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know one or two reasons why I must discourage your friend's curiosity."
He heard the girl's calm reply:
"I think you could have invented a less roundabout way of committing suicide."
The man's bass chuckle answered her. Perhaps only the Saint's ears could have
detected the iron core of ruthless menace that hardened the overtones of its
full-throated heartiness.
"I'm glad you're not hysterical." A brief pause. "If there's anything within
reason that you want, I hope you'll ask for it. Are you feeling hungry?"
"Thanks," said the girl coolly. "I should like a couple of sausages, some
potatoes, and a cup of coffee."
Simon darted along the gallery and whipped open the nearest door. Through the
gap which he left open he saw a heavily built, grey-haired man emerge from the
next room, lock the door after him, and go down the stairs. As the man bent to
the key, the Saint had a photographic impression of a dark, large-featured,
smooth-shaven face; then he could only see the broad, well-tailored back
passing downwards out of view.
The man's footsteps died away; and Simon returned to the landing. He stood at
the door of Patricia's room and tapped softly on the wood with his
fingernails.
"Hullo, Pat!"
Her dress rustled inside the room.
"Quick work, boy. How did you do it?"
"Easy. Are you all right?"
"Sure."
"How's the window in there?"
"There's a sort of cage over it I couldn't reach the glass. The taxi was the
same. There's a divan bed and a couple of wicker armchairs. The table's very
low the legs wouldn't reach through the bars. He's thought of everything.
Washbasin and jug of water on the floor some towels cigarettes   "
"What happened to the taxi driver?"
"That was Mr. Jones."
The Saint drew a thoughtful breath.
"Phew! And what a solo worker!... Can you hold on for a bit? I'd like to
explore the rest of the establish-ment before I start any trouble."
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"Go ahead, old chap. I'm fine."
"Still got your gun?"
"Sure."
"So long, lass."
The Saint tiptoed along the landing and prowled up the second flight of
stairs.
CHAPTER VI
THERE were no lights burning on the tipper gallery, but a dull glimmer of
twilight filtered up from the lamps below and relieved the darkness
sufficiently for him to be able to move as quickly as he wanted to. With his
slim electric flash in his hand he went around the story from room to room,
turning the door handles with infinite care and probing the apartments with
the dancing beam of his torch. The first one he opened was plainly but
comfortably furnished as a bedroom: it was evidently occupied, for the bed had
not been made since it was last slept in, and a shaving brush crested with a
mound of dried lather stood on the mantelpiece. The second room was another
bedroom, tidier than the first, but showing the ends of a suit of silk pyjamas
under the pillow as proof that it also was used. The door of the third room
was locked; and Simon delved in his pocket again for a skeleton key. The lock
was of the same type as that on the back door by which he had entered the
house one of those ponderously useless contraptions which any cracksman can
open with a bent pin and in a second or two it gave way.
Simon pushed the door ajar and saw that the room was in darkness. He stepped
boldly in, quartering the room with his weaving pencil of light. The flying
disk of luminance danced along the walls and suddenly stopped, splashing
itself in an irregular pool over the motionless form of a man who lay quietly
on the floor as if asleep. But the Saint knew that he was dead.
He knelt down and made a rapid examination. The man had been dead about
forty-eight hours there was no trace of a wound, but with his face close to
the dead man's mouth he detected the unmistakable scent of prussic acid. It
was as he was rising to go that he accidentally turned over the lapel of the
dead man's coat, and saw the thin silver badge underneath the silver greyhound
of a King's Messenger.
The Saint came to his feet again rather slowly. The waters were running deeper
than he had ever expected, and he felt an odd sense of shock. That slight
silver badge had transformed the adventure at one glance from a more or less
ordinary if still mysterious criminal problem to an intrigue that might lead
anywhere.
As he left the room he heard the man called Jones coming up the stairs again.
Peeping over the wooden balustrade, he saw that the man carried a tray the
catering arrangements in that house appeared to be highly commendable, even if
nothing else was.
Simon slipped along the gallery without a sound. He opened two more rooms and
found them both empty; then he paused outside another and saw a narrow line of
light under the door.
He stood still for a few seconds, listening. He heard an occasional faint
chink of glass or metal, and the shuffling of slippered feet over the carpet;
but there were no voices. Almost mechanically he tried the door, and had one
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of the biggest surprises of his life when he felt it opening.
The Saint froze up motionless, with a dry electric tingle glissading over the
surface of his skin. The way the door gave back under his light touch
disintegrated the very ground from under his nebulous theory about the
occupant of that room. In the space of four seconds his brain set up,
surveyed, and bowled over a series of possible explanations that were chiefly
notable for their complete uselessness. In the fifth second that ultimate fact
impressed itself unanswerably on his consciousness, and he acknowledged it
with a wry shrug and the decimal point of a smile. Theories were all very well
in their place; but he had come to the house of Mr. Jones on a quest for
irrefutable knowledge, and an item of irrefutable knowledge was awaiting his
atten-tion inside that room. It remained for him to go in and get
introduced and that was what he had given up a peaceful evening in his own
home to do.
He glanced downwards into the hall. There was no sound or movement from below.
For a minute or two he might consider he had the field to himself if he was
quick and quiet about taking it over. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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