“Naturally,” Drew said, hardening
his tone again. “Naturally you would. The note conveniently specifies
that you
and only you may bring the money. Let’s
assume that you are
not a part of this plot. That assump
tion may be erroneous, but for the sake
of argument…”
Simon held up his hand and gave Drew a look of cold
contempt.
“I was afraid you might make such nasty insinuations,”
he said levelly. “So, to demonstrate my
sincerity, I’ll sim
ply remove myself
from the whole situation and let you
worry
about it.”
He stepped toward the door. Drew moved after
him
quickly, his face showing sudden panic.
“No … Wait. I
…
I
apologise.”
The Saint turned back, his expression only
slightly
softer, making it plain that he was not quite sure that
the apology
was adequate.
“What were you saying then?”
Drew opened his mouth, paused, and closed it
again.
“Ah … I’m not sure,” he said.
“I think I can read your mind,”
said the Saint. “You were going to ask what would prevent me from setting
off for the crossroads with
your money and going straight
on to Brazil
without even slowing down.”
“It’s a natural thought,” Drew
said, with a conspicuous
lack of the truculence his voice had carried
a few mo
ments before.
“I suppose it is, for the kind of man
who would do it,”
Simon responded pleasantly. “But I’m not
that sort of
man.
And besides, they have an old friend of mine along
with your daughter, and I wouldn’t like to be responsible
for his being hurt. Does that reassure you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll have the money by tomorrow
night?”
Drew nodded.
“Yes. Where will I find you?”
“I’ll be staying here tonight and for
the day tomorrow.
I’m getting tired of covering the road between Dublin
and Lough
Reagh. At four tomorrow afternoon I’ll come
to your suite here
and pick up the cash. Then if everything goes well, Mildred and my friend will
be free be
fore
midnight.”
“All right,” said Drew. “I’ll
have to trust you.”
Simon paused at the door.
“Yes. You should. Don’t try to follow me
or have me
followed. It may seem like a smart idea at first thought,
but if Brine and Mullins suspected anything they might
bolt before I could
pay them—and possibly they’d do
something drastic on their way out.”
“It’ll be in your hands then,” Drew
said.
For the first time he showed signs of letting
his ten
derer emotions get control of him. His huge eyes moist
ened and
his mouth threatened to tremble.
“And … tell Mildred,” he
mumbled, “that who she
marries is her own business, if that’s how it
has to be. I
won’t stand in the way.”
“I’ll deliver the message. It seems like
a wise one.”
The Saint looked at Drew more intently. His
final re
quest, toward which it might be said that all the earlier
part of his conversation had been secretly building,
would have
to be phrased in such a way as to arouse no
suspicions. To slip
now would be like settling weight on a
false footing just
inches before reaching the top of a
precipice.
“There’s just one thing I’m curious
about,” he said.
“What?” Drew asked.
“You’re very concerned about who has
captured your daughter, and all about my character. I’m sure you’ll have
me checked
out thoroughly before I get my hands on
that money tomorrow.
The one thing you haven’t thought
to ask is whether or not the kidnappers
have your
daughter.”
Drew was obviously taken aback. He looked a
bit like
a schoolboy caught in a ridiculous arithmetical error.
“Well,” he said defensively,
“Brine and Mullins are far
overdue in contacting me—which seems to
confirm your
story. My daughter, after all, is missing. And you’re so
anxious for
me to trust in your honesty: it was you who was with her, and who told me you
left her in the house where you found the note. I don’t even understand what
you mean,
now …”
“I mean,” said Simon, “that I
have never seen your
daughter—before yesterday. Do you have a
picture of
her?”
Drew seemed flabbergasted that the Saint
would bring up such a crucial question of identification at that late
moment.
“Yes,” he said. “I brought
this with me in case I had to
ask the police to put out a public
alarm.”
He went into the bedroom which adjoined the
living
room of the suite and returned with a large photograph
in his
hand.
Simon took it and studied it. Then he smiled.
“Yes,” he said, taking a last
satisfied look. “That settles
it.”
9
The fat man called Brine sat in an old
Austin-Healey
at
the crossing of two unpaved roads six miles from the
village of Birr. It was two minutes before nine o’clock,
and though the man must have been tired, since he
could
have had little sleep in the past twenty-four hours, he was
as alert as a sentry on the border of enemy
territory. His
head jerked toward the
direction of the slightest sound,
and
the Saint was sure that his hand must never be far
from the ignition key, so that he could start the
engine
and be off at the first threat
of danger.
So the Saint, who was crouched in the trees just behind
Brine’s car, had to be very quiet. The night was
cloudy
and thus exceptionally dark.
That was one advantage.
