Alias the Saint (6 page)

” Good-morning,” said the Saint, in his cheerful way.

“Good-morning, Mr. Smith,” said the Professor. “I am sorry to hear that you walk in your sleep.”

Simon looked blank.

“So am I,” he said. “Do I?”

“I think so,” said the Professor, and an automatic pistol showed in his hand. “Please put your hands up, Mr. Smith—I have just seen your cigarette ash on the floor of the laboratory.”

Simon rose, yawning, with his arms raised.

“Anything to oblige,” he murmured. “Have you put it under the microscope and discovered the brand of tobacco?”

“That is not what is puzzling me just now,” said the Professor blandly. “Search him, Marring. We have already ransacked your room, Mr. Smith, and the letter which I was expecting to find was not there, so that if you have written it, it is likely to be on your person.”

Simon submitted to the search without protest, and smiled at the look of savagely restrained consternation that broke momentarily through Raxel’s mask of suavity when the search proved fruitless.

“Rather jumping to conclusions, weren’t you?” the Saint suggested mildly.

Basher Tope stood in the doorway.

“I saw him go out before breakfast,” said Tope clamorously. “He went down to the village. He must have used the telephone.”

For a moment Simon thought Raxel would shoot, and keyed himself up for a desperate grab at the gun the Professor carried. But with a tremendous effort the man controlled himself, and the Saint

smiled again.

“That’s where you’re stung, isn’t it, dear one?” he drawled. “And now let me tell you the tragic story of the mutilated onion, which never fails to melt the iciest eye. Or are tears a tender subject with you?”

The Professor shrugged, and bowed gracefully, but his eyes were flaming with fury.

“It is certainly your point, Mr. Smith,” he said in an icily level voice.

Without another word he turned and went on to his own table, the other two following, and then Simon knew that the hours in which he would be able to bet on remaining at the Beacon in safety were numbered.

Immediately the three men were seated, a buzz of low-voiced guttural argument broke out. Both Crantor and Marring seemed to be advancing suggestions. They spoke in a language which was included in the Saint’s extensive repertoire, and he could follow the whole of their discussion. From the glances of baffled hate that were flung in his direction from time to time, he reckoned that he had been more popular in his day than he was at that moment.

Raxel listened to the incoherent babbling of the other two men for some time with ill-concealed impatience; and then he silenced them with a wave of his hand.

“Horen Sie zu,” he said, with a note of incontestable command in his voice, and spoke a few rapid, decisive sentences.

Out of these sentences Simon caught one word. The word was toten, and it did not require a German scholar to grasp the general idea. “Wir mussen ihn toten,” Raxel had said, or words to that effect.

“So at last they’ve decided to kill me,” thought the Saint, eating toast and marmalade. “Presumably my demise will be arranged at the earliest possible opportunity. Well, that means I’ve got them on the hop at last!” ‘

However, the thought failed to disturb him visibly, and in a few moments he rose and left the room. Betty Tregarth had not put in an appearance, but he had not expected that, and so he was not disappointed. The venomous eyes of the ptber three men followed him out.

In the parlour he found a tall, lean-limbed man wielding a broom.

“Morning, Dun,” said the Saint.

The man turned a leathery face towards him and grinned.

“Morning, Saint.”

“How are things?”

Duncarry grinned.

“O.K. so far. I haven’t heard or seen anything to speak of—I don’t think they’re sure of me yet. You told me to lie low, so I haven’t been nosing around at all.”

“That’s right,” said the Saint. “Keep on being quiet. I’ve done all the nosing that need be done. But keep your eyes skinned. There’s going to be trouble coming to me soon, I gather, and it’s coming good and fast. So long!”

He drifted away.

There seemed to be no point in hanging about the inn that morning, and he decided to walk down to the George and have a drink. In the bar he remembered the ship which was anchored opposite the Beacon, and mentioned it to the proprietor.

“I think it belongs to one of the gentlemen up the road,” that mine of local gossip informed him. “Gentleman of the name of Crantor. It came in here about a fortnight ago, and the crew all drove away in a car. I don’t think there’s anybody on board now.

