The Saint Closes the Case

Norman had understood as quickly as anyone, and he got the warning out in an agonised gasp. But the Saint ignored it. He sprang forward, and caught Norman Kent under the arms; and dragged him into shelter as a second bullet splin­tered the window-frame a few inches from their heads.

'They're here!'

Harding was standing recklessly in the open, careless of what his captors might be doing. The Saint rapped out a com­mand to take cover, but Harding took no notice. Roger Conway had to haul him out of the danger zone almost by the scruff of the neck.

Simon had jerked a settee from its place by the wall and run it across three-quarters of the width of the window open­ing; and he lay behind it, looking towards the road, with his guns in his hands. He saw something move behind the hedge, and fired twice at a venture, but he could not tell how much damage he had done.

There was the old Saintly smile back on the Saint's lips, and the old Saintly light back in his eyes. Against Harding, he hadn't really enjoyed himself. Against Teal, if it had been Teal outside, he wouldn't really have enjoyed himself. But it definitely wasn't Teal outside. Neither Chief Inspector Teal nor any of his men would have started blazing away like that with silenced guns and no preliminary parley. There was only one man in the cast who could conceivably behave like that; and against that man the Saint could enjoy himself thoroughly. He couldn't put his whole heart into the job of fighting men like Harding and Teal, men whom in any other circumstances he would have liked to have for his friends. But Marius was quite another matter. The feud with Marius was over some­thing more than an outlook and a technical point of law. It was a personal and vital thing, like a blow in the face and a glove thrown down. ...

So Simon watched, and presently fired again. This time a cry answered him. And one bullet in reply zipped past his ear, and another clipped into the upholstery of the settee an inch from his head; and the Saintly smile became positively beatific.

'This is like war,' said the Saint happily.

'It is war!' Harding shot back. 'Don't you realise that?'

Roger Conway was kneeling beside Norman Kent, cutting away a trouser-leg stained with a spreading dark stain.

'What do you mean?' he demanded.

Harding stepped back.

'Didn't you understand? You seemed to know so much. . . . But you hadn't a chance to know that. Still, it would have been announced in the lunch editions, and plenty of people knew about it last night. Our ultimatum was delivered at noon to-day, and they've got till noon to-morrow to answer.'

'What country? And what's the ultimatum about?'

Harding answered. The Saint was not very surprised. He had not read between the lines of his newspapers so assidu­ously for nothing.

'Of course, it's all nonsense, like anything else that any country ever sent an ultimatum to another about,' said Hard­ing. 'We've put it off as long as you can, but they've left us no choice. They're asking for trouble, and they're determined to have it. Half the government still can't understand it—they think our friends ought to know better. Just swollen head, they say. That's why everything's been kept so dark. The Govern­ment thought the swelling was bound to pass off naturally. Instead of which, it's been getting worse.'

The Saint remembered a phrase from the letter which he had taken from Marius: 'Cannot fail this time. . . .'

And he understood that the simple word of a man like Marius, with all the power that he represented standing in support behind the word, might well be enough to sway the decisions of kings and councils.

He said, with his eyes still watching the road: 'How many people have a theory to account for the swelling?'

'My chief, and a handful of others,' said Harding. 'We knew that Marius was in it, and Marius spells big money. But what's the use of telling ordinary people that? They couldn't see it. Besides, there was still a flaw in our theory, and we couldn't fill it up—until the show at Esher on Saturday. Then we knew.'

'I figured it out the same way,' said the Saint.

'Everything hangs on this,' said Harding quietly. 'If Marius gets Vargan for them, it means war.'

Simon raised one gun, and then lowered it again as his target ducked.

'Why have you told me all this?' he asked.

'Because you ought to be on our side,' Harding said steadily. 'I don't care what you are. I don't care what you've done. I don't care what you're working for. But Marius is here how, and I know you can't be with Marius. So——'

'Somebody's waving a white flag,' said the Saint.

He got to his feet, and Harding came up beside him. Behind the hedge, a man stood up and signalled with a hand­kerchief.

Then Simon saw that the road beyond the hedge was alive with men.

'What would you do here?' he asked.

'See them!' rapped Harding. 'Hear what they've got to say. We can still fight afterwards. They will fight! Templar——'

The Saint beckoned, and saw a man rise from his crouched position under the hedge and walk alone up the drive. A giant of a man. ...

'Angel Face himself!' murmured Simon.

He swung round, hands on hips.

'I've heard your argument, Harding,' he said. 'It's a good one. But I prefer my own. In the circumstances, I'm afraid you'll have to accept it. And I want your answer quickly. The offer I made you is still open. Do you join us for the duration, or have I got to send you out there to shift for yourself? I'd hate to do it, but if you're not for us ——'

'That's not the point,' said Harding steadfastly. 'I was sent here to find Vargan, and I think I've found him. As far as that's concerned, there can't be peace between us. You'll understand that. But for the rest of it ... Beggars can't be choosers. We agree that Marius must not have Vargan, whatever else we disagree about. So, while we have to fight Marius——'

'A truce?'

The youngster shrugged. Then he put out his hand.

'And let's give 'em hell!' he said.

18. How Simon Templar received Marius, and the Crown Prince remembered a debt

A moment later the Saint was on his knees beside Norman Kent, examining Norman's wound expertly. Norman tried to delay him.

'Pat,' whispered Norman; 'I left her hiding in your room.'

Simon nodded.

'All right. She'll be safe there for a bit. And I'd just as soon have her out of the way while Tiny Tim's beetling around. Let's see what we can do for you first.'

He went on with the examination. The entrance was three inches above the knee, and it was much larger than the en­trance of even a large-calibre automatic bullet should have been. There was no exit hole, and Norman let out an involun­tary cry of agony at the Saint's probing.

'That's all, sonny boy,' said the Saint; and Norman loos­ened his teeth from his lips.

'Smashed the bone, hasn't it?'

Simon stripped off his coat, and tore off the sleeve of his shirt to improvise a bandage.

'Smashed to bits, Norman, old boy,' he said. 'The swine are using dum-dums. ... A large whisky, Roger. . . . That'll be a consolation for you, Norman, old warrior.'

'It's something,' said Norman huskily.

He said nothing else about it, but he understood one thing very clearly.

No man can run very far or very fast with a thighbone splin­tered by an expanding bullet.