The Saint in Action (23 page)

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” said Mr Gump woodenly.

“If you don’t the Z-Man is very careless in choosing his assistants,” answered the Saint.

“What the hell do you mean?” stammered the chinless man, his inward alarm crashing suddenly through the veneer of calm which he had tried to preserve. “There’s no harm in my carrying those photographs. Anybody can get them. I’m a film fan–-“

“So you told me,” agreed the Saint, slipping the photographs into his own pocket. “And a kidnapper in your spare time, too, by the looks of it,” he added casually. “Well, I may as well see what the rest of your hobbies arc—although I’m not likely to find anything half so interesting as your favourite film stars.”

He put a cigarette into his mouth, lighted it with a match which he sprung into flame with his thumbnail and set it at a rakish angle. If the men before him had known him better they would have sweated with fear, for that rakish slant was an infallible sign that something was going to happen and that he was personally going to start it. Patricia felt her heart beating a shade faster. Except for that one danger signal there was nothing to give her a clue to what was in his mind.

He completed the search, finding cigarettes, matches, money, keys and all the usual contents of an average man’s pockets, but nothing to reveal Mr Gump’s real identity and nothing to connect him with the mysterious Z-Man. Even the tailor’s label inside his breast pocket had been removed.

“Well, gents, we can call it an evening.” The Saint wavered his gun muzzle gently over the three men. “Pat, old thing, sling me the torch and then get up to the garage. We’ve finished here.”

She obeyed at once; and a moment later Simon himself was backing up the stairs, keeping his flashlight flooding downwards. As soon as he reached the top he swung the door to and fastened it. It was not a good door. There were cracks in it, the hinges were old and rusted, and the lock had long since ceased to function; but the Saint overcame these trifling drawbacks by the simple expedient of propping three or four heavy wooden stakes against the door. Since it opened outwards the three musketeers would have to work for some time before they could make their escape.

“We have been having a lot of luck lately, haven’t we?” Patricia remarked philosophically.

“Have I grumbled?” asked the Saint, making no attempt to lower his voice—and, indeed, speaking quite close to the barricaded cellar door. “We’re going to shoot off to Parkside Court now, old dear, and warn Beatrice Avery that she’d better be packing. After what happened to you it’s pretty obvious that the ungodly are likely to put in some fast work, and we’re going to be just one move ahead of them. If necessary we’ll take the fair Beatrice away by force.”

“Why didn’t you question those fellows about the Z-Man?”

“They wouldn’t have come through with a syllable unless I’d beaten it out of them, and I’m not in one of my torturing moods this evening,” answered Simon. “Don’t worry about the Three Little Pigs—it’ll take them about an hour to get out, and I doubt if they’ll go after Beatrice again tonight anyway. Ready, darling?”

While he spoke he had been flashing his torch about the garage. There was a telephone in one corner, and this interested him for a moment; but a few odd potatoes lying on the floor against one of the walls interested him almost as much. He picked up the biggest he could find and bent down at the rear of the taxi to jam the providential tuber firmly over the end of the exhaust pipe.

“All set, keed,” he murmured, and his eyes were bright with mischief.

V

The men in the cellar heard the main garage door creak ppen and then close. After that there was a large silence, broken at last by Ferret Eyes. Exactly what he said is immaterial. Ninety percent of it would have burned holes through any printed page, and the subject matter in between the frankly irrelevant patches cast grievous aspersions on Simon Templar’s parentage, his physical characteristics and his purely personal habits. The air of the cellar was rapidly turning a deep blue when the chinless man cut in.

“It’s no good cursing the Saint,” he said sharply. “The mistake was yours, Welmont, and you know it. Why don’t you try cursing yourself?”

“What’s Z going to say?” asked Welmont, a frightened note coming into his voice. “It wasn’t my fault, Raddon. Damn it, you can’t blame me. From the other side of the road the girl looked exactly like Beatrice Avery. How the hell was I to know? She came out of Parkside Court–-“

“Save it until later.” Raddon cut him off impatiently. “The first thing we’ve got to do is to get out of here. See what you can do with the door, Tyler. You know more about this damn place than I do.”

The taxi driver mounted the stairs and heaved against the door. It creaked and groaned but gave no sign of opening.

