The Saint Closes the Case

divide his mind and apply it to two things at once; and that, he ought to have known, was a fatal thing to do with a man like the Saint. But at that moment he didn't know the Saint very well.

Simon Templar, in those two sideways steps that the de­tective had allowed him to take, had shifted into such a posi­tion that the detective's lines of vision, if he had been able to look two ways at once, at Conway with one eye and at the Saint with the other, would have formed an obtuse angle. Therefore, since the detective's optic orbits were not capable of this feat, he could not see what Conway was doing without taking his eyes off Simon Templar.

And the detective was foolish.

For an instant his gaze left the Saint. How he imagined he would get away with it will remain a mystery. Certainly Simon did not inquire the answer then, nor discover it afterwards. For in that instant's grace, ignoring the menace of the auto­matic, the Saint shot out a long, raking left that gathered strength from every muscle in his body from the toes to the wrist

And the Saint was on his way to the Hirondel before the man reached the ground.

Conway had only just dumped his struggling burden into the back seat when the Saint sprang to the running-board and clapped Norman Kent on the shoulder.

'Right away, sonny boy!' cried the Saint; and the Hiron­del was sliding away as he and Conway climbed into the back.

He collected Vargan's flailing legs in an octopus embrace, and held the writhing scientist while Conway pinioned his ankles with the rope they had brought for the purpose. The expert hands of the first set of kidnappers had already dealt with the rest of him—his wrists were lashed together with a length of stout cord, and a professional gag stifled the screams which otherwise he would undoubtedly have been loosing.

'What happened?' asked Norman Kent, over his shoul­der; and the Saint leaned over the front seat and explained.

'In fact,' he said, 'we couldn't have done better if we'd thought it out. Angel Face certainly brought off that raid like no amateur. But can you beat it? No stealth or subtlety, as far as we know. Just banging in like a Chicago bandit, and hell to the consequences. That shows how much he means busi­ness.'

'How many men on the job?'

'Don't know. We only met one, and that wasn't Angel Face. Angel Face himself may have been in the car with Vargan, but he'd certainly taken to the tall timber when Roger and I arrived. A man like that wouldn't tackle the job with one soli­tary car and a couple of pals. There must have been a spare bus, with load, somewhere— probably up the lane. There should be another way in, though I don't know where it is. . . . You'd better switch on the lights—we're out of sight now.'

He settled back and lighted a cigarette.

In its way, it had been a most satisfactory effort, even if its success had been largely accidental; but the Saint was frown­ing rather thoughtfully. He wasn't worrying about the loss of his car—that was a minor detail. But that night he had lost something far more important.

'This looks like my good-bye to England,' he said; and Conway, whose brain moved a little less quickly, was sur­prised.

'Why—are you going abroad after this?'

The Saint laughed rather sadly.

'Shall I have any choice?' he answered. 'We couldn't have got the Furillac away, and Teal will trace me through that. He doesn't know I'm the Saint, but I guess they could make the Official Secrets Act heavy enough on me without that. Not to mention that any damage Angel Face's gang may have done to the police will be blamed on us as well. There's nothing in the world to show that we weren't part of the original raid, except the evidence of the gang themselves— and I shouldn't bet on their telling. . . . No, my Roger. We are indubitably swimming in a large pail of soup. By morning every policeman in London will be looking for me, and by to-morrow night my photograph will be hanging up in every police station in England. Isn't it going to be fun?—as the bishop said to the actress.'

But the Saint wasn't thinking it as funny as it might have been.

'Is it safe to go to Maidenhead?' asked Conway.

'That's our consolation. The deeds of the bungalow are in the name of Mrs. Patricia Windermere, who spends her spare time being Miss Patricia Holm. I've had that joke up my sleeve for the past year in case of accidents.'

'And Brook Street?'

The Saint chuckled.

'Brook Street,' he said, 'is held in your name, my sweet and respectable Roger. I thought that'd be safer. I merely installed myself as your tenant. No—we're temporarily cov­ered there, though I don't expect that to last long. A few days, perhaps. . . . And the address registered with my car is one I invented for the purpose. . . . But there's a snag. . . . Finding it's a dud address, they'll get on to the agents I bought it from. And I sent it back to them for decarbonising only a month ago, and gave Brook Street as my address. That was careless! . . . What's to- day?'

'It's now Sunday morning.'

Simon sat up.

'Saved again! They won't be able to find out much before Monday. That's all the time we want. I must get hold of Pat. . . .'

He sank back again in the seat and fell silent, and remained very quiet for the rest of the journey; but there was little quietude in his mind. He was planning vaguely, scheming wildly, daydreaming, letting his imagination play as it would with this new state of affairs, hoping that something would emerge from the chaos; but all he found was a certain rueful resignation.

'At least, one could do worse for a last adventure,' he said.

It was four o'clock when they drew up outside the bunga­low, and found a tireless Orace opening the front door before the car had stopped. The Saint saw Vargan carried into the house, and found beer and sandwiches set out in the dining-room against their arrival.

'So far, so good,' said Roger Conway, when the three of them reassembled over the refreshment.

'So far,' agreed the Saint—so significantly that the other two both looked sharply at him.

'Do you mean more than that?' asked Norman Kent.

Simon smiled.

'I mean—what I mean. I've a feeling that something's hang­ing over us. It's not the police—as far as they're concerned I should say the odds are two to one on us. I don't know if it's Angel Face. I just don't know at all. It's a premonition, my cherubs.'

'Forget it,' advised Roger Conway sanely.

But the Saint looked out of the window at the bleak pallor that had bleached the eastern rim of the sky, and wondered.

5. How Simon Templar went back to Brook Street, and what happened there

Breakfast was served in the bungalow at an hour when all ordinary people, even on a Sunday, are finishing their midday meal. Conway and Kent sat down to it in their shirtsleeves and a stubby tousledness; but the Saint had been for a swim in the river, shaved with Orace's razor, and dressed himself with as much care as if he had been preparing to pose for a maga­zine cover, and the proverbial morning daisy would have looked positively haggard beside him.

'No man,' complained Roger, after inspecting the appari­tion, 'has a right to look like this at this hour of the morn­ing'

The Saint helped himself to three fried eggs and bacon to match, and sat down in his place.

'If,' he said, 'you could open your bleary eyes enough to see the face of that clock, you'd see that it's after half-past two of the afternoon.'

'It's the principle of the thing,' protested Conway feebly. 'We didn't get to bed till nearly six. And three eggs .