That Miles Hallin had left London late was only one of his inventions. He had, as a matter of fact, been in that spot for several hours. He was an expert electrician--though the job he had had to do was fairly simple. It had been the digging that had taken the time. . . .
He had an ingenious mind. The Saint would have been sheerly delighted to hear the story that Nigel Perry had heard. "If you must have melodrama, lay it on with a spade," was one of the Saint's own maxims; and certainly Miles Hallin had not tyrannized his imagination.
There was also a thoroughness about Hallin which it gave the Saint great pleasure to recall in after years. Even in murder he was as thorough as he had been in fostering the legend of his charmed life. A lesser man would simply have pushed Perry over the very convenient precipice,
"But even at that time," the Saint would say, "Hallin clung to the idea that after all he might get away with something. If he'd simply shoved Nigel off the cliff he'd have had trouble with the body. So he dug a neat grave, and put Nigel in it to die; so all our sweet Miles had to do afterwards was to come back and remove the telephone and fill up the hole. You can't say that wasn't thorough."
Hallin pulled on a thick rubber glove; and then he struck a match and cupped it in his other hand. He looked once at his watch. And his face was perfectly composed as he jerked over the lever of his switch,
"We'd better walk from here," said the Saint.
Teal nodded.
He leaned forward and spoke a word to the driver, and the police car pulled into the side of the road, and stopped there.
The detective levered himself out with a grunt, and inspected the track in front of them with a jaundiced eye.
"We might have gone on to the top of the hill," he said; and the Saint laughed without mirth.
"We might not," said the Saint. "Hallin's place is right by the top of the hill, and we aren't here to advertise ourselves."
"I suppose not," said Teal wistfully.
The driver came round the car and joined them, bringing the electric flashlights that were part of their outfit, and Teal took one and tested it. The Saint did the same. They looked at each other in the light.
"You seem to know a lot about this place," Teal said.
The Saint smiled.
"I came down from London last week especially to have a look at it," he answered, and Teal's eyes narrowed.
"Did you bring any bombs with you?" he asked.
Simon turned his flashlight up the road. "I'm afraid I forgot to," he murmured. "And now, shall we proceed with the weight-reducing, Fatty?"
They set off in a simmering silence, Teal and the Saint walking side by side, and the chauffeur bringing up the rear. As they went, the Saint began to sing, under his breath, some ancient ballad about "Oh, How a Fat Girl Can Love"; and Teal's breathing seemed to become even more laboured than was warranted by the steepness of the hill. The driver, astern, also sounded as if he were having difficulty with his respiratory effects.
They plodded upwards without speaking for some time, preoccupied with their respective interests; and at last it was Teal who stopped and S broke the silence.
"Isn't that a car up there?" he said.
He pointed along the beam of his torch, and the Saint looked.
"It surely is something like a car," admitted the Saint thoughtfully. "That's queer!"
He quickened his pace and went into the lead. Then the other two caught him up again; he was standing still, a few yards from the car, with -his flashlight focused on the number plate.
"One of Hallin's cars," said the Saint.
He moved quickly round it, turning his light on the tires: they were all perfectly sound. The petrol gauge showed plenty of fuel. He put his hand on the radiator: it was hot.
"Well, well, well!" said the Saint.
Teal, standing beside him, began to flash his torch around the side of the road.
"What's that tin doing there?" he said.
"I do not know, my chubby cherub," said the Saint,
But he reached the tin first and lifted it up. It was an empty petrol can. He turned it upside down over his palm, and shook it.
"Did he fill up here?" said Teal, and the Saint shook his head.
"The can's as dry as a successful bootlegger's politics. It's an old one. And I should say--Teal, I should say it was put here to make a place. Look at the mark in the grass!"
He left Teal to it, and moved along the road, searching the turf at the side. Then he came back on the other side. His low exclamation brought Teal trotting.
"Someone's doing a midnight cross-country," said the Saint.
He pointed.
"I can't see anything," said Teal.
"You wouldn't," said the Saint disparagingly. "Now, if they'd only thought to leave some cigarette ash for you to put under a microscope, or a few exciting bloodstains---''
Teal choked.
"Look here, Templar--"
"Teal," said the Saint, elegantly, "you drip."
He sprang lightly over the ditch and headed into the darkness, ignoring the other two; and after a moment's hesitation, they followed.
The assurance with which the Saint moved over a his trail was uncanny. Neither of the others could see the signs which he was able to pick up as rapidly as he could have picked up a plain path; but they were townsmen both, trained for a different kind of tracking.
Perhaps they travelled for fifty yards. And then the Saint stopped dead, and the other two came up on either side of him. His lighted torch aimed downwards, and they followed it with their own; but again neither of them could see anything remarkable.
"What is it this time?" asked Teal.
"I saw an arm," said the Saint, "An arm and a gun. And it went into the ground. Put your lights out!"
Without understanding, they obeyed.
And, in the darkness, the Saint leaped.
His foot turned on a loose stone, throwing him to %his knees; and at the same time he heard a metallic click that meant only one thing to him: an automatic had been fired--and had failed to fire.
He spun round. Holding his torch at arm's length away from him, he switched it on again. And he gasped.
"Nigel!"
The boy was wrestling with the sliding jacket of the gun. It seemed to have jammed. And he bared his teeth into the light.
"You swine!" he said.
The Saint stared.
"Nigel! It's me--Simon Templar--"
"I know,"
The automatic reloaded with a snap, and Perry aimed it deliberately. And then Teal's hand and arm flashed into the beam of light, caught Perry's wrist, and twisted sharply upwards. Another hand snatched the gun away.
"You devils!"
Perry got his wrist free with a savage wrench, and rolled out of the hole where he had been lying. He gathered himself, crouched, and leaped at the light. Simon put out one foot, and brought him down adroitly.
"Nigel, don't be a big boob!"
For answer the youngster squirmed to his feet again, with something like a sob, and made a second reckless rush.
The Saint began to feel bored.
He switched out his torch and ducked. His arms fastened about Ferry's waist, his shoulder nestled into Perry's chest; he tightened his grip decisively.
"If you don't stop it, Nigel," he said, "I'll break your back."
Perry went limp suddenly. Perhaps he had never dreamed of being held with such a strength. The Saint's arms locked about him like steel bands.
"What's the matter with him?" inquired Teal lethargically, and Simon grunted.
"Seems to have gone loco," he murmured.
Perry's ribs creaked as he tried to breathe.
"It's all right," he said. "I know all about you. You--"