“It’s jammed,” he reported unnecessarily. “The lock’s no good, and there ain’t any bolts. That ruddy perisher must have done somethink.” He swore comprehensively. “Now we’re in a ruddy mess, ain’t we? I told yer not to bring that ruddy jane to my garridge.”

It was not the best of all places for applying force. The stairs were narrow and steep and slippery, and there was no possible way of exerting leverage or even making a shoulder charge. It was equally impossible for two men to stand side by side. Raddon himself went up and examined the door, holding the torch to the cracks so that the beam of light passed through.

“There’s only one way to get out,” he said. “If we cut away the lower part of the door we can use a plank to shift the props. There are two or three planks lying in the cellar against the wall. You’d better start, Tyler.”

The taxi driver cursed and grumbled but set to work. The door was old and misshapen, but it was tough. Tyler and Welmont, working in turn while Raddon held the light, took the better part of half an hour to break through. They had only penknives for tools, and they had to split and chip away the wood in fragments. Finally Tyler forced one of his heavy boots through the opening with a vicious kick. A plank was then thrust through and the props dislodged.

“‘S’pose ‘e sends the rozzcrs?” asked the driver anxiously. “I’ll lose my licence, that’s wot I’ll do. I jsvas a ruddy fool to let you use my garridge.”

“If Templar had sent the police they’d have been here twenty minutes ago,” Raddon answered promptly. “The Saint doesn’t want the police in this any more than we do. But he’s an interfering swine, and we’ve got to get after him. Start up the cab, Tyler.”

“Give me a charnce, will yer?” protested Tyler, climbing into his seat. “I’ll ‘ave it out in a jiffy.”

He was an optimist. They gave him a chance; but the self-starter, which usually had the engine firing after the first whirr, whirred in vain. Tyler’s cursing only added to the ear-aching sounds which filled the garage.

“You’ll have no batteries left,” Raddon said helpfully.

The taxi man climbed down from his seat.

“Funny bloomin’ thing,” he rumbled. “She don’t usually play tricks like this ‘ere. ‘Tain’t as if she was stone cold neither.”

“Perhaps you forgot to turn the petrol on,” ventured Welmont.

“P’raps there ain’t any blinkin’ engine,” snarled Tyler. “Wot the ‘ell d’ yer take me for?” He uncovered the engine and addressed a few scorching remarks to it. “Can’t nobody show me a light?” he said bitterly. “Think I’m a blarsted cat? Nothink wrong with the jooce.” The carburetor flooded at his touch. “Ignition looks all right too. ‘E didn’t take out the plugs. Nothink loose nowhere… .”

He tried again, with the same result. The engine, for some inexplicable reason, amused itself by turning over, but it simply refused to fire. Tyler had been a taxi driver for years, and before that he had worked as a motor mechanic. The cab was his own property, and he always did his own repairs. He tried everything he could think of, but he never thought of taking a look at the rear end of the exhaust pipe.

“We’ve wasted enough time,” said Raddon angrily. “I’ve got to get in touch with Z–-“

He broke off as he caught sight of the telephone in the corner. It was only by chance that he had seen it at all, for it was almost hidden behind a number of ancient and ragged tires which hung on the wall, and Wel-mont’s torchlight had swung in that direction quite casually and without any intentional objective. Rad-don’s eyes narrowed behind the gold-rimmed pince-nez, and he flashed his own torch into the corner.

“Is this phone connected?” he asked sharply.

“Wot the ‘ell d’ yer mean?” Tyler demanded, looking round indignantly. “Think I ain’t paid the rent for it? Of course it’s connected.”

“Why didn’t you tell me it was here?” Raddon retorted. “I could have used it long ago. Now it may be too late… . You heard what Templar said to the Holm girl before they left?”

He went to the instrument, held his light steadily on it and dialled Scotland Yard. As soon as the switchboard operator answered he spoke in a deep voice with a forced foreign inflection.

“Take this down garefully,” he said distinctly. “Simon Templar, alias the Saint, alias the Z-Man, is at this moment gidnabbing Beatrice Avery, the film star, from her apartment in Barkside Gourt. That’s all.”

He hung up before the operator could answer.

” ‘Ere, wot abaht me?” demanded Tyler frantically. “You got a ruddy nerve, usin’ my phone for that job. They can trace that call. Think I want the cops round ‘ere arskin’ questions?”

