“Who are you?” Alfonso stammered.
The point of the knife moved closer to the tip of his nose.
“I also dislike hearing questions,” the other told him. “I like asking them, though, and nothing pleases me more than hearing correct answers. If you tell me something, and I find out you were a naughty boy and didn’t tell me the truth, I’m going to give this little toy of yours back to you in a location you won’t enjoy. Now, how many people are in that house besides you?”
He pressed the point of the knife against the bulbous end of Alfonso’s nose much more gently, he was sure, than Alfonso had used it against his own victims, but firmly enough to produce immediate co-operation.
“Ah — three,” said Alfonso.
“Does that include the painter?”
“Painter?”
The knife, which had eased away, renewed its pressure.
“Is there a painter in there? An artist, painting a picture?”
“Yes.”
“And two guards besides you?”
“Yes.”
The Saint had waited after dropping Alfonso to see if another head would appear at the front door, or if an alarm would be raised. Neither had happened. If the door-guard’s absence was discovered, no harm would be done; it might even bring another of Caffin’s gang outside to expose himself to the Saint’s attentions. Meanwhile, Simon had been able to enter the lower floor of the house and make certain preparations before taking Alfonso off to the woods.
“They’re upstairs, right?” Simon continued. “I want to know which window belongs to the room where the painter is.”
He propped his captive up against a tree trunk so that he could see the farmhouse and give a detailed description of the arrangements on the second floor. When Simon was satisfied, he dragged the big man farther into the copse and tied him securely to a sapling.
“One more question: Is anybody else supposed to come out here tonight?”
“I don’t know. Nobody say.” Simon knotted a gag over his prisoner’s mouth. “Okay — why not catch up on your beauty sleep,” he suggested. “But if you should feel the temptation to try to make any noise, I want you to know that I’ll be the one who’ll come and give you a very sharp answer.”
“Nng,” said Alfonso.
Simon had been intrigued with the possibilities of the farm-house’s chimney ever since he had first started planning his attack. It rose at the end of the house where the trees of the encroaching woods leaned most closely towards the building, had the place been regularly inhabited, no owner would have allowed such intimacies between the branches and his roof. As it was, the trees furnished a perfect means for the Saint to climb to the top of the house. With Adrian a potential hostage inside, he had to avoid any form of assault that might endanger the artist or make him a getaway hostage for his guards.
Simon picked up a knapsack from the ground where he had left it twenty minutes before, and was just easing the straps over his arms when he heard inappropriate sounds in the woods behind him: a stealthy crunching of fallen leaves and twigs, and then suddenly a short sharp cry, gasps, and a thrashing in the copse’s dry debris.
The knapsack was instantly back on the ground. The Saint moved as swiftly and silently through the trees as a cloud’s shadow. There must be no warning for those in the farmhouse, no use of the pistol in his shoulder holster. In his hand was the switch knife of the man he had captured. He never slowed down. A figure was stumbling from the spot where Simon’s captive was tied. A moment later the figure was locked around the throat by an arm as strong and hard as steel, while the dagger promised worse to come.
“Peace, brother,” whispered the Saint. “One squawk and you’re dead.”
Even as he spoke, certain not unpleasant sensations conveyed by the body he was holding told him that he had used the wrong gender.
“Sister?” he corrected.
“Simon?” croaked Julie, as he eased the pressure of his arm on her throat.
“Don’t talk out loud!”
“Simon, there’s a man there, on the ground! I fell over him.”
“I know. I left him there.”
Simon then indulged in some colourful comments on the intellectual shortcomings of damsels who should have been left in distress, and what this one thought she was doing here tripping over his playmates in the dark.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to help. I had to know what was happening to you and Adrian.”
“What did you do — take a taxi?”
“I borrowed a bicycle. Actually, I stole it from outside the bar, but—”
“I don’t have time to hear about it now,” Simon told her grimly. “You may be endangering your brother’s life. Stay out here; see that this gorilla doesn’t get loose or make any noise. Do not panic and run for the police no matter what you think is happening. Wait here for Adrian.” She started to open her mouth. “And keep quiet!”
He about-faced and went quickly back to the tree where he had left his knapsack. Moments later he was high up among the branches. For a man of his agility and strength it was simple to use even those unstable and yielding supports to swing to the roof of the house.
His soft-soled shoes made no sound on the slates. He made his way up the gentle incline to the chimney, whose exterior outlines traced a way to a fireplace on the ground floor. First he secured one end of a long rope round the chimney and coiled the remainder at his feet. Then he opened his knapsack and took out a plastic bag containing a sizeable bundle of rags soaked in oil. He spilled gasoline from a small bottle on to some of the rags, ignited them one by one, and dropped them down the chimney.
When a thick column of black smoke began to rise between him and the night sky, he stuffed the knapsack into the chimney’s mouth and waited. What could be more alarming to those en-trusted with the care of a priceless Rembrandt than the threat of fire? Simon did not think he would have to wait very long. In about five minutes he heard men’s voices coming muffled through the windows just below him. Grasping the rope, he edged down to the rim of the roof.
“Alf? Alf?” someone was shouting.
The time was almost here, and the Saint’s timing would have to be perfect. He used the rope in mountain-climber style, using it to support himself as he went down over the eave and leaned out into the darkness with his feet braced against the stone side of the house. The first guard to go down looking for the source of the smoke would hopefully get the full benefit of the surprise that the Saint had set up for him earlier on the stairs... a strand of wire stretched just below knee level between the railings and the wall.
“Go look, can’t you!” a heavy voice shouted. The Saint tensed his legs. His ears strained to detect what at last he heard — a distant tumbling succession of thuds far down in the house.
Then he unleashed all the coiled power in his leg-muscles. He sprang out from the side of the house, and swinging in again sailed feet first through the window he had chosen.
All his astonishingly quick perceptions were required to pull together the fragmented impressions that came as he smashed through the window-glass and hurtled into the room where he knew Adrian was held prisoner. Even coming so suddenly from darkness into light, even in the split second of landing on his feet and throwing aside the rope, he saw it alclass="underline" the big easels to his right, the slight bearded man cowering beside them, the much broader back of another man who was heading for the door of the room as the Saint made his acrobatic entrance.
Even though he had never felt called upon to perform such a feat, Simon might have passed his hand safely beneath the smashing spring of a rat trap between the time it was released and the time it struck home. He moved just as swiftly now. The man at the door was still in the process of spinning round to see what had happened to the window behind him when the Saint struck. There was no need for even a short struggle. The guard’s head was simply carried straight and heartily into the wall by the Saint’s flying leap. This vigourous encounter of oak and bone produced a most satisfying result, from Simon’s point of view at any rate. For his victim it meant instant escape from all worldly cares and responsibilities, at least until he woke up with a mild concussion some hours later.