Prelude For War

Lady Valerie Complained about Heroes,

            and Mr Fairweather Dropped His Hat

III      How Simon Templar Drove to London, and

            General Sangore Experienced an Impedi­ment in His Speech

IV        How   Kane  Luker   Spoke   His   Mind,   and

            Hoppy Uniatz Did the Best He Could with His

V         How Simon Templar Obliged Lady Valerie,

            and Chief Inspector Teal Refused Breakfast

VI        How Mr Fairweather Opened His Mouth,

            and Mr Uniatz Put His Foot in It

VII      How Simon Templar Conversed with Sundry Persons,

            and Police-Constable Reginald Congratulated Him

VIII     How Kane Luker Called a Conference, and

            Simon Templar Answered Him

                        Epilogue

 

 

I

 

How Simon Templar Went to a Fire,

and Patricia Holm Heard of a Financier

 

PERHAPS THE STORY really began when Simon Templar switched on the radio. At least, before that everything was peaceful; and afterwards, for many memorable days which were to find an unforgettable place in his saga of hair­breadth adventure, there was no peace at all. But Simon Templar's life always seemed to run that way: his inter­ludes of peace seemed to have something inescapably tran­sient about them, some inborn predestined seed of dynamite that was foredoomed to blast him back into another of those amazing episodes which to him were the ever-recur­rent breath of life.

He was not thinking of trouble or adventure or anything else exciting. He lounged back comfortably in the long-nosed rakish Hirondel, his finger tips barely seeming to caress the wheel as he nursed it over the dark winding roads at a mere whispering sixty; for he was in no hurry. Over­head a bright moon was shining, casting long shadows over the fields and silvering the leaves of passing trees and hedges. His blue eyes probed lazily down the white reach of the headlights; and the unruffled calm of his brown face of a mocking buccaneer might have helped anyone to un­ derstand why in many places he was better known as 'The Saint' than he was by his own name—without giving any clue to the disturbing fact that a mere mention of the Saint in initiated quarters was capable of reducing detectives and convicted criminals alike to a state of unprintable inco­herence. None of the adventures that had left that almost incredible legend in their trail had left a mark on his face or in his mind: he was simply and serenely enjoying his inter­lude, though he must have known, even then, that it could only be an interlude until the next adventure began, because Fate had ordained him for adventure . . .

'You know,' he remarked idly, 'much as I've cursed them in my time, there's something to be said for these kindergarten English licensing laws. Just think—if it wasn't for the way our professional grandmothers smack our bot­toms and pack us off to bed when the clock strikes, we might still be swilling inferior champagne and deafening ourselves with saxophones in that revolting roadhouse instead of doing our souls a bit of good with all this.'

'When you start getting tolerant I'm always afraid you're sickening for something,' said Patricia Holm sleep­ily.

He turned his head to smile at her. She looked very lovely leaning back at his side, with her blue eyes half closed and her lips softly shaped with humour: he was always discover­ing her loveliness again with an exciting sense of surprise, as if it had so many facets that it was never twice the same. She was something that was always changing and yet never changed; as much a part of him as his