“There’s smoke comes up from her funnel,” Simon pointed out, “You can’t keep a fire going without somebody to look after it.”

“Maybe there’s a man or two just looking after the ship. Anyway, half a dozen men drove away with Crantor the day the ship came in, and he came back alone. One of the boys did ask what the ship was for—we don’t get ships like that in here so often that people don’t talk about it. That was in the days when some of the boys used to go up to the Beacon for their drinks, before the new boss there got so rude to them that nobody could stand it any longer. I think it was Bill Jones who asked what the ship was doing. Mr. Raxel said they were working on a new invention—a new sort of torpedo or something—and they were going to use the ship for trying it out at sea. That might easily be true, because about a month ago a lorry came in and delivered a lot of stuff at the Beacon, and the drivers had a drink here on their way out of the village. Chemistry apparatus it was, they said, and Raxel ordered it.”

The Saint nodded vaguely; and then suddenly he stiffened. The proprietor also listened. That sort of thing is infectious.

Simon went over and looked out of the window. His ears had not misled him—a rickety Ford truck was crashing down the street. It stopped outside the door of the George, and two men came in and walked up to the counter.

“Couple o’ quick halves, mate,” ordered one of them.

They were served. The drinks were swallowed quickly. They seemed to be in a hurry.

“Got a rush order,” one of them explained. “A couple of boxes to get to Southampton to catch a boat that’s sailing to-morrow morning, and all luggage has got to be on board to-night. Can you tell us where the Beacon is?”

“Drive on to the end of the road, and turn to your right,” said the Saint. “You’ll find it on your right, about three hundred yards up. What ship are these boxes going to?”

“Couldn’t tell you, mate. All I know is that we’ve got to get them to Southampton by nine o’clock tonight. Cheerio!”

They went out, and after that the publican felt that he had lost his audience, for the Saint was noticeably preoccupied.

Half an hour later, the lorry clattered past the window again, and Simon followed its departure with a thoughtful eye.

He went back to the Beacon at about half-past twelve, and he was having a drink in the parlour preparatory to attacking luncheon, when he saw a fast-looking touring car driven round from the garage at the rear by Basher Tope. A moment later Raxel, Marring, and Crantor came out. Crantor was wearing a heavy leather coat, and appeared to be receiving instructions. Raxel spoke, and Crantor nodded and replied. Then he climbed into the car and took the wheel. The others stepped back, and with a wave of his hand Crantor let in the clutch and went roaring out of sight eastwards along the coast road.

Raxel and Marring came in again, followed by Basher Tope, and Simon heard Raxel and Marring go through into the dining room. He banged hopefully on the bell, and felt that luck was with him when Duncarry answered the summons.

“Another half-pint, Dun,” said Simon, and tendered a pound note.

Duncarry was back in a moment with the replenished tankard and the change. There was some silver, and a ten-shilling note. When Duncarry had gone Simon pocketed the silver and unfolded the note. Inside the note was a slip of paper, and on it was written one word.

“Megantic.”

The Megantic, Simon knew, was on the quick run from Southampton to New York, and he guessed that Duncarry must have been called in to help carry the trunks downstairs, and had noticed the inscription on the labels. But that wasn’t particularly helpful, and Simon went in to his lunch a very worried and puzzled man. Theoretically, of course, there was no reason why Raxel should not take a consignment of xylyl bromide to New York if he had to take it somewhere, but on the other hand there was also no earthly reason that the Saint could see why he should.

8

“And now, my dear Marring,” said Raxel, “there is very little more to delay us.”

Marring moved a couple of Bunsen burners to one side and sat down on the edge of the table.

“There is Smith,” he said.

“I will attend to Smith,” said Raxel. “Fortunately for us, he arrived on the scene a little too late. The boxes have already been despatched, and once Crantor has returned with his crew, we can embark on his ship and disappear. The police will not hurry—I know their methods. They will see no reason to make any special effort, and I shall not expect anything to happen before this evening. By that time we shall be on the high seas, and Smith will be—disposed of. Now that this place’s period of usefulness is over, there is no reason for us to move cautiously in fear of a police raid.”

