saint spun off the track and pressed himself against the wall, freezing into immobility in the middle of the deepest patch of darkness he could find. The running men came nearer; and then there was a sudden crash of sound that thundered down the tunnel like the crack of doom. A blast of air like a tornado struck him down the whole side of his body, lifted him off his feet and hurled him a dozen yards down the passage as if he had been hit by an express train.

He struggled up again, deafened and half-stunned, and listened to the patter of falling stones loosened from the roof by the detonation. All the lights had been shattered by the explosion, and when he felt around for the truck lines to get his bearings he found them half buried in the debris. But the buttressing had been good, and the thousands of tons of earth which might have sunk down from overhead had not fallen.

He heard Jeffroll’s voice now, startlingly near.

“Are we all right?”

“I am,” said Voss; and one by one the others chimed in reassuringly.

There was a sixth voice among the responses, a voice which the Saint had not heard before. A moment later somebody switched on an electric torch, and the owner of the voice was picked up by the beam, scarcely three yards away-a fleshy sallow-faced man who still wore the drab uniform of His Majesty’s prisons.

Simon felt in his pocket and drew out one of his guns; his other hand slipped out a tiny flashlight from his breast pocket-it looked very much like a cheap fountain pen, and it had escaped observation when he was searched.

He drew a careful bead on the other torch, and at that range he was quite an accurate shot. The crisp smack of the report as he pressed the trigger synchronised with the sudden return of utter darkness; and then the beam of his own flashlight stabbed out and swept over the five men.

“I hope you will all say your prayers before you ask to die,” he murmured politely; and then he turned his light on the sixth stranger again. There might be a few minor gaps in his acquaintance with the underworld, but this man was not exactly of the underworld, and his photograph had appeared in every national newspaper in England for six consecutive days during a certain week eighteen months ago. “Mr. Bellamy Wage, I believe?” said the Saint.

XI
they were so stunned that he had the stage to himself; but the Saint had no complaint to make about this, for there were times when he liked talking.

“You were sentenced at the old Bailey to fourteen years’ penal servitude on one charge of forgery and two charges of conspiracy to defraud. The Neovision Radio Company went down the drain to the tune of nearly two million quid, and about a million and a half of that was never accounted for except on the general theory that you must have hidden it away somewhere. Altogether you seem to have been pretty smooth at collecting potatoes; and if somebody had given you the wire to pull your freight a month earlier, I’m sure you’d have turned up later as the hell of a big shot somewhere in South America and had the whale of a time on your old-age pension.”

His torch-light panned warningly over the rescuers again, and nobody moved.

“But even when you were caught, you weren’t finished,” he went on chattily. “You had Yestering, a smart crook lawyer; and when he couldn’t find enough perjurers to lie you out of the dock you gave him another idea. Through him, you offered a reward of half a million pounds to anyone who could get you out of Larkstone; and you would pay all the expenses, signing the cheques he brought when he visited you. He got hold of these men-trained engineers, down on their luck, and willing to take a sporting risk for a fortune. They did this work; but Yestering was too greedy. He wanted more than his fee. When everything was nearly ready, he got hold of a gorilla named Garthwait to try and muscle the others out of here-the idea was that Garthwait should bring off the actual rescue, and claim to have done all the work from the start, and then the two of them would split the reward. Jeffroll and the others knew they were up against it, but Garthwait didn’t quite succeed in scaring them off, so Jeffroll’s niece was kidnapped last night and held for a hostage. She was to be returned in exchange for you, and Garthwait was still to go on and claim the beauty prize. Unfortunately for everybody except me, I butted in.”

Bellamy Wage clenched his fists. He was pale and trembling with fear.

“Who are you?” he asked shakily.

“I am Simon Templar, known as the Saint; and I expect it will be fun for you to meet an honest man after all these twisters you’ve had round you. I’ve done a lot of good work on this business myself,” said the Saint modestly, “and put up with a good deal of rudery and discomfort, for which someone is going to have to console me. Jeffroll has misunderstood me from the beginning. I suppose there was some excuse for him, but I don’t know.” He turned the ray of his torch slightly. “By the way, brother, Julia is back.”

The innkeeper stood looking at him with his mouth twitching mutely.

