The Saint Meets His Match (11 page)

“Good-afternoon, Miss
Trelawney,” he said politely,
for Harry Donnell
prided himself on his accomplishments
as a ladies’ man. Her manner, however,
cut short any
courtesies.

“The Saint’s after
you,” she said bluntly. “Where can
we
talk?”

He looked at her, and then
led the way upstairs with
out a word.

They went up two flights
of dingy, creaking stairs, for
the first and ground
floors were devoted to the sleeping
accommodations of
his gang. On the second floor he
opened a door and showed
them into a big, bare room,
of which the principal articles of furniture
appeared to
consist of a rough deal table
and a case of whisky. This
room, like
most of the others in the house, was lighted
only by a small and dirty window which admitted hardly
any light, and the gloom was made gloomier by the
fog
of stale tobacco smoke which
hung in the air.

Donnell closed the door
behind them.

“Did you say the
Saint?”

“I did. Do you know him?”

Donnell drew back his lips from a row of black
and
broken teeth.

“I met
him—once.”

“You look like meeting
him again,” said the girl
shortly.

Donnell was not
immediately impressed. He took a pipe
from his pocket and
began to fill it from a tin on the table.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s after you for
that show at Essenden’s. He came and told me that he was going to take you
himself. We
shut him up in the cellar and came to
warn you ourselves.
But he got away somehow and caught the
same train as
we did. Weald saw him. We didn’t see him again at the
other end, but he can’t be far behind. In fact, I
know how
far behind he is. He knows
I’m coming here and he’s
hanging just
far enough behind to get me into the trap
as well. He’s after me, too.”

Donnell looked from her to Weald.

“Is this a
joke?” he demanded.

And Weald’s face told him
it was not a joke. He turned
to the girl again.

“Why didn’t you get
me on the telephone?” he asked
harshly. “Isn’t
that what it’s here for?”

“The exchange told me that the trunk line
was out of
order,” said Jill quietly.
“And don’t talk to me like that.
I
don’t like it.”

Donnell faced her cold
gaze three seconds and then
dropped his eyes.

“No offense,” he
muttered.

“Forget it,”
said the girl briskly. “We’ve got about three
or
four minutes, I should say, before Templar turns up.
I’d
like him to have a welcome. He’ll be alone—I’m cer
tain
of that. What can you do about it?”

“There are half a dozen of the boys
downstairs.”

“Can you stop him getting in?”

Donnell grinned.

“I could stop an
army,” he bragged.

“Can you stop the
Saint?”

“Haven’t you seen round this house?”
asked Donnell.
“I’ve had it ready for
years, just for something like this.
I’ll
take you round, if you like, and you can see for
yourself.”

Jill tightened the belt of
her coat.

“I’ll look round on
my own, if you don’t mind,” she
said. “I know what to look for, and
it probably isn’t what you’d show me. Give Weald a drink while I’m gone—I
guess he needs it.”

She went out, and Donnell
picked up a bottle and a
glass. He poured out four
good fingers of the spirit, and
Weald grabbed it and drank
it neat. Then he turned to
Donnell; the fire-water
had steadied him up a bit—in a
way.

“You believe it
isn’t a joke?” he said.

Donnell nodded.
    

“Yes, I believe it
now.”

“I’m up against
it,” panted Weald flabbily. “I’m up
against
it much more than you are. They can only get you
for a bashing, but they
can get me for a lot more.”

“Ever beat up a
‘tec?”

“More than that. I
can’t tell you. They might …
Donnell, you’ve got to get
us out of this!”

Donnell’s eyebrows came
down.

“What do you mean, get
you out of it? What about
me?”

Weald clutched his arm.

“You don’t understand.
I’ve got to get away. I’ve got
to take the girl with me. Is there any back way
out of this
—any bolt hole you’ve prepared?
I’ve got money——
”

Donnell thrust him
roughly into a chair and pushed the
whisky bottle
towards him. Weald helped himself greedily
to
another half-glassful.

“Now you’re
talking,” said Donnell. “How much?”

Weald dragged a note case
from his pocket. It bulged.
Donnell’s eyes fastened
on it hungrily.

“A thousand, Donnell.
It’s all I can spare. I’ve got to
leave myself some
money to get clear.”

“Let’s see it.”

Feverishly Weald counted
out the notes with shaking fingers and put them on the table. Donnell moistened
his
thumb and counted them deliberately. Then he put them
in his pocket.

“That cupboard behind
you,” he said. “The back of it’s
a
sliding door. You’ll find some stairs. Go right down.
There’s
a tunnel under the block and the street, and it
comes
up in the cellar of a house on the other side.”

“But you’ve got to
hold Templar up.”

Donnell struck his chest
with a huge fist.

“Me? I’ll hold the
Saint up. I don’t run away from anyone—but you can clear out when you want to.
You’d be
more trouble than use, anyway.”

Weald swallowed the taunt
without a protest.

“All right. As soon
as the girl comes back you get out and say you’re going to warn your gang. I’ll
look after the
rest.”

