Gently Simon drew the edge of the sheet over the sleeping man's face; and onto the sheet he dripped a colourless liquid from a flask which he took from his pocket. The atmosphere thickened with a sickly reek. . . .
Five minutes later, in another room, the Saint was opening a burglar-proof safe with Lemuel's own key.
He found what he was expecting to find-what, in fact, he had arranged to find. It had required no great genius to deduce that Lemuel would have withdrawn all his mobile fortune from his bank the day before; if there had been no satisfactory report from Einsmann before morning, Lemuel would have been on his way out of England long before the expiration of the time limit which the Saint had given him.
Simon burned twenty-five thousand pounds' worth of negotiable securities in the open grate. There was already a heap of ashes in the fireplace when he began his own bonfire, and he guessed that Lemuel had spent part of the previous evening disinfecting his private papers; it would be a waste of time to search the desk. With about forty thousand pounds in Bank of England notes cunningly distributed about his person, the Saint closed the safe, after some artistic work on the interior, and returned to Lemuel's bedroom, where he replaced the key as he had found it. Before he left, he turned the sheet back from Lemuel's face; the bedroom windows were already open, and in a couple of hours the smell of ether should have dispersed.
'A couple of hours. . . .' The Saint glanced at his watch as he went down the stairs, and realized that he had only just given himself enough time. But he stopped at the janitor's cubicle on his way out, and the helpless man glared at him defiantly.
'I'm sorry I had to hit you,' said the Saint. 'But perhaps this will help to console you for your troubles.'
He took ten one-pound notes from his wallet and laid them on the porter's desk; then he hurried down the hall, and slipped off his masking handkerchief as he opened the door.
Half an hour later he was in bed.
Francis Lemuel had arranged to be called early, in case of accidents, and the reassuring telephone message had come too late for him to countermand the order. He roused at half-past eight, to find his valet shaking him by the shoulder, and sat up muzzily. His head was splitting. He took a gulp at the hot tea which his man had brought, and felt sick.
'Must have drunk more whisky than I thought,' he reflected hazily; and then he became aware that his valet was speaking.
'There's been a burglary here, sir. About six o'clock this morning the porter was knocked out--'
'Here-in this apartment?' Lemuel's voice was harsh and strained.
'No, sir. At least, I've looked round, sir, and nothing seems to have been touched.'
Lemuel drew a long breath. For an instant an icy dread had clutched at his heart. Then he remembered-the Saint was dead, there was nothing more to fear. . . .
He sipped his tea again and chuckled throatily.
'Then someone's been unlucky,' he remarked callously, and was surprised when the valet shook his head.
'That's the extraordinary thing, sir. They've been making inquiries all round, and none of the other apartments seem to have been entered either.'
Lemuel recalled this conversation later in the morning. He had declined breakfast blasphemously, and had only just man aged to get up and dress in time to restore his treasures to the keeping of his bank.
He saw the emptiness of his safe, and the little drawing which the Saint had chalked inside it by way of receipt, and went a dirty gray-white.
The strength seemed to go from his knees; and he groped his way blindly to a chair, shaking with a superstitious terror. It was some time before he brought himself to realize that ghosts do not stun porters and clean out burglar-proof safes.
The valet, coming at a run to answer the frantic pealing of the bell, was horrified at the haggard limpness of his master.
'Fetch the police,' croaked Lemuel and the man went quickly.
Chief Inspector Teal himself had just arrived to give some instructions to the detective-sergeant who had taken over the investigations, and he it was who answered the summons.
'Sixty-five thousand pounds? That's a lot of money to keep in a little safe like this.'
Teal cast sleepy eyes over the object, and then went down on his knees to examine it more closely. His heavy eyelids merely flickered when he saw the chalkmarks inside.
'Opened it with your own key too.'
Lemuel nodded dumbly.
'I suppose he warned you?' said Teal drowsily-he was a chronically drowsy man.
'I had two ridiculous letters--'
'Can I see them?'
'I-I destroyed them. I don't take any notice of threats like that.'
Teal raised his eyebrows one millimetre.
'The Saint's a pretty well-known character,' he said. 'I should hate to have to calculate how many square miles of newspaper he's had all to himself since he started in business. And the most celebrated thing about him is that he's never yet failed to carry out a threat. This is the first time I've heard of anyone taking no notice of his letters.'
Lemuel swallowed. Suddenly, in a flash of pure agony, he understood his position. The Saint had ruined him- taken from him practically every penny he possessed-and yet he had left him one fragile thing that was perhaps more precious than ten times the treasure he had lost-his liberty. And Lemuel's numbed brain could see no way of bringing the Saint to justice without imperilling that last lonely asset.
'What was the Saint's grouse against you?' asked Teal, like a sleep-walking Nemesis, and knew that he was wasting his time.
All the world knew that the Saint never threatened without good reason. To attempt to get evidence from his victims was a thankless task; there was so little that they could say without incriminating themselves.
And Lemuel saw the point also, and clapped quivering hands to his forehead.
'I-I apologize,' he said huskily. 'I see you've guessed the truth. I heard about the burglary, and thought I might get some cheap publicity out of it. There was nothing in the safe. I drew the picture inside-copied it from an old newspaper cutting. . . .'
Teal heard, and nodded wearily.
But to Francis Lemuel had come one last desperate resolve.
8
There were many men in London who hated the Saint, and none of them hated him without cause. Some he had robbed; some he had sent to prison; some he had hurt in their bodies, and some he had hurt in their pride; and some, who had not yet met him, hated him because they feared what he might do if he learned about them all the things that there were to learn -which was, perhaps, the most subtle and deadly hatred of all.
Simon Templar had no illusions about his general popularity. He knew perfectly well that there were a large number of people domiciled between East India Dock and Hammersmith Broadway who would have been delighted to see him meet an end so sticky that he would descend to the place where they thought he would go like a well- ballasted black-beetle sinking through a pot of hot glue, and who, but for the distressing discouragements which the laws of England provide for such natural impulses, would have devoted all their sadistic ingenuity to the task of thus settling a long outstanding account. In the old days Simon had cared nothing for this; in those days he was known only as the Saint, and none knew his real name, or what he looked like, or whence he came; but those days had long gone by. Simon Templar's name and address and telephone number were now common property in certain circles; it was only in sheer blind cussedness, which he had somehow got away with, that he had scorned to use an alias in his dealings with Francis Lemuel and the Calumet Club. And there had already been a number of enterprising gentlemen who had endeavoured to turn this knowledge to account in the furthering of their life's ambition-without, it must be admitted, any signal success.
While there were not many men at large who in cold blood could have mustered up the courage actually to