“That happens to be true,” said the Saint quietly. “My friend-the Yankee thug, I think you called him-rescued her and brought her back. You’ll be able to check up on that. And now let’s move on-there’s no scenery here, and I have an aunt somewhere around who is calling me in a loud voice.”

He shepherded the party back along the tunnel, after taking over Jeffroll’s revolver-the others were unarmed. At that stage of the proceedings he was making no foolish mistakes, and his flock had no chance whatever to dispute his orders. When the last of them had come up the ladder into the office, he sat down at the desk and laid out his armoury on the blotter.

“You can go and say hullo to Julia, Uncle Martin,” he said. “We’ll wait for your report.”

He waited, tranquilly smoking a cigarette. Weems sat down in another chair and stared at the carpet. Voss finicked with his moustache. Portmore breathed stertorously. Kane leaned against the wall, glowering at him in sulky silence.

Jeffroll came back, and the four men turned to look at him. The answer was in his face, before he nodded.

“It’s true,” he said. “Julia’s back. Mr. Templar”

“You owe me an apology,” said the Saint gently. “Isn’t that it? And another apology to Hoppy Uniatz.” He sighed. “But after all, what’s an apology? Will the Commissioners of Inland Revenue accept it in payment of our income tax? Can we pass a bit of it over the bar and get a drink? No. Therefore I’m afraid we must have more.”

“What are you going to do?” sobbed Bellamy Wage, in a kind of panic.

The Saint smiled.

“I’m going to ask you to do a little extra writing, dear old bird,” he said. “Here is the cheque-book on your old-age pension, removed from the custody of Comrade Yestering. In case your memory is getting dim, the account is in the name of Isledon. The reward you offered was five hundred thousand. According to plan, it should have worked out at a hundred thousand each, but now it’ll have to be split seven ways. That is seventy-one thousand four hundred and twenty-eight pounds eleven shillings and fivepence each, but you can make my share payable to Hoppy Uniatz as well-he’s earned it. And you boys,” said the Saint, glancing over the other conspirators and shuffling his guns persuasively, “are going to take your loss and like it, being thankful that Hoppy and I aren’t naturally avaricious.”

Bellamy Wage wrote according to instructions; and Simon picked up one of the cheques and led him outside, to where Mr. Uniatz was waiting patiently beside his carload of captives.

“Here’s your transport,” he said, “and I believe there’s a motor-boat waiting for you in the harbour and your own yacht outside. And I hope you’ll be seasick… . Get rid of these blisters, Hoppy, and come back for a celebration. You must be dying’ of thirst, but they’ve paid their passage and they’re entitled to the ride.”

When he returned to the office he found five philosophical men examining their cheques. Portmore was the spokesman.

“How about a drink?” he suggested gruffly; and the Saint was delighted.

“I’m glad we got things straightened out without bloodshed,” he said. “I like a good amateur; but there were moments when I thought you didn’t appreciate me.”

“What do you think Garthwait and Yestering will do?” asked Jeffroll.

He asked this some time later, after Hoppy had returned from his mission of speeding the ungodly on their way. Mr. Uniatz, reclining in a corner with a bottle of Johnnie Walker all to himself, had been immersed in a sort of coma, with a scowl of hideous agony on his brow from which Simon deduced that he was thinking about something; but at the sound of Jeffroll’s question he awoke sufficiently to reply.

“Dey won’t do nut’n,” he said, closing the argument to his own satisfaction.

“I don’t know,” Jeffroll demurred. “They’re bound to be
pretty vindictive. Ever since Garthwait first came here we’ve
been ready to clear out at short notice, and now we can afford
to go”

Hoppy continued to shake his head.

“Dey won’t do nut’n,” he repeated emphatically. “Mr. Templar tells me to get rid of ‘em, an’ what de boss says goes.”

“What on earth do you mean?” demanded the Saint faintly.

“I mean I take ‘em for a ride, like ya told me, boss. We take de motor-boat, an’ when we’re outside de harbour I haul out my Betsy an’ give dem de woiks. Dey won’t do nut’n.” Mr. Uniatz stretched himself complacently. “Say, juse guys mind if I take dis bottle upstairs an’ finish it? I just finished de last voice of a pome I was makin’ up on de way back, an’ I gotta tell it to Julia before I forget.”

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