The Saint vs Scotland Yard (The Holy Terror)

The Saint braced his muscles.

His whole body tightened to the effort like a tempered steel spring, and his arms swelled and corded up until the sleeves were stretched and strained around them. For an instant he was absolutely motionless, except for the tremors of titanic tension that shuddered down his frame like wind-ripples over a quiet pool. . . . And then he relaxed and went limp, loos­ing his breath in a great gasp. And the Saintly smile crawled a trifle crookedly over his face.

'Which makes things difficult,' he whispered—to the four unanswering walls.

For the cords about his wrists still held him firmly.

Free to move as he chose, he could have broken those ropes with his hands; but bound as he was, he could apply scarcely a quarter of his strength. And the ropes were good ones—new, half-inch, three-ply Manila. He had made the test; and he relaxed. To have struggled longer would have wasted valuable strength to no purpose. And he had come out without Belle, the little knife that ordinarily went with him everywhere, in a sheath strapped to his left forearm—the knife that had saved him on countless other occasions such as this.

Clumsily he pulled himself out of the chair, and rolled the few yards to the desk. There was a telephone there; he dragged himself to his knees and lifted the receiver. The exchange took an eternity to answer. He gave Teal's private number, and heard the preliminary buzz in the receiver as he was connected up; and then Wilfred Garniman spoke behind him, from the doorway.

'Ah! You are still active, Templar?'

He crossed the room with quick lumbering strides, and snatched the instrument away. For a second or two he listened with the receiver at his ear; then he hung it up and put the telephone down at the far end of the desk.

'You have not been at all successful this evening,' he re­marked stolidly.

'But you must admit we keep on trying,' said the Saint cheerfully.

Wilfred Garniman took the cigarette from his mouth. His expressionless eyes contemplated the Saint abstractedly.

'I am beginning to believe that your prowess was overrated. You came here hoping to find documents or money—perhaps both. You were unsuccessful.'

'Er—temporarily.'

'Yet a little ingenuity would have saved you from an un­pleasant experience—and shown you quite another function of this piece of furniture.'

Garniman pointed to the armchair. He tilted it over on its back, prised up a couple of tacks, and allowed the canvas finishing of the bottom to fall away. Underneath was a dark steel door, secured by three swivel catches.

'I made the whole chair myself—it was a clever piece of work,' he said; and then he dismissed the subject almost as if it had never been raised. 'I shall now require you to rejoin your friend, Templar. Will you be carried, or would you prefer to walk?'

'How far are we going?' asked the Saint cautiously.

'Only a few yards.'

'I'll walk, thanks.'

Garniman knelt down and tugged at the ankle ropes. A strand slipped under his manipulations, giving an eighteen-inch hobble.

'Stand up.'

Simon obeyed. Garniman gripped his arm and led him out of the room. They went down the hall, and passed through a low door under the stairs. They stumbled down a flight of narrow stone steps. At the bottom, Garniman picked up a candlestick from a niche in the wall and steered the Saint along a short flagged passage.

'You know, Wilf,' murmured the Saint conversationally, 'this has happened to me twice before in the last six months.

And each time it was gas. Is it going to be gas again this time, or are you breaking away from the rules?'

'It will not be gas,' replied Garniman flatly.

He was as heavily passionless as a contented animal. And the Saint chattered on blithely.

'I hate to disappoint you—as the actress said to the bishop— but I really can't oblige you now. You must see it, Wilfred. I've got such a lot more to do before the end of the volume, and it'd wreck the whole show if I went