The Saint's Getaway

The prince shrugged.

'Why should I? It was unfortunate that you personally should be the victim, but——'

'Highness!'

Marcovitch sprang up from his chair. And at the same in­stant the Saint came off the desk like a streak of lightning. His fist smashed into the Russian's mouth and sent him reeling back.

'I never have liked your voice, Uglyvitch,' said the Saint evenly. 'And it's rude to butt in like that. Gag him, Monty.'

Simon lighted another cigarette while the order was being carried out. It had been a close call, that; but his face showed no sign of it. He had been watching Marcovitch from the start. It was odd how an inferior mentality might sometimes feel brute suspicions before they came to the more highly geared intelligence.

He sat down in the police chief's chair behind the desk and laid his automatic on the papers in front of him.

'As you say, it was unfortunate that I should have been the victim,' he murmured, as if nothing had happened. 'I've never been a very successful victim, and I suppose habits are hard to break. But there were others who weren't so lucky. It was all the same to you.'

'My dear young friend, we are not playing a game for children——'

'No. We're playing a game for savages. We've come down in the world. Once upon a time it was a game for soldiers—in the old days. I liked you because you were a patriot—and a sportsman—even though we were fighting on opposite sides. Now it's only a game of hunting for sacrifices to put on the altar of your bank account.' The Saint's eyes were cold splin­ters of blue light across the table. 'Two men died because they stood between you and these jewels. An agent of yours—didn't you refer to him as 'the egregious Emilio?'—murdered Hein­rich Weissmann in my hotel bedroom in Innsbruck after I rescued him from three detectives whom we mistook for ban­dits. He was taking the jewels to Josef Krauss, whom you had allowed to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for you. You tor­tured Krauss last night; and today, when he had escaped, Marcovitch murdered him on the train between Munich and here. And Marcovitch would also have murdered all three of us if we'd given him the chance.'

'My dear Mr. Templar——'

'I haven't quite finished yet,' said the Saint quietly. 'Mar­covitch was the man who raided the brake van on that train, with four more of your hired thugs, to regain those jewels after I'd taken them off you. And when we had to jump off to save our lives, he told the officials that it was I who stole the mail. That also meant nothing to you. You were ready to have all your crimes charged against us—just as you were ready to have them actually committed by your dirty hirelings. You hadn't even the courage to do any of the work yourself, be­fore it was framed onto me. But only a few minutes ago you were ready to apply your torturing methods to a girl, to make certain that there would be more blood on those jewels be­fore you'd done with them. The methods of a patriot and a gen­tleman!'

For the first time Simon saw a flush of passion come into the pale face opposite him. The taunt had gone to its mark like a barbed arrow.

'My dear Mr. Templar!' The prince still controlled his voice, but a little of the suavity had gone from it 'Since when have your own methods been above reproach?'

'I'm not thinking of only myself,' answered the Saint coldly. 'I'm only alleged to have robbed a train. Monty Hay-ward here is accused of murdering Weissmann as well, and he's the most innocent one of us all. The only thing he ever did was to help me rescue Weissmann in the first place, through a mistake which anyone might have made. And since then, of course, he's helped me to hold up this police station in order to see justice done, for which no one could blame him. But you know as well as I do that he isn't a criminal.'

'His character fails to interest me.'

'But you know that what I've said is the truth.'

'Have I denied it?'

The Saint leaned forward over the desk.

'Will you deny that Weissmann was murdered by an agent of yours and by your orders; that Josef Krauss died in the same way; and that it was Marcovitch and other agents of yours who robbed the mail?'