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it. He stood on one foot, leaving his mouth open for future employment, and
scratched his head, frowning vaguely. Annette Vickery went on, without paying
any attention to him:
"Of course, Tim went to prison. I suppose they really meant to be kind to
him. They only gave him eighteen months. They said he was obviously the victim
of somebody much older and more experienced. I believe he might have got off
altogether if he'd put them onto Jarving, who was the man they really wanted.
But Tim wouldn't do it. And he swore he'd never forgive me if I said anything.
I suppose I shouldn't have taken any notice. But he was so emphatic. I was
afraid. I didn't know what the others might have done to him if he'd given
them away. I I didn't say anything. So Tim went to prison."
"How long ago was that?"
"He came out three weeks ago. He was let off some of his sentence for good
conduct. I was the only one who knew when he was coming out. Jarving tried to
make me tell him, but I wouldn't. I wanted to try and keep Tim out of his way.
And Tim said he wouldn't go back. He got a job in a printing works at Dulwich,
through the Prisoners' Aid Society; and he was going to take up drawing again
in his spare time and try to make a decent living at it. I believed he would.
I still believe it.
But that pound note you changed ... it was part of some money he gave me only
yesterday, to pay back some that I'd lent him. He said he'd sold some cartoons
to a magazine."
The Saint put down his cigarette and picked up the coffee pot. He nodded.
"I see. But that still doesn't tell me why you had to go to the Barnyard Club
and get pinched."
"That's what I still don't understand. I'm only trying to tell you everything
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that happened. Jarving rang me up this evening and asked if he could see me. I
made excuses I didn't want to see him. Then he said there'd be trouble for Tim
if I didn't. He told me to meet him at the Barnyard Club. I had to go."
"And what was the trouble?"
"He'd only started to tell me when the police came in. He wanted to know
where he could get hold of Tim. I wouldn't tell him. He said, 'Look here, I'm
not trying to get your brother in trouble again. This isn't anything to do
with me. It's somebody else who wants to see him.' I still didn't believe him.
Then he said he'd give me this man's name and address himself, and I could
give it to Tim myself, and Tim could go there on his own. But he said Tim had
got to go, somehow."
"Did he give you the name and address?"
"Yes. He wrote it down on a piece of paper, just before------"
"Have you got it?"
She opened her bag and took out a scrap of paper torn from a wine list. Simon
took it and glanced over the writing.
And in that instant all his lazy good humour, all the relaxed and patient
quiet with which he had listened to her story, were swept away as if a silent
bomb had annihilated them.
"Is this it?" he said aimlessly; and she found his clear blue eyes on her,
for that moment absolutely without mockery, raking her face with a blaze of
azure light that was the most dynamic thing she had ever seen.
"That's it," she said hesitantly. "I've never heard the name before------"
"I have."
The Saint smiled. He had been marking time since the last gorgeous climax
which his reckless impetuosity had given him, feeling his way towards the next
move almost like an artist waiting for renewed inspiration; but he knew now
where he was going on. He looked again at the scrap of paper on which
outrageous fortune had jotted down his cue. On it was written:
Ivar Nordsten Hawk Lodge, St. George's Hill, Weybridge.
"I want to know why one of the richest men in Europe is so anxious to meet
your brother," he said. "And I think your brother will have to keep the
appointment to find out."
He saw the fear struggling back into her eyes.
"But------"
The Saint laughed and shook his head. He indicated Hoppy Uniatz, who had
transferred his balance to the other foot and his scratching operations to his
left ear.
"There's your brother, darling. He may not have all the artistic gifts of the
real Timothy, but he's a handy man in trouble, as I told you. I'll lend him to
you free of charge. What d'you say?"
"Hot diggety," said Mr. Uniatz.
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IV
WHEN Annette Vickery woke up, the sun was streaming into her bedroom window,
and she looked out into a wide glade of pine trees and silver birches lifting
from rolling banks of heather and bracken. It was hard to believe that this
was less than twenty miles from London, where so many strange things had
happened in the darkness a few hours ago, and where all the forces of Scotland
Yard would still be searching for her. They had driven down over the dark
glistening roads in the Saint's Hirondel a very different proposition from the
spavined taxi which he had driven before after a telephone call which he put
through to a Weybridge number; and when they arrived there were lights in the
house, and a gruff-voiced man who walked with a curious strutting limp waiting
to put the car away without any indication that he was at all surprised at his
master arriving at four o'clock in the morning with two guests. Whisky,
sandwiches, and a steaming pot of coffee were set out on a table in the living
room; and the Saint grinned.
"Orace is used to me," he explained, "If I rang up and told him I was
arriving with three hungry lions and a kidnapped bishop, he wouldn't even
blink."
It was the same man with the limp who came in with a cup of tea in the
morning.
"Nice day, miss," he said.
He put the cup down on the table beside the bed and looked at her
pugnaciously he had a heavy walrus moustache which made it permanently
impossible for anyone to tell when he was smiling.
"Yer barfs ready," he said, as if he were addressing a dumb recruit on a
parade ground, "an' brekfuss'll be ready narf a minnit."
It was only another curiosity in the stream of fantastic happenings that had
carried her beyond all the horizons of ordinary life. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]