Leslie Charteris The Saint 19 Prelude For War

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moron who doesn't even know or care what it's all about. It must be that, or
the photograph doesn't mean anything. God knows how Kennet managed to take
it we never shall. He risked his life when he did it, and the risk caught up
with him in the end; but it's still a photograph that might make history. It
would prob-ably swing all except Marteau's most fanatical sympathizers against
him if it was published; under any government that Marteau wasn't running it
could send Luker to the guillo-tine. ..."
He went on talking not because he wanted to, but to give her the distraction
she had asked for. It grew darker and darker until he could no longer see her
at all. The time dragged on, and presently he had nothing new to say. Her own
contributions were only short, strained, apathetic sen-tences which left all
the burden of talking to him.
Presently he heard her stirring in an abrupt restless way which warned him
that the sedative was losing its effect. He was silent.
She shuffled again, coming closer, until her shoulder touched his. He could
feel her trembling. It would have helped if he could have held her. But his
wrists were bound so tightly that his hands were already numb; long ago he had
tried every trick he knew to release himself, but the knots had been too
scientifically tied, and anything with which he might have cut himself free
had been taken from him while he was unconscious.
Because there was nothing else he could do, he kissed her, more gently than he
had ever done before. For a while she gave herself up hungrily to the kiss;
and then she dragged her lips desperately away.
"Oh hell," she sobbed. "I always thought it'd be so marvellous if you ever did
that, and now it just makes every-thing worse."
"I know," he said. "It must be dreadful to feel so safe."
Then she giggled a little hysterically, and presently her head drooped on his
shoulder and they were quiet for a long time. He sat very still, trying to
strengthen and com-fort her with his own calm, and the truth is that his
thoughts were very far away.
In the kitchen two men sat smoking moodily. The plate on the kitchen table
between them was piled high with ash and the ends of stubbed-out cigarettes.
One of them was Pietri. He was not coloured in tasteful stripes any more, but
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a certain raw redness combined with an unusually clean appearance about his
face testified to the labour with which they had been removed. The shaven
baldness of his head was concealed by a loud tweed cap which he refused to
take off. The other man was quite young, with close-cropped fair hair and a
prematurely hardened face. In his coat lapel he wore the button badge of the
British Nazis.
He yawned, and said in the desultory way in which their conversation had been
conducted for some hours: "You know, it's a funny thing, but I never thought
I'd have the job of putting the Saint out of action. In a way, I used to
admire that fellow a bit at one time. Of course I knew he was a crook, but he
always seemed a pretty sound chap at heart. When I read about him in the
papers, I used to think he'd be worth having in the British Nazis. Of course
he de-serves what's coming to him, but I'm sort of glad I haven't got to give
it to him myself."
Pietri yawned more coarsely. He had no political lean-ings: he simply did what
he was paid to do. To him the British Nazis were nothing but a gang of
half-hearted ama-teur hooligans who got into scraps with the police and the
populace without the incentive of making money out of it, which proved that
they must be barmy. .
"You're new to this sort of thing, ain't you ?" he said pity-ingly.
"Oh, I don't know," said the other touchily. "I've beaten up plenty of
bastards in my time." He paused reminiscently. "I was in a stunt last Sunday,
when we broke up a Com-munist meeting in Battersea Park. We gave them a
revolu-tion all right. There was an old rabbi on the platform with long white
hair and white whiskers, and he was having a hell of a good time telling all
the bloody Reds a lot of lies about Hitler. He's having a good time in the
hospital now. I got him a beauty, smack in the mouth, and knocked his false
teeth out and broke his jaw." He sat up, cocking his ears. "Hullo this must be
Bravache at last."
He got up and went out of the kitchen and across the hall. His feelings were
mixed: they were compounded partly of pride, partly of a sort of uneasy awe.
He was a picked man, chosen because the leaders of the movement knew that his
loyalty and efficiency could be absolutely re-lied on; he was one of the first
to be entrusted with the busi-ness of liquidating an enemy. In future he would
probably be detailed again for similar deadly errands. He was one of the storm
troops, the striking force of the movement, and their duty was to be
merciless. As he opened the front door, the young British Nazi saw himself
being very strong and merciless, a figure of iron. It made him feel pretty
good.
A two-seater sports car had drawn up beside the black Packard that was parked
in the drive, and Bravache was already stumping up the steps. Dumaire followed
him. Their faces, like Pietri's, looked scoured and tender; and they also kept
their hats on. Bravache raised his hand perfunctorily as the British Nazi came
to attention and gave a full Fascist salute.
"The prisoners?" he said curtly.
"This way, Major."
The young British Nazi led the way briskly through the kitchen, opened the
scullery door and switched on the light. Lady Valerie stirred and gave a
little moan as the sudden blaze stabbed her eyes. Bravache bowed to her with
punctili-ous mockery, his lips parting in the unhumorous wolfish smile that
Simon remembered.
"Much as I regret to disturb you, mademoiselle, your presence is required at
the headquarters of the Sons of France."
Dumaire came past him and kicked Simon savagely in the ribs. Then he bent
over, grinning like a rat, and lightly touched the dried bloodstains on
Simon's cheeks.
"Blood is a better colouring than paint," he said.
He closed his fist and hit Simon twice in the face.
"Bleed, pig," he said. "I like the colour of your blood."
"It is red, at any rate," said the Saint unflinchingly. "Yours would be [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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