'Uncle Francis.'
Then she heard of the nocturnal visitors.
'He doesn't know that all the money I took off him has gone to Queen Charlotte's Hospital-a most suitable charity -less only our regular ten-percent fee for collection,' said the Saint. 'And if I told him, I don't think he'd believe me. As long as he's at large, he'll be thinking of his lost fortune-and you. And, as I said, I don't think he's a useful citizen.'
'What can you do?' she asked.
Simon smiled at her. He really thought that she grew more beautiful every day.
'Sweetheart,' he said, 'you're the only good thing this rolling stone's collected out of all the world. And there's only one logical thing to do.'
But he left her to guess what that was; he had not worked out the details himself at that moment. He knew that Francis Lemuel owned a large country house standing in its own spacious grounds just outside Tenterden, and the next day he learned that Lemuel had established himself there-'to re cover from a severe nervous collapse,' the newspaper informed him-but it was not for another two days, when another item of news came his way, that the Saint had his inspiration for the manner in which Francis Lemuel should die.
9
I shall call on Wednesday at 3 p.m. You will be at home.
Francis Lemuel stared at the curt note, and the little sketch that served for signature, with blurring eyes. Minutes passed before he was able to reach shakily for the decanter-his breakfast was left untasted on the table.
An hour later, reckless of consequences, he was speaking on the telephone to Scotland Yard.
At the same time Simon Templar was speaking to Patricia Holm, what time he carefully marmaladed a thin slice of brown bread and a thick slice of butter.
'There are three indoor servants at Tenterden-a butler and a cook, man and wife, and the valet. The rest of the staff have been fired, and half the house is shut up-I guess Francis is finding it necessary to pull in his horns a bit. The butler and cook have a half-day off on Wednesday. The valet has his half-day on Thursday, but he has a girl at Rye. He has asked her to marry him, and she has promised to give her answer when she sees him next-which will, of course, be on Thursday. He has had a row with Lemuel, and is thinking of giving notice.'
'How do you know all this?' asked Patricia. 'Don't tell me you deduced it from the mud on the under- gardener's boots, because I shan't believe you.'
'I won't,' said the Saint generously. 'If you want to know, I saw all that last part in writing. The valet is an energetic correspondent. Sometimes he goes to bed and leaves a letter half finished, and he's a sound sleeper.'
'You've been inside Lemuel's house?'
'These last three nights. The burglar alarms are absolutely childish.'
'So that's why you've been sleeping all day, and looking so dissipated!'
Simon shook his head.
'Not 'dissipated,'' he said. ' 'Intellectual' is the word you want.'
She looked at him thoughtfully.
'What's the game, lad?'
'Is your memory so short, old Pat? Why, what should the game be but wilful murder?'
Patricia came round the table and put her hands on his shoulders.
'Don't do it, Saint! It's not worth it.'
'It is.' He took her hands and kissed them, smiling a little. 'Darling, I have hunches, and my hunches are always right. I know that the world won't be safe for democracy as long as Francis continues to fester in it. Now listen, and don't argue. As soon as you're dressed, you will disguise yourself as an elderly charwoman about to visit a consumptive aunt at Rye. At Rye you will proceed to the post office and send a telegram which I've written out for you-here.' He took the form from his pocket, and pressed it into her hand. 'You will then move on to Tenterden.' He gave an exact description of a certain spot, and of an instrument which she would find there. 'If you observe a crowd and a certain amount of wreckage in the offing, don't get excited. They won't be near where you've got to go. Collect the gadget and et ceteras, and push them into the bag you'll have with you. . . . Then, returning to the blinkin' railway station, you will leap into the first train in which you see a carriage that you can have all to yourself, and in that you will remove your flimsy disguise, disembark as your own sweet self at the next stop, catch the first train back to town, and meet me for dinner at the Embassy at eight. Is that clear?'
She opened the telegraph form, and read it.
'But what's the idea?'
'To clear the air, darling.'
'But--'
'Uncle Francis? . . I've worked that out rather brilliantly. The time has gone by, sweetheart, when I could bounce in and bump off objectionable characters as and when the spirit moved. Too much is known about me-and robbery may be a matter for the robbed, but murder is a matter for the Lore. But I think this execution ought to meet the case. Besides, it will annoy Teal-Teal's been a bit uppish lately.'
There was no doubt that his mind was made up; yet it was not without misgivings that Patricia departed on her mission: But she went; for she knew the moods in which the Saint was inflexible.
It was exactly three o'clock when the Saint, a trim and superbly immaculate and rather rakish figure, climbed out of his car at the end of Lemuel's drive, and sauntered up to the house.
'Dear old Francis!' The Saint was at his most debonair as he entered the celebrated impresario's library. 'And how's trade?'
'Sit down, Templar.'
The voice was so different from Lemuel's old sonorous joviality that the Saint knew that the story of 'a severe nervous collapse' was not a great exaggeration. Lemuel's hand was unsteady as he replaced his cigar between his teeth.
'And what do you want now?'
'Just a little chat, my cherub,' said the Saint.
He lighted a cigarette, and his eyes roved casually round the room. He remarked a tiny scrap of pink paper screwed up in an ash tray, and a tall Chinese screen in one corner, and a slow smile of satisfaction expanded within him-deep within him. Lemuel saw nothing.
'It's a long time since we last opened our hearts to each other, honeybunch,' said the Saint, sinking back lazily into the cushions, 'and you must have so much to tell me. Have you been a good boy? No more cocaine, or little girls, or any thing like that?'
'I don't know what you mean. If you've come here to try to blackmail me--'
'Dear, dear! Blackmail? What's that, Francis?-or shall I call you Frank?'
'You can call me what you like.'
Simon shook his head.
'I don't want to be actually rude,' he said. 'Let it go at Frank. I once knew another man, a very successful scavenger, named Frank, who slipped in a sewer, and sank. This was after a spree; ever afterwards he was teetotal-but, oh, how unpleasant he smelt. Any relation of yours?'
Lemuel came closer. His face looked pale and bloated; there was a beastly fury in his eyes.
'Now listen to me, Templar. You've already robbed me once--'
'When?'
'D'you have to bluff when there isn't an audience? D'you deny that you're the Saint?'
'On the contrary,' murmured Simon calmly. 'I'm proud of it. But when have I robbed you?'
For a moment Lemuel looked as if he would choke. Then: 'What have you come for now?' he demanded.
Simon seemed to sink even deeper into his chair, and he watched the smoke curling up from his cigarette