Donnell sat down heavily
on a truckle bed in one
corner. He took a massive
revolver from his pocket, spilled
the cartridges into
his hand, and squinted up the barrel.
He spun the
cylinder with his fingers, tested the hammer
action to his
satisfaction, and reloaded the gun method
ically.

“What’s the
idea?” he asked laconically. “You sweet
on
her?”

Weald nodded, with the
bottle in his hand.

“That’s not the half
of it. I’ve been wanting her for months. I thought I’d do it gradually, working
with her
and making her like me. But there
isn’t time for any more
fooling about. If the police are going to get
me I’m going
to get her first. I don’t care
if it’s the last thing I do.
Donnell—on
the train—she was sneering at me!”

“Anyone would,”
said Donnell unemotionally. “A white-livered rat like you!”

Weald wiped his mouth. The whisky was going to
his
head.

“I’m not a
white-livered rat, Donnell!” he blustered.

“You’re a
white-livered rat and a yellow cur at the same
time,”
said Donnell without heat, testing the sights of his
Colt on the whisky
bottle.

Weald lurched towards him.

“Donnell, you take
that back!”

“Don’t be a blasted
nuisance,” said Donnell im
patiently.

He took Weald’s shoulder
in a huge hand and pushed
him away. Then Jill
Trelawney came into the room.

“I’ve seen all I want
to see,” she said. “Donnell, will
you
go down and rouse up the boys?”

“I was just going
to, Miss Trelawney,” said Donnell
heavily.

He went to the door and
leered, behind her back, at Weald. Then he went out, and Weald heard him clump
ing heavily
down the stairs.

“I didn’t say you were
to drink a whole bottle,” re
marked Jill, surveying Weald’s unsteady
balance.

“You don’t understand,
Jill. I’ve been finding a way out.”

He walked rockily to the cupboard that Donnell
had indicated and dragged open the doors. After some fum
bling he was able to open the sliding door at the back, and then he
found a switch. The light showed a flight of steps
leading down into a
damp and musty darkness.

“Our way out!”
declaimed Weald grandiosely.

“Very
interesting,” said the girl, “but we don’t happen to be going that
way.”

He stared.

“Not going that way?”

“How the Angels of
Doom would miss you!” she said
caustically. “Without you they’d be
absolutely helpless. The great brain, always clear and alert in times of
crisis.”

“Jill!”

“Oh, be quiet!”
Her sarcasm turned to contempt sud
denly. “When
you’re sober you’re futile, and when you’re
drunk
you maunder. I don’t know which is worse. Now
pull
yourself together. Donnell is ready to do his part, and
his boys are with him, but he’s looking to you and me to
pull him
through. The Angels have never failed yet, and
they can’t fail now.”

“But, Jill ——
”

“And a little less of
the ‘Jill,’ ” she cut in icily. “This
place
can stand a siege for a week, and we can still get
out that way if we have
to. But I’m going to let Templar
in—right
in—and there’s going to be no mistake about him
this time.”

He swayed towards her.

“And I say we’re
going out this way—now!” he shouted.
“I’ve
had about enough of being ordered about by you,
and being snubbed, and
treated like a child. Now you’re
going to do
what I say, for a change. Come on!”

She regarded him with a
calculating eye.

“About one more drink,” she said,
“and you’d be dead
drunk. On the whole,
I think I’d prefer that to your
present
state.”

“Oh you would, would
you?”

The resentment which Weald
had been afraid to let
loose before Donnell he had no need to control
now. He grasped her shoulders with clumsy hands.

“That’s the sort of talk I’m not standing
from you any
longer,” he said shrilly.
“You’re going to stop it, right now, do you see? From now on I’m going to
give the orders and you’re going to obey them. I love you!”

“You’re mad,”
she said coldly. But for the first time in
her
life a little imp of fear plucked at her heart.

He thrust his face down
close to hers. She could smell
the drink on his breath.

“I’m not mad. I’ve
been mad before, but I’m sensible
now. I want to
take you away—out of here—out of Eng
land—out into the
world! I’m going to give you jewels,
and beautiful clothes. And you’re going
to love me, and there’s going to be no one else. You’re going to forget all
this nonsense abut your father. You’re not going to
think
about it any more. It’s going
to be just you and me, Jill!
Lovely
Jill—”

She flung him off so that
he went reeling back against
the wall and almost fell.
Then she jerked from her bag the
little automatic she always
carried, but he leapt at her
like a tiger and tore it
out of her hands.

“No, Jill, that’s not
the way. Not like that. Like this,”

His arms went round her.
She fought him back des
perately, but he was too
strong for her. Once she was
almost able to tear
herself away, but he blundered after
her, still clutching
her sleeve, and caught her again. His lips were trying to find her mouth.

Suddenly she went limp in
his arms. It was the only
thing she could do at that
moment—to pretend to faint,
and thus give herself a
chance to catch him off his guard.
And for a space
Stephen Weald looked down at her
stupidly. Then, with a
sudden resolution, he swung her
off her feet and carried,
her through the open cupboard.