Send for the Saint (23 page)

But the bullet didn’t smash its way into the wall where the Saint had been; and neither did it dissipate its lethal energy by ploughing into the Saint himself. It ended up somewhere in the depths of Lembick’s skull.

They took in the scene, and understood it, in less than the blink of an eye, as a camera occasionally captures a moment of such graphically telling summary as to make comment totally superfluous.

They saw Lembick, with his gun pointing to where Simon Templar had been and with an unsightly hole in his forehead; and they saw Rockham, his own gun levelled in his hand. Rockham had dealt out his own ruthless punishment to Lembick for the mistake that had spiked the mission.

That was all; and after that one single snapshot instant the Saint and Ruth Barnaby dived into the house, and Rockham’s next bullet came spewing out of the gun to splinter harmlessly into the wood of the door as the Saint slammed it behind them.

“My turn to thank you,” he said gently; and after such a narrow escape as that, they would have been less than human if for a few seconds he hadn’t put his arms around her and felt her cling to him with an answering warmth, even while his eyes, and his gun, had to stay unwaveringly on the door.

She detached herself and said: “This is a business assignment, Simon.”

And her eyes were as cool and their expression as detached as ever.

He nodded briskly.

“You know where to look for Instrood?”

“Yes.”

“All right. I’ll stay here in case Rockham decides to come after us. And, Ruth — go carefully.”

“I’m a trained agent, remember?” she said, and moved off with the Sten gun held at the ready.

The Saint hadn’t the smallest doubt that Rockham would come after them. When she had gone he backed away from the door, in the same direction, and stationed himself in the big hallway, near the foot of the stairs, where he could watch for an approach from either front or back.

What he was not expecting was an approach from above.

Rockham must have climbed up a fire escape and gone in by an upstairs window, then crept to the staircase. He was halfway down before Simon whirled at the faint sound. But it was too late — Rockham already had the drop on him, and the hollow snout of Rockham’s gun could be seen from the receiving end to be pointed accurately enough to score on any standing target.

Therefore the only escape would be if, at the instant of explosion, the target was not standing where it had been.

If there had been time to think about it all, the Saint might well have had to conclude that the moment he had cheated so many times in his career of devil-may-care outlawry had come at last to claim him. But then, if he had had time to think, he would have taken too long to act, however hopelessly.

He had time for neither. He had only the eye-searing moment, the microcosmic instant of realisation, as he watched John Rockham’s knuckle whitening on the trigger.

In the only possible ultimate instant, he flung himself aside.

The crash of the shot was deafening, but he felt no impact.

Rolling away, however, and before he could get back on his feet, and while he was still bringing his own gun to bear, he saw that Rockham was already still in place and balanced for a follow-up shot, which now could hardly be made to miss completely.

14
Click.

It was odd, the way Simon Templar took a measurable fraction of time to grasp the simple reality of what had happened. The gun should have gone off with the loud bang which unsilenced examples of the species usually make. The old saw that the one which kills you is the one you never hear may be true if it kills you instantly, although there are no surviving witnesses to testify to it, but you may certainly hear the one that wounds you. Instead, this one had exploded into only this absurd, derisory little click. And there he was, alive and well, facing the man who had pulled the trigger.

And he was holding a gun of his own.

He swung it slowly up and aimed it unwaveringly at a point a few inches below Rockham’s collarbone.

“That was a tough break for you,” he said in his own voice. “And I’ve been luckier than perhaps I deserve.”

Rockham smiled faintly.

“You were certainly careless. But then, so was I. I should have kept count.” Rockham had paled for a moment as Simon’s gun came up, but otherwise his composure was almost unruffled. “I rather think you did. And I think I know why you haven’t shot me yet. You’re out of ammunition yourself.” He gestured at the revolver. “Am I right?”

“Maybe, maybe not, You’ve only one way to find out. And it’s your kind of gamble, Rockham.”

Rockham edged a step closer.

“Who are you?” He asked the question in simple curiosity, without malice.

