On this occasion the hood was up, and the side-curtains also, for it was a filthy night. The wind that whistled round the car arid blew frosty draughts through every gap in the so-called "all-weather" defenses seemed to have whipped straight out of the bleakest fastnesses of the North Pole. With it came a thin drizzle of rain that seemed colder than snow, which hissed glacially through a clammy sea mist, The Saint huddled the collar of his leather motoring coat up round his ears, and wondered if he would ever be warm again.
He drove through the little village, and came, a minute later, to his destination--a house on the outskirts, within sight of the sea. It was a long, low, rambling building of two stories, and a dripping sign outside proclaimed it to be the Beacon Inn, It was half-past nine, and yet there seemed to be no convivial gathering of villagers in any of the bars, for only one of the downstairs windows showed a light. In three windows on the first floor, however, lights gleamed from behind yellow blinds. The house did not look particularly inviting, but the night was particularly loathsome, and Simon Templar would have had no difficulty in choosing it even if he had not decided to stop at the Beacon Inn nearly twelve hours before.
He climbed out and went to the door. Here lie met his first surprise, for it was locked. He thundered on it impatiently, and after some time there was the sound of footsteps approaching from within. The door opened six inches, and a man looked out.
"What do you want?" he demanded surlily.
"Lodging for a night--or even two nights," said the Saint, cheerfully.
"We've got no rooms," said the man.
He would have slammed the door in the Saints face, but Simon was not unused to people wanting to slam doors in his face, and he had taken the precaution of wedging his foot in the jamb.
"Pardon me," he said pleasantly, "but you have got a room. There are eight bedrooms in this plurry pub, and I happen to know that only six of them are occupied."
"Well, you can't come in," said the man gruffly. "We don't want you."
"I'm sorry about that," said the Saint, still affably. "But I'm afraid you have no option. Your boss, being a licensed innkeeper, is compelled to give shelter to any traveller who demands it and has the money to pay for it. If you don't let me in, I can go to the magistrate to-morrow and tell him the story, and if you can't show a good reason for having refused me you'll be slung out. You might be able to fake up a plausible excuse by that time, but the notoriety I'd give you, and the police attention I'd pull down on you, wouldn't give you any fun at all. You go and tell your boss what I said, and see if he won't change his mind."
At the same time, Simon Templar suddenly applied his weight to the door. The man inside was not ready for this, and he was thrown off his balance. Simon calmly walked in, shaking the rain off his hat.
"Go on--tell your boss what I said," said the Saint encouragingly. "I want a room here to-night, and I'm going to get one."
The man departed, grumbling, and Simon walked over to the fire and warmed his hands at the blaze. The man came back in ten minutes, and it appeared at once that the Saint's warning had had some effect.
"The Guv'nor says you can have a room."
"I thought he would," said the Saint comfortably, and peeled off his coat. There were seventy-four inches of him, and he looked very lean and tough in his plus-fours,
"There's a car outside," he said. "Shove it in your garage, will you. Basher?"
The man stared at him.
"Who are you speaking to?" he demanded. "Speaking to you, Basher Tope," said the Saint pleasantly. "Put my car in the garage."
The man came nearer and scowled into Simon's face. The Saint saw alarm dawning in his eyes. "Who are you?" asked Tope hoarsely, "Are you a split?"
"I am," admitted the Saint mendaciously. "We wondered where you'd got to, Basher. You've no idea how we miss your familiar face in the dock, and all the wardens at Wormwood Scrubs have been feeling they've lost an old friend."
Basher's mouth twisted.
"We don't want none of you damned flatties here," he said. "The Guv'nor better hear of this."
"You can tell the Guv'nor anything you like after you've attended to me," said the Saint languidly. "My bag's in the car. Fetch it in. Then bring me the register, and push the old bus round to the garage while I sign. Then, when you come back, bring me a pint of beer. After that, you can run away and do anything you like."
It is interesting to record that Simon Templar got his own way. Basher Tope obeyed his injunctions to the letter before moving off with the obvious intention of informing his boss of the disreputable policeman whom he was being compelled to entertain. Of course, Basher Tope was prejudiced about policemen; and it must be admitted that the Saint used menaces to enforce obedience. There was the little matter of a robbery with violence, for which Basher Tope had been wanted for the past month, as the Saint happened to know, and that gave him what many would consider to be an unfair advantage in the argument,
Left alone with a tankard of beer at his elbow, the register on his knee, a cigarette between his lips, and his fountain-pen poised, Simon read the previous entries with interest before making his own. The last few names were those which particularly occupied his attention:
A.E. Crantor Bristol British
Gregory Marring London British
E. Tregarth London British
Professor Bernhard Raxel Vienna Austrian
All these entries were dated about three weeks before, and none had been made since.
Simon Templar smiled, and signed directly under the last entry;
Professor Rameses Smith-Smyth-Smythe..
Timbuctoo, Patagonian
"And still," thought the Saint, as he carefully blotted the page, "the question remains--who is E. Tregarth?"
The saint went to bed early that night, and he had not seen any of the men he hoped to find. That fact failed to trouble him, for he reckoned that the following day would give him all the time he needed for making the acquaintance of Messrs. Raxel, Marring, and Crantor.
He got up early the next morning and went out to have a look round. The mist had cleared, and although it was still bitterly cold the sky was clear and the sun shone. Standing just outside the door of the inn, in the road, he could see on his left the clustered houses of the village of Llancoed, of which the nearest was about a hundred yards away. On the other side of the road was a tract of untended ground which ran down to the sea, two hundred yards away. A cable's length from the shore, a rusty and disreputable-looking tramp steamer, hardly larger in size than a sea-going tug, rode at anchor. A thin trickle of black smoke wreathed up into the still air from her single funnel, but apart from that she showed no signs of life.
Simon returned to the inn and discovered the dining room.
It contained only three tables, and only one of these was laid. In the summer, presumably, it catered for the handful of holiday makers who were attracted by the quietness of the spot, for there were green-painted chairs and tables stacked up under a tarpaulin outside; but in December the place was deserted except for the villagers, and those would be likely to eat at home. The table was laid for four. The Saint chose the most comfortable of the selection of uninviting chairs that offered themselves, and thumped on the table with the handle of a knife to attract attention. It was Tope who answered.
"Breakfast," said the Saint laconically. "Two boiled eggs, toast, marmalade, and a pint of coffee."
Tope informed him that the table he occupied was engaged, and Simon mildly replied that he was not interested.