Prelude For War

another neurotic megalomaniac adding itself to the rising clamour of the crazy discords of Europe, the coming gen­ erations reared to believe in terrorism at home and war abroad as the apotheosis of a heroic destiny, children marching with toy guns as soon as they could walk, merging easily into the long crawling lines of new legions more piti­less than Caesar's. He saw the peaceful countryside before him gouged into swamps and craters where torn flesh rotted faster than the scavenging rats could eat; the long red tongues of the guns licking upwards into the dark as they thundered their dreadful litany; the first rose-pink glow of fire, deepening to crimson as it leaped up, flickering, spreading its red aura fanwise across the sky until the black silhouettes of trees could be seen clearly stamped against it ... until with an odd sense of shock, as if he were coming out of another dream, the Saint realized that that at least was no vision—that his eyes really were seeing the scarlet reflection of swelling flame beyond the distant trees.

He pointed.

'Look.'

Patricia sat up.

'Anyone would say it was a fire,' she said interestedly.

Simon Templar grinned. His own reverie was swept away as quickly as it had begun—for that moment.

'I'll bet it's a fire,' he said. 'And in this neck of the woods the chances are that the nearest fire brigade is miles away. We'd better drift along and look it over.'

He would never forget that fire. It was the beginning of the adventure.

2

As his foot came down on the accelerator his hand found the lever that opened the cutout, and the whisper of the great car turned into a deep-throated roar. They were dragged against the back of the seat as it surged forward with a sudden terrific access of power, and the susurration of the tires on the roadway rose to a shrill whine. It was as if an idly roaming tiger had suddenly been stung to vicious life.

The Saint had begun to drive.

He had no gift of second sight to tell him what that fire was to mean; but just as a fire it was sufficient. It might be fun. And he was going there—in a hurry now. And in his mercurial philosophy that was enough. His eyes had narrowed and come to life with the zest of the moment, and a shadow of his last smile lingered half remembered on his lips. . . . Half a mile further on a side road opened sharply to the right, leading in the direction of the red glow. As he approached it, the Saint shifted his foot from the accelerator to the brake and wrenched the wheel round; the rear wheels whipped round with a scream of skidding rubber, spun, bit at the road again, took hold, and cata­pulted the car forward again at right angles to its previous course as the Saint's toe returned to the accelerator.

'That's how these racing blokes do it,' he explained.

Patricia lighted two cigarettes.

'What do they do when they want to turn quickly?' she inquired tranquilly.

The way Simon slanted one of the cigarettes between his lips was its own impudent answer. The vivid red stain in the sky was almost straight ahead of them now, growing so that it blotted out the stars, and they were rushing towards it down the narrow lane with the speed of a hurricane. They squealed round another bend, and once more the Saint jammed on the brakes. On their left was a half-timbered lodge beside broad iron gates that opened on to a curving drive.

'This should be it,' said the Saint; and again the great car seemed to pivot on its locked front wheels to make the turn.

In another moment they had the acrid smell of burning wood sharp in their nostrils. They swept round a semicircu­lar channel of trees, and in an instant they were caught full in the red glare as if they had been picked up by quivering floodlights. Simon let the Hirondel coast to a breathless standstill beside a broad close-cropped lawn and hitched himself up to sit on the back of the seat for a better view.

'It is a fire,' he decided, with profound satisfaction.