“You know nothing about it,” said Raddon calmly. “You left the garage unlocked, and somebody used your phone. What does it matter, you fool? They can’t pin anything on you. I had to get through to the Yard at once. If they pull Templar in he’ll spend the next two weeks trying to explain his movements. The Yard’s been trying to get him for years, and if they catch him red-handed snatching the Avery girl they’ll send him up for a ten-year stretch.”

He turned to the instrument again and flashed his light on the dial. Placing his body between the telephone and the other two men so that they could not watch the movements of his finger, he quickly dialled another number and waited. He listened to the steady “burr-burr” for a few moments, and then a voice answered.

“Raddon here,” he said in a rapid subdued voice. “Something has gone wrong. Can’t do anything more this evening. Better turn our attention to the next proposition… .” He broke off and listened. “All right. Usual place tomorrow, as early as possible.”

He hung up at once and found Welmont looking curiously at him out of his ferret eyes.

“Was that Z?” Welmont asked.

“It was Gandhi,” answered Raddon curtly. “If you’re ready we’ll go. There’s nothing more for tonight. Too dangerous to move until we know more about Templar.”

They departed—none too soon for Tyler, who was jumpy and worried—leaving one of the big double doors slightly ajar.

Simon Templar stroked the cog of his lighter and inhaled deeply and luxuriously from a much-needed cigarette. He heard the three men walking over the cobbles outside; and then silence. With the lithe ease of a panther he lowered himself from the overhead beam on which he had been lying at full length, dropped to the roof of the taxi and thence descended to the ground.

There was a smile on his lips as he dusted himself down. That beam, so easily reached from the roof of the taxi, had positively asked him to make its aquaint-ance when he had first glanced up at it. Patricia, he knew, could handle her end of the job with smooth efficiency; he had had a couple of minutes earnest talk with her before they parted. For Simon Templar, even before he left the cellar, had put in some of that characteristic quick thinking which was the everlasting despair of the law and the ungodly alike. His restless brain, working at supercharged pressure, had looked into the immediate future with a clarity that was little short of clairvoyant; he had formulated a plan of action out of a situation that had not even acquired a definite geography. But that power of thinking ahead into the most remote possibilities was the gift which had so often left his enemies breathless in the background, hopelessly outpaced by the hurricane speed of the Saint’s imagination… .

Which satisfactorily explains why he was still in Mr Tyler’s garage, dusting the well-creased knees of his impeccable Anderson & Sheppard trousers and by no means dissatisfied with the results of his roosting. He grinned helplessly as he realised how easily the departed trio could have seen him if they had only looked up into the dusty rafters. Not that it would have mattered much: he was armed, and they weren’t. However, it was just as well that he had remained undiscovered. His ears hadn’t told him much more than he knew already; but his eyes had served him well.

Raddon’s phone call to Scotland Yard had given him nothing to worry about. If he knew anything of Patricia she would be through with Beatrice Avery long before the padded shoulders of the law could darken the portals of Parkside Court.

His eyes had served him on the second phone call. Lying along the overhead beam, he had looked straight down upon the telephone… . He chuckled as he thought of Raddon’s precautions. Raddon would never have used the instrument at all for his second call if it had been one of the old-fashioned non-dialling type. He couldn’t have given his number to the exchange without giving it to Welmont and Tyler at the same time. Dialling was different: he had only to obtrude his body between his companions and the telephone, and they couldn’t possibly know what number he had called.

But the Saint, with a perfect bird’s-eye view, had watched every movement of Raddon’s fingers on the dial; his supersensitive ears had listened to every click of the returning disc; he had memorized the number and tucked it securely away in a corner of his retentive brain. Raddon’s finger had first jabbed into the PRS hole, then into the ABC, then into the PRS again. This could only mean one exchange—PAR, otherwise PARliament. The numbers were easy, Raddon had called PARliament 5577.

The Z-Man’s telephone number! Or, at least, a number he was in the practice of using.

There were ways and means of discovering to whom that number had been allocated. Searching through the London Telephone Directory was one of them, but the Saint had never been able to rave about that particularly tedious occupation. There were easier methods. One of them he tried at once. He dialled PARIiament 5577 himself and blew smoke rings at the mouthpiece while he waited. His connection came quickly, and a thick voice said: