The Saint in London: Originally Entitled the Misfortunes of Mr. Teal (26 page)

Renway remained looking at him for a while longer, and the Saint fancied he could almost see the man’s nerves relaxing in the sedative glow of conquest.

“In that case, I shall not need to send for my chauffeur.”

“What about my machine?” asked the Saint.

“You can keep it here until you require it again. I have plenty of accommodation, and one of my mechanics can find out the cause of your trouble and put it right.”

For a second the Saint’s eyes chilled, for no mechanic would take long to discover that there was nothing whatever the matter with the machine in which he had landed. But he answered easily enough:

“That’s very good of you.”

Renway picked up his valise and took it to a big built-in safe at one end of the room, into which he locked it. He came back blandly, rubbing his hands.

“Your—er—samples will be quite safe there until you need them. Shall we go and attend to your aeroplane?”

They walked out again in the strengthening sunshine, down through the rose garden and across the small field where the Saint had made his landing. Simon felt the dead weight of the automatic in his pocket bumping his hip as he walked, and felt unexpectedly glad of its familiar comfort: the nervous twitching of Renway’s hands had finished altogether now, and there was an uncanny inert calm about his sauntering bulk which was frightful to study—the unnatural porcine opaqueness of a man whose mind has ceased to work like other men’s minds… .

Renway went on talking, in the same simpering monotone, as if he had been describing the layout of an asparagus bed: “I shall know the number of the transport plane and the time it leaves Croydon five minutes after it takes off—you’ll have plenty of time to be waiting for it in the air.”

On the other side of the field there was a big tithe barn with the hedge laid up to one wall. Ren-way knocked on a small door, and it opened three inches to show a narrow strip of the grimy face and figure of a man in overalls. After the first pause of identification it opened wider, and they went in.

The interior was cool and spacious, dimly lit in contrast with the sunlight outside by a couple of naked bulbs hung from the high ridge. Simon’s first glance round was arrested by the grey bull-nosed shape of the Hawker pursuit plane at the far end of the shed. In another two or three hours he would have found it less easy to recognize, except by the long gleaming spouts of the machine guns braced forward from the pilot’s cockpit, for another overalled man mounted on a folding ladder was even then engaged in painting out the wing cocardes with a layer of neutral grey dope. But the national markings on the empennage were still untouched–if the Saint had ever been tempted to wonder whether he had lost himself in a fantastic dream, the sight of those shining strips of colour was the last thing that was needed to show him that he was in touch with nothing more fantastic than astounding reality.

He fished out his case and selected another cigarette while he surveyed the other details of his surroundings. While he was in the air he had guessed that the field adjoining the one in which he had landed was the one where he had watched the Hawker ship land some hours ago, and a glimpse of other and wider doors outlined in cracks of light on the opposite wall of the barn was his confirmation. There was a stack of petrol cans in one corner, and a workbench and lathe in another. He saw the spare drums of ammunition which Renway had referred to under the workbench, and some curious pear-shaped objects stacked in a wooden rack beside it—in another moment he realized that they were bombs.

He indicated them with a slight movement of his thumb.

“For use on the rescue boats?” he queried; and Renway nodded.

Simon left the cigarette between his lips, but thoughtfully refrained from lighting it.

“Isn’t it a bit risky?” he suggested. “I mean, having everything here where anybody might get in and see it?”

Renway’s mouth widened slightly. If another muscle of his face had moved it might have been a smile, but the effect of the surrounding deadness of flesh was curiously horrible.

“I have two kinds of servants—those who are in my confidence, and those who are merely menials. With the first kind, there is no risk—

although it was a pity that Enrique met with an accident… .” He paused for a moment, with his faded eyes wandering inharmoniously over the Saint; and then he pointed to a big humming engine bedded down in the concrete floor on his right. “To the second kind, this is simply the building which houses our private electric light plant. The doors are kept locked, and there is no reason for them to pry further. And all of them are having a special holiday tomorrow.”

