Authors: Leslie Charteris
His eyes swept it
desperately from top to bottom. And
as he looked at it,
two pink fingers of flame curled out from
underneath
it. The floor of the room was already taking
fire.
But those little jagged
fangs of flame meant that there
was a small space between
the bottom of the door and the
floor boards. If he could
only push the key through so that
it fell on the
floor inside he might be able to fish it out
through
the gap under the door. He whipped out his pen
knife
and probed at the keyhole.
At the first attempt the
blade slipped right through the
hole without encountering
any resistance. The Saint bent
down and brought his eye
close to the aperture. There was
enough firelight inside
the room for him to be able to see
the whole outline
of the keyhole. And there was no key
in it.
For one dizzy second his
brain whirled. And then his lips thinned out, and a red glint came into his
eyes that
owed nothing to the reflections of the
fire.
Again he fought his way
incredibly through the hellish barrier of flame that shut off the end of the
corridor. The
charred boards gave ominously under
his feet, but he hardly
noticed it. He had
remembered noticing something through the suffocating murk on the landing. As
he beat out his smouldering clothes again he located it—a huge medieval
battle-axe suspended from two hooks on the wall at the
top of the stairs. He measured the distance and jumped, snatching
eagerly. The axe came away, bringing the two
hooks
with it, and a shower of plaster fell in his face and half blinded him.
That shower of grit
probably saved his life. He slumped
against the wall,
trying to clear his streaming eyes; and
that
brief setback cheated death for the hundredth time in
its
long duel with the Saint’s guardian angel. For even as
he
straightened up again with the axe in his hands, about
twenty
feet of the passage plunged downwards with a heart-
stopping
crash in a wild swirl of flame, leaving nothing but
a gaping chasm through
which fire roared up in a fiendish
fountain
that sent him staggering back before its intolerable
heat. The last chance of reaching that locked room
was
gone.
A great weariness fell on
the Saint like a heavy blanket
pressing him down. There
was nothing more that he
could do.
He dropped the battle-axe
and stumbled falteringly down
the blazing stairs. There
was no more battle now to keep
him going. It was sheer
blind automatism rather than any
conscious effort on his
part that guided him through another
inferno to come
reeling out through the front door, an amazing tatterdemalion outcast from the
jaws of hell, to
fall on his hands and knees on the
terrace outside. In a
dim faraway manner he was
aware of hands raising him;
of a remembered voice, low
and musical, close to his ear.
“I know you like warm
climates, boy, but couldn’t you
have got along with a trip
to
Africa ?”
He smiled. Between him and
Patricia there was no need
for the things that other
people would have had to say.
They spoke their own
language. Grimy, dishevelled, with
his clothes blackened and singed and his
eyes bloodshot and
his body smarting from a
dozen minor burns, the Saint
smiled
at her with all his old incomparable impudence.
“I was trying to
economize,” he said. “And now I shall
probably
catch my death of cold.”
Already the cool night air,
flowing like nectar into his
parched lungs, was
beginning to revive him, and in a few
minutes his superb resilience would do
the rest. He reviewed
his injuries more systematically,
and realized that com
paratively
speaking he was almost miraculously unscathed.
The thing that had come
nearest to downing him was the
smoke and fumes of the
fire; and the effects of that were dispersing themselves like magic now that he
could breathe
again without feeling as if he were
inhaling molten ash.
He cocked an eye at the
stolid country policeman who
was holding his other arm.
“Do you have to be
quite so professional, Reginald?”
he
murmured. “It makes me feel nervous.”
The constable’s hold
relaxed reassuringly.
“I’d get along and see
the doctor, sir, if I was you. He’s
in the lodge now
with Lady Sangore.”
“Is that the old
trout’s name ? And I’ll bet her husband
is
at least a general.” The Saint was starting to get his
bearings, and his legs began to feel as if they belonged to him again.
He searched for a cigarette. “Thanks, but Lady
Sangore
can have him. I’d rather have a drink. I wonder
if
we could get any co-operation from the owner of this
jolly
little bonfire?”
“You mean Mr
Fairweather, sir? That’s him, coming
along now.”
While Simon had been inside
the house, a number of
other people had arrived
on the scene, and another police
man and a sergeant were
loudly ordering them to stand
back. Paying no attention
to this whatever, they swarmed
excitedly round the Saint,
all talking at once and completely
frustrating the fat
little Mr Fairweather, who seemed to
be trying to make a
speech. The voice of the general rose
above the confused
jabber like a foghorn.
“A fine effort, young man. A splendid
effort, by Gad 1 But
you shouldn’t have
tried it.”
“Tell the band to
strike up a tune,” said the Saint shortly.
“Did
anybody find a ladder?”
With his strength rapidly
coming back, he still fought against admitting defeat. His face was hard and
set and
the blue in his eyes was icy as he glanced over the
group.
