Knight Templar, or The Avenging Saint

.'

But they weren't stalling. They were keeping their height for a moment; then they dipped straightly, gaining on the train at about fifteen miles an hour. . . no, ten. . . . And the hindmost carriage slipped under the Saint's feet—a dozen feet under them.

There were only three coaches on the train.

But they were dropping quickly now—Roger was contour-chasing like an ace! He wasn't dead centre, though. . . .A shade to one side. . . . 'Just a touch of left rudder!' cried the Saint helplessly; for one of his feet had scraped the outside edge of a carriage roof, and they were still going lower. . . . And then, somehow, it hap­pened just as if Roger could have heard him: the Saint was clear over the roof of the leading coach, and his knees and arms were bent to keep his feet off it. . . .

And he let go.

The train seemed to tear away from under him; his left hand crashed into a projection, and went numb; and the roof became red-hot and scorched his legs. He felt himself slithering towards the side, and flung out his sound right hand blindly. ... He caught something like a handle. . . held on. . . and the slipping stopped with a jar that sent a twinge of agony stabbing through his shoulder.

He lay there gasping, dumbly bewildered that he should still be alive.

For a full minute. . . .

And then the meaning of it filtered into his understanding; and he laughed softly, absurdly, a laughter queerly close to tears.

For the work was done.

Slowly, in a breathless wonder, he turned his head. The aeroplane was turning, coming back towards him, alongside the train, low down. And a face looked out, helmeted, with its big round goggles masking all expression and giving it the appearance of some macabre gargoyle; but all that could be seen of the face was as white as the morning sky.

Simon waved his injured hand; and, as the aeroplane swept by in a droning thunder of noise, the snowy flutter of a handkerchief broke out against its silver and gold. And so the aeroplane passed, rising slowly as it went towards the north, with the sunrise striking it like a banner unfurled.

And five minutes later, in a strange and mon­strous contrast to the flamboyant plumage of the great metal bird that was swinging smoothly round into the dawn, a strained and tatterdemalion figure came reeling over the tender of the swaying locomotive; and the two men in the cab, who had been watching him from the beginning, were there to catch him as he fell into their arms.

'You come outa that airyplane?' blurted one of them dazedly; and Simon Templar nodded.

He put up a filthy hand and smeared the blood out of his eyes.

'I came to tell you to stop the train,' he said. 'There are two bombs on the line.'

4

THE SAINT RESTED where they had laid him down. He had never known what it was to be so utterly weary. All his strength seemed to have ebbed out of him, now that it had served for the supreme effort. He felt that he had not slept for a thousand years. . . .

All around him there was noise. He heard the hoarse roar of escaping steam, the whine of brakes, the fading clatter of movement, the jolt and hiss of the stop. In the sudden silence he heard the far, steady drone of the aeroplane filling the sky. Then there were voices, running feet, ques­tions and answers mingling in an indecipherable murmur. Someone shook him by the shoulder, but at that moment he felt too tired to rouse, and the man moved away.

And then, presently, he was shaken again, more insistently. A cool wet cloth wiped his face, and he heard a startled exclamation. The aeroplane seemed to have gone, though he had not heard its humming die away: he must have passed out altogether for a few seconds. Then a glass was pressed to his lips; he gulped, and spluttered as the neat spirit rawed his throat. And he opened his eyes.

'I'm all right,' he muttered.

All he saw at first was a pair of boots. Large boots. And his lips twisted with a rueful humour. Then he looked up and saw the square face and the bowler hat of the man whose arm was around his shoulders.

'Bombs, old dear,' said the Saint. 'They've got the niftiest little electric firing device at­tached—you lay it over the line, and it blows up the balloon when the front wheels of the train go over it. That's my dying speech. Now it's your turn.'

The man in the bowler hat nodded.

'We've already found them. You only stopped us with about a hundred yards to spare.' He was looking at the Saint with a kind of wry regret. 'And I know you,' he said.

Simon smiled crookedly.

'What a thing is fame!' he sighed. 'I know you, too, Detective-Inspector Carn. How's trade? I shall come quietly this time, anyway—I couldn't run a yard.'

The detective's lips twitched a trifle grimly. He glanced over his shoulder.

'I think the King is waiting to speak to you,' he said.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN How Simon Templar put down a book

IT WAS LATE in a fair September afternoon when Roger Conway turned into Upper Berkeley Mews and admitted himself with his own key.

He found the Saint sitting in an armchair by the open window with a book on his knee, and was somehow surprised.

'What are you doing here?' he demanded; and Simon rose with a smile.

'I have slept,' he murmured. 'And so have you, from all accounts.'

Roger spun his peaked cap across the room. 'I have,' he said. 'I believe the order for my release came through about lunchtime, but they thought it would be a shame to wake me. '

The Saint inspected him critically. Roger's livery covered him uncomfortably. It looked as if it had shrunk. It had shrunk.

'Jolly looking clothes, those are,' Simon remarked. 'Is it the new fashion? I'd be afraid of catching cold in the elbows, you know. Besides, the pants don't look safe to sit down in.'

Roger returned the survey insultingly.

'How much are you expecting to get on that face in part exchange?' he inquired; and suddenly the Saint laughed.

'Well, you knock-kneed bit of moth-eaten gorgonzola!'

'Well, you cross-eyed son of flea-bitten hobo!'

And all at once their hands met in an iron grasp.

'Still,' said the Saint presently, 'you don't look your best in that outfit, and I guess you'll feel better when you've had a shave. Some kind soul gave me a ring to say you were on your way, and I've turned the bath on for you and laid out your other suit. Push on, old bacillus; and I'll sing to you when you come back.'

'I shall not come back for years,' said Roger delicately.

The Saint grinned.

He sat down again as Roger departed and took up his book again, and traced a complicated arabesque in the corner of a page thoughtfully. Then he wrote a few more lines, and put away his fountain pen. He lighted a cigarette and gazed at a picture on the other side of the room: he was still there when Roger returned.

And Roger said what he had meant to say before.

'I was thinking,' Roger said, 'you'd have gone after Angel Face.'

Simon turned the pages of his book.

'And so was I,' he said. 'But the reason why I haven't is recorded here. This is the tome in which I dutifully make notes of our efforts for the benefit of an author bloke I know, who has sworn to make a blood-and-thunder classic of us one day. This entry is very tabloid.'