Saint's Getaway Read Online Free PDF Page B

leaping ahead into a whirlwind
of surmise and leaving that involuntary explosion of rejoicing far behind
it.
    He had summarized for Monty everything that
he knew or guessed himself—in a small nutshell. He had divined the
situa tion right from the overture, had been irrevocably confirmed in his
suspicion in the first act, and had turned his deductions over and
over in his mind during the interval until they had taken to themselves
the coherence of concrete knowledge. And in his last sentence he had epitomized
the facts with a staccato conciseness that lammed them together like a
herd of chort ling
toads.
    They failed lamentably to depress him. Never
again would he mourn over his lost virtue. What had to be would be. He had angled for adventure, and it had been handed to him abundantly.
Admittedly the violent decease of Stanislaus com plicated matters to
no small extent, but that only piled on proof that here was
the authentic article as advertised. Who ever the gangs were
that he was up against, they had already provided prompt and
efficient evidence that they were worthy of his steel. His
heart warmed towards them. His toes yearned after their posteriors. They were
his boy friends.
    His brain went racing on towards the next
move. The other two were watching him expectantly, and for their benefit
he continued with his thoughts aloud.
    “If anybody is wanting to get out,”
he said, “this is the time to go. The birds who bumped off Stanislaus are
going to have lots more to say before they’re through, and it’s only a question of hours before they say it. The guy who did the bumping has gone home
to report, and the only thing we don’t know is how long they’ll take to
get organized for the come-back. Even now—— ”
    He broke off and stood listening.
    In the silence, the gentle drumming on the
outer door of the suite, which had commenced as an almost inaudible vi bration,
rose slowly through a gradual crescendo until they could all hear it
quite distinctly; and the Saint’s brows levelled over his eyes in a
dark line. Yet he rounded off his speech without a tremor of expression.
    “Even now,” said the Saint
unemotionally, “it may be too late.”
    Monty spoke.
    “The police—or Stanislaus’s pals—or the
knife experts?”
    Simon smiled.
    “We shall soon know,” he murmured.
    There was a gun gleaming in his hand—a wicked
little snub- nosed Webley automatic that fitted snugly and
inconspicuously into the palm. He slipped back the jacket and replaced it
in his pocket, keeping his hand there, and crossed the room with his swift,
swinging stride. And as he reached the door, the knocking stopped.
    The Saint halted also, with the furrows
deepening in his forehead. Not once since it began had that knocking
possessed the timbre which might have been expected from it—either of peremptory
summons or stealthy importunity. It had been more like a long
tattoo artistically performed for its own sake, with a sort of
patient persistence that lent an eerie quality to its abrupt stoppage. And the
Saint was still circling warily round the puzzle when the solution was launched
at him with a smooth purposefulness that made his heart skip one beat.
    “Please do nothing rash,” said a
mellifluous voice in perfect English.
    The Saint spun round.
    In the communicating doorway of the sitting
room stood a slim and elegant man in evening dress, unarmed except for the
gold-mounted ebony cane held lightly in his white-gloved fingers.
For three ticked seconds the Saint stared at him in dizzy incredulity; and
then, to Monty Hayward’s amazement, he sagged limply against the wall and
began to laugh.
    “By the great hammer toe of the holy
prophet Hezekiah,” said the Saint ecstatically—“the Crown Prince Rudolf !”
     
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    The prince stroked his silky figment of
moustache, and be hind his hand the corners of his mouth twitched into the shadow of
a smile.
    “My dear young friend, this is a most
unexpected pleasure! When