'They're leaving an hour earlier,' he said, speaking to Petrowitz. 'We haven't any time to waste.'
The other man rubbed his beard. 'You will be flying yourself?'
'Yes,' said Renway, as if defying contradiction. He motioned with his gun towards the door. 'Petrowitz will lead the way, Mr. Tombs.'
Simon felt that he was getting quite familiar with the billiard room, and almost suggested that the three of them should put aside their differences and stop for a game; but Renway had the secret panel open as soon as the Saint reached it. With the two men watching him, Simon went down the shaky wooden stair and heard the spring door close behind him.
He sat down on the bottom step, took out his cigarette case, and computed that if all the cellars in which he had been imprisoned as an adjunct or preliminary to murder had been dug one underneath the other, they would have provided the shaft of a diametric subway between England and the Antipodes. But his jailers had not always been so generous as to push him into the intestines of the earth without searching him; and his blue eyes were thoughtful as he took out his portable burgling kit again. Renway must have been going to pieces rapidly, to have overlooked such an obvious precaution as that; but that meant, if anything, that for a few mad hours he would be more dangerous than before. The attack on the gold plane would still be made, Simon realized, unless he got out in time to stop it. It was not until some minutes after he had started work on the door that he discovered that the panel which concealed it was backed by a solid plate of case-hardened steel. . . .
It was a quarter past six by his wrist watch when he started work; it was five minutes past seven when he got out. He had to dig his way through twelve inches of solid brick with a small screwdriver before he could get the claw of his telescopic jemmy behind the steel panel and break the lock inwards. Anyone who had come that way must have heard him; but in that respect his luck held flawlessly. Probably neither Renway nor Petrowitz had a doubt in their minds that the tempered steel plate would be enough to hold him.
He was tired and sweating when he got out, and his knuckles were raw in several places from accidental blows against the brickwork which they had suffered unnoticed in his desperate haste; but he could not stop. He raced down the long corridor and found his way through the house to the library. Nobody crossed his path. Renway had said that the regular servants would all be away, and the gang were probably busy at their appointed stations; but if anyone had attempted to hinder him, Simon with his bare hands would have had something fast and savage to say to the interference. He burst recklessly into the library and looked out of the French windows in time to see the grey shape of the Hawker pursuit plane skimming across the far field like a bullet and lofting airily over the trees at the end.
Simon lighted another cigarette very quietly and watched the grey ship climbing swiftly into the clear morning sky. If there was something cold clutching at his heart, if he was tasting the sourest narrowness of defeat, no sign of it could have been read on the tanned outline of his face.
After a second or two he sat down at the desk and picked up the telephone.
'Croydon 2720,' he called, remembering the number of the aerodrome.
The reply came back very quickly:
'I'm sorry--the line is out of order.'
'Then get me Croydon police station.'
'I'm afraid we can't get through to Croydon at all. All the lines seem to have gone wrong.'
Simon bit his lip.
'Can you get me Scotland Yard?'
He knew the answer to that inquiry also, even before he heard it, and realized that even at that stage of the proceedings he had underestimated Sir Hugo Renway. There would be no means of establishing rapid communication with any vital spot for some hours--that was because something might have gone wrong with the duplicate wireless arrangements, or one of the possible rescue ships might have managed to transmit a message.
The Saint blew perfect smoke rings at the ceiling and stared at the opposite wall. There was only one other wild solution. He had no time to try any other avenues. There would first be the business of establishing his bona fides, then of convincing an impenetrably skeptical audience, then of getting word through by personal messenger to a suitable headquarters--and the transport plane would be over the Channel long before that. But he remembered Renway's final decision--'None of the others must know'--and touched the switch of the table microphone.
'Kellard?' he said. 'This is Tombs. Get my machine out and warmed up right away.'
'Yessir,' said the mechanic, without audible surprise; and Simon Templar felt as if a great load had been lifted from his shoulders.
Probably he still had no chance, probably he Was still taking a path to death as certain as that Which he would have trodden if he had stayed in the cellar; but it was something to attempt-- something to do.
Of course, there was a radio station on the premises. Renway had said so. But undoubtedly it was well hidden. He might spend half an hour and more looking for it. ...
No--he had taken the only way. And if it was a form of spectacular suicide, it ought to have its diverting moments before the end.
It was only natural that in those last few moments he should think of Patricia. He took up the telephone again and called his own number at St. George's Hill. In ten seconds the voice of Orace, who never' seemed to sleep, answered him. 'They've gorn,' Orace informed him, with a slight sinister emphasis on the pronoun. 'Miss 'Olm says she's sleepin' at Cornwall 'Ouse. Nobody's worried 'er.'
Simon called another number.
'Hullo, sweetheart,' he said; and the Saintly voice had never been more gentle, more easy and light-hearted, more bubbling over with the eager promise of an infinite and adventurous future. 'Why, I'm fine. . . . No, there hasn't been any trouble. Just an odd spot of spontaneous combustion in the withered brain cells of Claud Eustace Teal--but we've had that before. I've got it all fixed. . . . Never mind how, darling. You know your Simon. This is much more important. Now listen carefully. D'you remember a guy named George Wynnis, that I've talked about soaking sometime? . . . Well, he lives at 366 South Aud-ley Street. He never gets up before ten in the morning, and he never has less than two thousand quid in his pockets. Phone Hoppy to join you, and go get that dough--now! And listen. Leave my mark behind!'
