The Saint's Getaway

The Saint bowed. In that self-possessed, white-haired chief of police he recognized a quality of manhood which he would have been glad to meet at any time.

'I am in your debt, Herr Oberst' he said. 'And you, In­spektor?'

The younger man drew himself up stiffly.

'Since I am commanded,' he replied shortly, 'I have no choice. I give you my word of honour.'

'You are very wise,' murmured the chief.

Simon smiled. He opened the door of the cabinet wide and ushered the two men in. As soon as they had settled themselves he closed it again, leaving only a two-inch gap which would give them plenty of air to breathe. He left them with a final warning:

'Remember that you have given your paroles. I shall be back in a few moments. Whatever happens, you will remain hidden.'

Then he left the room and went down the stairs again to re­lieve Monty Hayward's vigil. His arteries were playing an angelic symphony, and there was a new brightness in his eyes. Perhaps after all the running fight could become a triumph. Thus far he had no complaints to make. The gods were spilling Eldorados on him with both hands. If only the breaks held. ... It would be a worthy finish to one story and a merry over­ture to many more. Admittedly there was a price to pay, and those lost few minutes would have boosted the bill against him to heights that would have made most men giddy to think of, but he had learned that in his chosen way of life there were no bargain sales. It was wine while it lasted. And he had never really wanted to be good.

He came upon Monty Hayward with a swinging step and the Saintly smile still on his lips. The automatic spun on his first finger by the trigger guard.

'I have cleaned up, Monty,' he said. 'Let's make it a party.'

He burrowed through his overalls and produced his own cigarette case. As he opened it, the polished interior showed him a reflection of his own face. He grinned and closed the case again.

'Back along the corridor,' he said, 'I think I heard the swishing song of a gents' toilet. I should hate Rudy to see us like this—and we can still keep an ear on the charge room from there.'

If there was anything which finally emerged as supremely nightmarish out of Monty Hayward's memories of the cumula­tive palpitations of that day, it was the wash and brush-up which the Saint thereupon ordained. Monty hadn't proposed himself for anything quite so hair-raising as that. Battle, mur­der, and sudden death were things immutable in themselves; but to make oneself free of the lavatories of a captured police station in which an uncertain number of the personnel were still at large called for a granitic quality of nerve to which only a Simon Templar could have aspired. To the Saint it was a pleasure with a pungent spice. He stripped off his greasy over­alls, threw them into a corner, and abandoned himself to the delights of warm water and yellow soap as if he were in his own home. As far as he was concerned, the only visible reminiscence of the things that waited a couple of walls away was the blue-black shape of the automatic pistol placed care­fully on the marble top of the wash basin beside him.

Monty sighed and made the best of it. Now that he saw him­self in a mirror for the first time, he began to understand how he had been able to travel so far without being identified. It was some relief to be able to divest himself of the stained blue jeans and feel himself in a more accustomed garb; it was even better to be able to scrub the oil and grime from his face and hands and feel clean. He looked up presently with a sort of indefinite optimism—and saw the Saint coolly manicuring his nails.

'Ready for more, Monty?'

The Saint's piratical eyes rested on him humorously. Monty nodded.

'Surely.'

They went back towards the office. The two policemen still slept. Simon expected them to be out to the world for all of another ten minutes—the handcuffs and gags were an addi­tional precaution. He knew where he was when the blade of his hand got home with those tricky blows.

He took out his cigarette case again, offered it to Monty, and helped himself. The ratchet of his lighter scraped a flame out of the shielded wick. He stood there for a moment, draw­ing the mellow smoke gratefully into his lungs to wipe away the last dry harshness of the stuff that he had had to inhale in his former role. Monty watched him releasing the smoke again through his lips and nostrils with a slow widening of that new­born