He continued to watch the Saint satirically, as if aware that there was another risk which might have been mentioned; but Simon knew the answer to that one. The case of “samples” which his host had locked up in the library safe, so long as they remained there, must have constituted a reasonably sound security for the adventitious aviator’s faithful service—from Renway’s point of view. The Saint was acquiring a wholesome respect for the Treasury Pooh-ba’s criminal efficiency; and his blue eyes were rather quiet and metallic as he watched the two mechanics wheel his machine through a gate in the hedge and bring it through the broad sliding doors into the barn.

As they strolled back to the house again, Renway pulled out his watch.

“I shall have to attend to some business now,” he said. “You’ll be able to spend your time making the acquaintance of the other men who are helping me.”

They entered the house by another door and went down a long dark low-ceilinged corridor which led into a large panelled room lighted by small leaded windows. Simon ducked his head automatically, but found that he could just stand upright under the black oak beams which crossed the ceiling. There was a billiard table in the centre with a strip of carpet laid round it, and an open brick fireplace at one side; but the room had the musty dampness of disuse.

“March House is rather an architectural scrap-heap,” Renway explained impersonally. “You’re in the oldest part of it now, which goes back to the fifteenth century. I discovered this quite by accident––”

“This” was a section of panelling, about five and a half feet by three, which sprang open on invisible hinges—Simon could not see exactly what the other did to open it. Renway fumbled in the dark aperture and switched on a light.

“I don’t know where the passage originally went to,” he said, as they groped their way down a flight of rickety wooden stairs. “At present it leads into the cellars. There used to be an ordinary entrance from a more modern part of the house, where the kitchen is now, but I had that bricked up.”

At the foot of the stairway there was a narrow stone-flagged tunnel. Renway switched on another light and they went on, bent almost double in the cramped space. At intervals there was a rough wooden buttress to carry a weak section of the roof, but for the most part the upper curve of the burrow consisted of nothing but the natural chalk. Simon Templar, who had seen the inner workings of more secret doors, rooms, and passages than any other living man, had never managed to lose the first primitive schoolboy thrill of such subterranean accessories of adventure. He followed Renway with whole-hearted enthusiasm; but there was an equally whole-hearted vigilance about him nevertheless, for the thought had crossed his mind that Sir Hugo Renway might be even more clever and efficient than he had yet begun to believe, and he had no overpowering ambition to be suddenly pushed down a well am left there to contemplate the follies of over optimism until hunger and thirst put an end to contemplation.

After about fifteen yards Renway turned a right-angled corner and disappeared; and Simon crept up in his tracks with that knife-bladed vigilance honed to a razor edge. Rounding the corner, he found himself stepping out into a fairly large stone chamber illuminated by several electric bulbs. At the distant end there was a row of beds; a cheap square of carpet was laid out on the floor, and the room was sketchily furnished with a bare wooden table in the centre, a couple of washstands, and a heterogeneous selection of chairs. Four of the men in the room were congregated at one end of the table over a game of cards; the fifth was stitching a button on his coat; the sixth was reading a newspaper. They were all turned rigidly towards the end of the tunnel; and the Saint carefully set his hands on his hips—where one of them would be within handy diving range of his gun.

“Gentlemen,” Renway’s high-pitched B. B. C. voice was saying, “this is Mr.—er—Tombs, who is taking Enrique’s place.”

None of the flat fishlike eyes acknowledged the introduction by so much as a flicker.

Renway turned to the Saint.

“You must meet Mr. Petrowitz,” he said; “Mr. Jeddy … Mr. Pargo …”

He ran through a list of names, indicating their owners with curt movements of his head; and Simon, looking them over, decided that they were the ugliest gang of cutthroats that even the most rabid Bolshevik could ever hope to find gathered together in a strategic position under the house of an English aristocrat.