Another
advantage was the mild but gusty wind which
had come along with the cloudy weather. The noises it
caused in the branches of trees and bushes would
con
tinually distract Brine and also
tend to cover any sounds
the Saint
might make. Simon could have made do with
out those advantages, but their existence was convenient
and seemed a good omen.
He crept forward like a stalking leopard into
the road
behind the car, carrying something in one hand which
might have been even more
alarming to Brine than a gun,
had Brine been
able to see it. It was a large can of white
paint—a half gallon—with a strip of adhesive tape in the
middle of both the top and the bottom.
When he had reached the rear of the car, Simon
deftly
and silently hooked the handle of the paint can over one of the bumper
guards. Then he pulled the strips of tape
from the top and
bottom. Under each piece of tape was
a small hole, and white paint began to
drip slowly but
regularly on to the dark earth of the road.
With as little sound as he had made in
coming, the
Saint moved away from the automobile and melted into
the murky
forest like a passing shadow.
When he was a safe distance from Brine, he
quickened
his pace and quickly covered the two hundred yards of
woods which separated the Austin-Healey from his own
car. He had arrived
in the area before Brine and parked in an obscure little lane which was visible
from neither
of the roads which formed the crossing marked on the
crude map the kidnappers had left behind at Kelly’s
house. Now that his private mission with
the can of paint
was finished, it was a
simple matter to start his engine, drive down to the crossroads, and arrive
just on time for
the meeting.
His car was facing Brine’s when he drove up,
and in
the glare of his own lights he could see Brine gesturing for him to drive
alongside. Apparently the erstwhile
detective wanted to keep the road ahead
clear for a fast
getaway, and also had no intention of leaving the security
of the driver’s seat of his car.
Simon stopped so that his open window was less
than
two feet from Brine’s. He was greeted with a dim view
of Brine’s
pudgy face and the snout of a revolver.
“Got the money?” Brine asked nervously.
Simon, remaining in his car, picked up the attache case
which Drew had given him in the afternoon and
handed
it out through his window.
Brine took it, dropped it onto
the
seat beside him, and kept his eye and gun on the
Saint while his free hand fumbled with the latch. A few
seconds later he held a handful of neatly stacked
and
banded bills alongside the gun,
so that he could check
their
genuineness without dropping his guard. Then he
put them back and inspected another handful. Ob
viously he was too nervous even to think of
counting to see if the correct amount was there.
“This better be right,” he said.
“Any tricks and it’s too
bad.”
“It’s good money,” the Saint said
lightly. “I wouldn’t
mind having some of it myself.”
Brine snorted.
“Give me your car key,” he said.
Simon took the key from the ignition and
handed it to Brine, who promptly threw it off into the bushes.
“Now, Mr. Brine,” said the Saint
with mild reproach,
“that isn’t very original. But at least it shows you
learn by example. How long did you have to dive in that river the
other day
before you found yours?”
“I haven’t any time for talking,
Templar.”
Brine started his car.
“What about Mildred and Kelly?”
Simon asked.
“They’ll be let loose somewhere near a
telephone.” He
grinned. “Now if I were you I’d start hunting for
that
key.”
He pulled quickly away as Simon leaned down,
tore a
strip of tape from a niche under the dashboard, and
inserted
one of his spare keys into the ignition. The satis
faction he got from
reaping the benefit of that bit of
foresight was minor compared to his
relief at seeing—
when he flicked on his headlights and turned around—
the spots
of white paint clearly marking the route by
which Brine’s car had
disappeared.
Simon set a rate of speed which he felt would
keep
Brine from widening the gap between them. The white
spots
turned onto a paved road which led south for
several miles, and
then turned off into the woods again.
The spots were difficult to see on the
rocky lane, but it did
not really matter since once on that
particular pathway
it would have been impossible for a car to deviate to one
side or the other without leaving behind a swathe of
broken
undergrowth.
A little further on the woods became more
sparse, and
the crude road wound up the side of a hill. At the top of
the hill was one of those broken-down castles which do
so much to
enhance the beauty of Irish tourist brochures.
Simon could see its single round tower black against the
shredded clouds of the faintly luminous sky. With
the
lights of his car off, he drove
to the edge of a grove which
was
within easy walking distance of the castle, but was
far enough away that no one on top of the hill
could have heard the sound of his engine or the careful opening and
closing
of the door.
The Saint stood for a minute looking up the slope at the crumbled
heap of stone. If Brine or his partner had dis
covered the paint can on the bumper of the car, there
could be trouble. The run up to the castle could be
diversionary, and Simon would find
that the white spots
of paint led
right off down the other side. That would mean, at the least, the loss of
precious time. Worse, if
Brine was on
to the fact that he was being tailed, he
could be lying in ambush
somewhere among the broken
walls above. But
the Saint preferred to think that luck
would
stay with him. There was, after all, no logical
reason for Brine to walk around and take a look at the
rear of his car.