“My name is Simon Templar. And I shall have no compunction about shooting you if you don’t stay exactly where you are.”

The other man stared for a moment. And then he laughed — a rich bass chuckle that was full of genuine amusement.

“The Saint! And you announced yourself literally when you arrived to — enlist. It’s perfect! My congratulations. But you — you’re working for these people, the authorities ?”

“For the moment,” Simon said, “I’m afraid I am.”

“I didn’t think the Saint was an organisation man.”

Simon looked at him steadily and said nothing.

” If you’d come after me for yourself,” Rockham said, “I might have understood.”

Simon looked at him in silence for a while longer, his mind full of so many thoughts that he would not have been able to give expression to them all even if he had wanted to; and when he spoke it was to say just one thing which would have to stand for all the others which were unspoken.

“In a funny sort of way,” he said slowly, “it was for myself, that I got into this. Maybe I was wrong to take the job — I honestly don’t know. But there was a man I once worked with, a couple of thousand years ago. We went through a lot together — and when I heard that your organisation had killed him and dumped his body in the river, I had to try to do something about it. It was that simple. I don’t know if you can understand that.”

Rockham listened quietly, and then he said: “I believe I can. And I’d like to think I’d have done the same in your shoes.”

He paused; and as before, you could almost hear the hum of dynamos in that competent brain as he searched for a fruitful line that might offer a chance of extracting some advantage from the situation. “I’m sorry about your friend,” he went on. “But nothing you can do now will bring him back.” He spread his strong square hands in a gesture conveying the hopelessness of looking for resurrection. “After this, it looks as if The Squad’s all washed up — thanks to your efforts. Maybe you’ll think that’s enough to settle the score on your friend’s behalf.” He pointed up the stairs. “Up there’s a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of human booty. All we have to do is take it. We could still get away — the jeep’s outside. And we’d make a great partnership.”

He looked at the Saint hopefully; but the Saint was sadly shaking his head.

“No deal, Rockham. Apart from the fact that I don’t like your line of business and that partnerships don’t appeal to me anyway, there are a couple of important details you’ve overlooked. One — about a minute ago the shooting stopped out there. Which can only mean one thing — that the cavalry, so to speak, have arrived, even if well after the nick of time.”

He crossed carefully to the window, using a sideways crablike motion that was less elegant than functional, in that it meant he didn’t take his eye off Rockham for an instant until one brief glance out of the window was enough to confirm his inference.

“Looks like three more platoons of the Paras,” he told Rockham laconically. “And your lads are herded together with their hands up. So your daring escape in the jeep would have to be — well — pretty daring.”

Rockham’s gaze was stony.

“And the other point I’ve overlooked?”

“Simply that someone’s been playing come-into-my-parlour with you. This whole thing’s a set-up, and has been from start to finish. You thought you’d been commissioned by the Chinese. But your Chinese — your real client — had no more to do with Peking intelligence than Christopher Robin. At least, not the way I add it up.”

“Then Instrood is — “

“A fake — a plant. Like most of the rest of the cast. Instrood was bait. He was put here to tempt you — and incidentally I think there was another reason, too — one that doesn’t directly concern you or The Squad.”

“Then who is — was — my real client?”

The Saint saw the realisation dawning in Rockham’s eyes even while he was speaking the question; and he saw how those eyes dilated and quivered like a jungle animal’s when the net first falls; and he knew then beyond any kind of doubt that the man before him would never be taken alive — that he would strangle himself in the toils of the net rather than submit. And for that at least the Saint saluted Rockham, even as he went on inexorably with what he had to say.

“Your client ?” he echoed lazily. “You remember I said I’d give you ten to one the girl was working for your client? I meant just that. She’s an intelligence agent — British, not Chinese — and the man responsible for this whole elaborate charade is her boss. Hers, and for just a little while longer — mine. You won’t know his name, but I think you should hear it at least once. It’s Pelton, David Pelton.”