His decision embodied something more than pure artistic comment. The sight of those staring immobile men added the last touch to his grim understanding that if Sir Hugo Renway was mad, he was a maniac with the cold logical resolution that was needed to carry out his insane scheme. His glance fell on the newspaper which the sixth man had put down. The black-type banner line across the top of the page leapt to his eye:

SAINT STEALS ARMED AEROPLANE

It reminded him that he had not yet inquired he name of his new employer. “Are you the Saint?” he asked. Renway’s lids drooped. “Yes,” he said.

VIII

ACCORDING to his watch, Simon Templar stayed in hat secret cellar for about eighteen hours: with-out that evidence, he could have been fairly easily persuaded that it was about eighteen days.

It was so completely removed from the sense of reality, as well as from the ordinary change of lights and movements of the outer world, that time had very little meaning. At intervals, one of the men would go to a cupboard in the corner and dig out a loaf of bread and a slab of cheese, a tin of beans, or a bottle of beer: those who felt in-clined would join him in a sketchy meal or a drink. One of the card players got up from the table, lay down on one of the beds, and went to sleep, snoring. Another man shuffled the cards and looked flat-eyed at the Saint.

“Want a game?”

Simon took the vacant chair and a stack of chips. Purely as an antidote to boredom, he played blackjack for two hours and finished five chips down.

“That’s five hundred pounds,” said Pargo, writing figures with a half-inch stub of pencil on a soiled scrap of paper.

“I haven’t got five hundred pounds on me,” said the Saint.

The man grinned like a rat.

“Nor have any of us,” he said. “But you will have after tomorrow.”

Simon was impressed without being pleased. He had watched Jeddy rake up a stack of chips that must have represented about three thousand pounds at that rate of exchange, without any sign of emotion; and Mr. Jeddy was a man whose spiritual niche in the Buddy-can-you-spare-a-dime class was as obvious as the fact that he had not shaved for three days.

The others were not vastly different. Their physical aspects ranged from the bearded and faintly odorous burliness of Mr. Petrowitz to the rat-faced and yellow-toothed scrawniness of Mr. Pargo; but all of them had the same dominant characteristic in common. It was a characteristic with which the Saint had become most familiar on the west side of the Atlantic, although it was confined to no single race or nationality; a characteristic which Hoppy Uniatz, who couldn’t have spelt the word to save his life, would have been the first to recognize: the peculiar cold lifelessness of the eye which brands the natural killer. But there are grades in killers, just as there are in singers; and the men in that cellar were not in the grand-opera class, the class that collects diamonds and expensive limousines. They were men who did their stuff at street corners and in dingy alleys, for a chance coin or two; the crude hacks of their profession. And they were the men whom Renway had inspired with so much confidence in the certainty of his scheme that they were calmly gambling their hypothetical profits in hundred-pound units.

God alone knew how Renway had gathered them together—neither the Saint nor Teal ever found out. But they constituted six more amazing eye-openers for the Saint to add to his phenomenally growing collection—six stony-faced witnesses to the fact that Sir Hugo Renway, whom Simon Templar would never have credited with the ability to lead anything more piratical than a pompous secession from the Conservative Party, had found the trick of organizing what might have been one of the most astounding robberies in the history of crime.

The men took him for granted. Their conversation, when they spoke at all, was grumbling, low-voiced, monosyllabic. They asked Simon no questions, and he had a sure intuition that they would have been surprised and hostile if he had asked them any. The business for which they were collected there was never mentioned—either it had already been discussed so much that there was nothing left to say on the subject, or they were too fettered by habitual suspicion for any discussion to have a chance of getting under way. Simon decided that in addition to being the ugliest, they were also the dullest assortment of thugs he had ever come across.

The man who had been reading the newspaper put it down and added himself to the increasing company of sleepers, and Simon reached out for the opportunity of getting acquainted with the latest lurid accounts of his own entirely mythical activities. They were more or less what he would have expected; but there was a subheading with the words “Scotland Yard Active” which made him smile. Scotland Yard was certainly active— by that hour, it must have been hopping about like a young and healthy flea–but he would have given much to see their faces if they could have been miraculously enabled to find him at that moment.

As it turned out, that pleasure, or a representative part of it, was not to cost him anything.