“That’s all very well,” said Marring. “But what about the girl? Do you think she’s as safe as you make out?”

Raxel frowned.

“Once, I was certain,” he said. “Unfortunately, the arrival of Smith has rather shaken that certain ty. I do not profess to be a psychologist, but I consider my intuition is fairly keen. The girl is now debating in her mind whether she can trust Smith s with her secret. It may seem ridiculous to you that a girl could confess to a detective that she had committed a murder, and hope that he would help her. But she is fascinated by him, and that will have altered her outlook.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

“That also has been arranged—I think, very neatly. We will deal with it at once.”

He led the way out of the laboratory and across the corridor. After unlocking Betty Tregarth’s door he knocked, and they went in.

Betty Tregarth was sitting in the chair by the fire, reading, but she looked up listlessly at their entrance.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said dully.

Raxel came over and stood in front of the fire. “I have come to tell you that you have now served your purpose, Miss Tregarth,” he said, “and there is nothing to stop your departure as soon as you choose to go. I promised you one thousand pounds for your services, and I’ll write you a check for that amount now.”

He did so, sitting down at the table. She took the check and looked at it without interest.

“Now,” he said, replacing the cap on his fountain pen, “I wonder what your plans are?”

“I haven’t made any,” said the girl, in a tired 1 voice. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“1 understand,” said the Professor sympathetically. “That was a difficulty in your path which occurred to me shortly after you’d started work, and I have given it a good deal of thought. In fact, I have prepared a solution which I should like to offer you. You may accept or reject it, as you please, but I beg you to give it your consideration.” She shrugged.

“You can tell me what it is.”

“I suggest that you should leave the country, and start life afresh,” said Raxel. “The thousand pounds which I have given you will provide you with enough capital to last you for several months, and that should give you plenty of time to find fresh employment. With your qualifications that should be fairly easy.”

“But where am I to go?”

“I suggest that you go to America. In fact, I have taken the liberty of booking a first-class passage for you on the Megantic, which sails from Southampton early to-morrow morning. You may, of course, decline to go, but I think you would be wise to take it.”

The girl spread out her hands in a weary gesture.

“America’s as good as any other place,” she said. “But I haven’t got my passport down here, and there isn’t time to go back to London for it. Besides, I haven’t a visa.”

That also I have taken the liberty of arranging,” said Raxel.

He produced a newspaper of the day before, and pointed to a paragraph. She read: “Burglars last night forced an entry into the first floor flat at 202 Cambridge Square, Bayswater, occupied by Mr. Ralph Tregarth and his sister , ., sister away in the country … bureau broken open “… Mr. Tregarth said … nothing of value taken…”

“The report was quite correct—nothing of value was taken, except this,” said Raxel.

He took a little book from his pocket and handed it over to her. It was her own passport.

“I caused one of my agents in London to obtain it,” explained Raxel. “The following morning he took it to the United States Consulate and obtained a visa. There should now be nothing to stop you leaving for Southampton this afternoon. If you are agreeable, Mr. Marring will drive you to Southampton to-night. You can board the Megantic at once, and go to sleep; by the time you wake up, England and all your fears will have been left behind.

Betty Tregarth passed a hand across her eyes.

“I’ve no choice, have I?” she said. “Yes, I’ll go. Will you let me write a couple of letters?”

“Certainly,” said Raxel obligingly. “In fact, if you would like to write them now, I will post them myself on my walk through the village this after noon.”

“And read them first, I suppose,” said the girl cynically, “to see that there’s nothing in them to incriminate you. Well, there won’t be—you’re quite safe. They’ll be just ordinary good-bye letters.”

Raxel waited patiently while she wrote two short notes—one to her brother, and one to Rameses Smith. She addressed the envelopes and pointedly left the flaps open. Raxel smiled to himself and stuck them down in her presence.

“I don’t need to read them,” he said. “The fact that you were prepared to allow me to do so proves at once that the precaution is not necessary.”

“Will you let me say good-bye to Mr. Smith?” she asked.

Raxel shook his head regretfully.