“A ladder wouldn’t be
much use now,” said a quiet voice.
“The
flames are pouring out of his window. There isn’t a
hope.”
It was the square-jawed
man who spoke; and again it
seemed to Simon that there
was a faint sneer in his dark
eyes.
The Saint’s gaze turned
back to the house; and as if to
confirm what the other had
said there came from the blaze
a tremendous rumbling rending sound. Slowly,
with massive
deliberation, the roof began to
bend inwards, sagging in
the middle.
Faster and faster it sagged; and then, with
a shattering grinding roar like an avalanche, it crumpled
up and vanished. A great shower of golden sparks
shot
upwards and fell in a brilliant
rain over the lawns and
garden.
“You see?” said
the square man. “You did everything
you
could. But it’s lucky you turned back when you did. If
you
had reached his room, the chances are that you’d never
have
got back.”
Simon’s eyes slanted
slowly back to the heavy-set power
ful face.
It was true that there was
nothing more that he could
do. But now, for the first
time since the beginning of those
last mad minutes,
he could stop to think. And his mind went
back
to the chaotic questions that had swept through it for
one
vertiginous instant back there in the searing stench of
the fire.
“But I did reach his
room,” he answered deliberately.
“Only I
couldn’t get in. The door was locked. And the
key
wasn’t in it.”
“Really?”
The other’s tone expressed
perfunctory concern, but his
eyes no longer held their
glimmer of cold amusement. They
stared hard at Simon with
a cool, analytical steadiness, as
if weighing him up, estimating his
qualities and methodically
tabulating the
information for future reference.
And once more that queer
tingle of suspicion groped its
way through the Saint’s
brain. Only this time it was more
than a vague,
formless hunch. He knew now, beyond any
shadow
of doubt, with an uncanny certainty, that he was
on the
threshold of something which his inborn flair for the
strange
twists of adventure was physically incapable of
leaving
unexplored. And an electric ripple of sheer delight
brought
every fibre of his being to ecstatic life. His interlude of peace was over.
“Really,” he
affirmed flatly.
“Then perhaps you
were even luckier than you realize,”
said
the square man smoothly. If he meant to give the words
any
extra significance, he did it so subtly that there was no
single syllable on which an accusation could have been pinned. In point
of time it had only lasted for a moment,
that
silent and apparently unimportant exchange of glances;
and
after it there was nothing to show that a challenge had
been thrown
down and taken up. “If we can offer you what
hospitality we have left—I’m sure Mr Fairweather——
”
The Saint shook his head.
“Thanks,” he
said, “but I haven’t got far to go, and I’ve
got
a suitcase in the car.”
“Then I hope we shall
be seeing more of you.” The
square man turned. “I
suppose we should get along to the
lodge, Sir Robert.
We can’t be any more use here.”
“Harrumph,” said
the general. “Er—yes. A splendid
effort, young man.
Splendid. Ought to have a medal.
Harrumph.”
He allowed himself to be
led away, rumbling.
Mr Fairweather grasped the
Saint’s hand and pumped
it vigorously up and down.
He had recovered what must
have been his normal
tremendous dignity, and now he was
also able to make
himself heard.
“I shall take personal
steps,” he announced majestically,
“to
see that your heroism is suitably recognized.”
He stalked off after the
others, without stopping to
inquire the Saint’s name
and address.
Clanging importantly, the
first fire engine swept up the
gravel drive and came to a
standstill in front of the terrace.
4
“I’m glad they got
here in time to water the flowers,”
Simon
observed rather bitterly.
He was wondering how much
difference it might have
made if they had arrived
early enough to get a ladder to
the window of that locked
room. But the nearest town of
any size was Anford, about seven miles away,
and the possi
bility that they could have
arrived much sooner was purely
theoretical.
From the moment a fire like that took hold
the house was inevitably doomed.
The policeman who had been
holding his arm had moved
off during the
conversation, and the other spectators were
simply
standing around and gaping in the dumb bovine way
in
which spectators of catastrophes usually stand and gape.
Simon touched Patricia’s
arm.
“We might as well be
floating along,” he said. “The excitement seems to be over, and it’s
past our bedtime.”
They had got halfway to
the car when the police sergeant overtook them.
“Excuse me,
sir.”
“You are
forgiven,” said the Saint liberally. “What have
you done?”
“How did you happen to
be here, sir?”
“Me ? I just happened
to see the fire from the main road,
so I beetled over
to have a look at it.”
“I see.” The
sergeant wrote busily in his notebook. “Any
thing
else, sir?”
The Saint’s hesitation was
imperceptible. Undoubtedly
there had been various
things else; but it would have been
very complicated to
go into them. And when Simon Tem
plar had got the scent of
mystery in his nostrils, the last thing he wanted was to have the police blundering
along
the same keen trail—at least not before he had given a
good deal of thought to the pros and cons.