Rockham was still standing immobile on the stairs, holding his empty revolver. The Saint, who was keeping his own gun pointed steadily at the same button of Rockham’s uniform tunic and never relaxing his vigilance for an instant, knew that Rockham’s efficient brain had already come to terms with his desperate situation. There was only the slightest tensing and twitching of the muscles in his jaw to betray the struggle it must have cost him to reach that hard accommodation with reality.

“I’m afraid you’re done for,” the Saint said almost sympathetically. “The trap’s closed. Your king’s in a corner.”

Rockham’s pale eyes had steadied. He nodded just once, curtly, to acknowledge the facts as Simon had so starkly put them.

“Then I’m going to have to go out in a blaze of glory,” he said, “and take at least one enemy piece with me if I can. I’m going to have to take that gamble on your empty gun.”

He tossed his own gun on the floor with a clatter. Then, very slowly and gracefully, his lethal karate-calloused hands began to weave confusing preparations patterns in the air, as he glided a step closer to the Saint.

“Be sure of this,” Rockham said. “If I hit you, I can break any of your bones like a twig.” He paused, and added: “So if there’s a bullet left in that gun after all — you’d better shoot to kill.”

With that final statement, Rockham had come close, Simon knew, to asking for quick deliverance as a favour. And as Rockham suddenly leapt towards him, he honoured that last request, and shot him accurately through the heart.

Ruth Barnaby appeared soon after the slam of the shot had detonated into silence.

For a few moments she took in the scene impassively. Rockham was lying face down and unmoving, with the blood oozing from under him.

“It’s the kind of end destiny must have marked out for him a long time ago,” said the Saint quietly. “And it was self-defence for me, technically — even if he did prefer death to whatever the authorities would have done with him.”

Ruth eyed him sharply.

“Don’t say you’re sorry for him?”

The Saint looked at her, and saw again that coolness in her eyes which was almost like the coldness that had stared out of Rockham’s.

“No,” he said. “I’m not sorry for him. He killed a lot of people — or caused a lot of people’s deaths, it comes to the same thing. He deserved to die like this. But he had a kind of integrity.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, somehow I didn’t imagine you would. Maybe it’s the people you’ve been mixing with.”

She looked puzzled for a second, and then she said: “I know you don’t like Pel ton’s methods. But they work.”

Simon assessed her dispassionately.

“Ruth,” he said gently. “Maybe it’s not too late for you. You’ve been in this game long enough to see how dirty it can be, but maybe not quite long enough to accept the dirtiness as a way of life.” He gripped her by the shoulders and looked searchingly into her face. “It’s too late for Pelton; it’s part of his existence. But not for you — I hope. Why not get out now, while you still can ?”

She stared at him in amazement.

“But the service is my career. I enjoy it. And I’m ambitious, I want to get on. I’m still only on a low grade, but I’m going to move up.”

“And all this blood-letting — the unnecessary along with the necessary — doesn’t bother you?”

“Frankly, no. Not much. You can’t make omelettes without breaking eggs. You may not like Pelton’s methods — our methods — but as I’ve said, they work.”

“Oh yes — they work, all right.” The Saint’s manner held no trace of his usual banter, and for once his eyes were not mocking at all but shadowed with a fury of slow-burning disgust. “A few people may incidentally get trampled on, in the course of Pelton’s grand strategy, but what the hell? So two or three of Yates’s men die needlessly. So what ? You won’t be the one to scrape their guts up off the grass or break the news to their families, and neither will Pelton!”

She shrugged.

“Whatever forces we’d had lined up, there’d probably have been a battle in which some men got killed or wounded.”

“That may be so,” Simon agreed. “But Pelton holds other people cheaper than just about anybody else I’ve met — and I’ve met some real stinkers. And I’m sorry to think of you studying under such a master.”

She had never seen the Saint in such a mood of grim anger, and for a moment she seemed taken aback.

Then he asked: “What about the guards — upstairs?”

“Both unconscious,” she said. “They’ve been clouted hard on the head. But I think they’re OK, apart from the lumps.”

“And Instrood?”

“I couldn’t find him at all. He seems to have gone.”

Simon Templar nodded slowly.