As he drew his automatic, Simon said soothingly to the frightened young man on his right, “I’m here to help you. Don’t move. Don’t do anything. Just tell me, how many guards are here with you tonight?”
“Three, I think.”
Satisfied that his first captive had told the truth, Simon switched off the light and moved into the corridor. He could make out the head of the stairway by a dim strip of light which escaped through the door of another room. The air was heavy with smoke. He heard a groan below.
“If you are awake,” he called cheerfully, “don’t move or I will shoot you dead.”
Apparently a groan was about all that the man at the foot of the stairs was capable of. Simon could see that he was sprawled awkwardly, with his right arm at an unnatural angle, broken or thrown out of joint by his crash. With his pistol aimed at the injured man’s head, Simon went down the steps and made him secure, if not more comfortable, with the same piece of wire which had caused his downfall.
Back in Norcombe’s room with the light again, Simon had his first good look at the young artist. Long brown hair and beard wreathed his countenance so that he looked like a gnome peering out of a bird’s nest. He was very pale, probably more so on this occasion than usual; his long boney hands fluttered apprehensively as he watched the unconscious man on the floor being tied hand and foot.
“My name is Simon Templar,” the Saint introduced himself, rising to lounge easily on the arm of a chair, with his automatic back in its holster. “I’ve come to get you out of this mess. Your sister’s outside waiting for you.”
“Julie!” Adrian exclaimed eagerly. “Is she all right? They told me if I didn’t do what they wanted they’d do dreadful things to her.”
“She’s fine. How about you?”
“I’m all right. Are you the police?”
“No, I’m just a friend. Julie knows what you’re supposed to do now, while I finish rounding up the rest of this gang. I’m going to leave you with her, and you do exactly what she says. She can explain everything.”
Simon walked over to the two easels, admiringly compared the original with Adrian’s almost completed imitation, and took the true Rembrandt off its supports.
“This will go back to its owner,” he told Adrian. “Now come on downstairs.”
“Is the house on fire?” Adrian queried, as he followed.
“No. That was just a smoke-screen.”
Simon shepherded the artist out the front door of the house, and then came one of those vaguely foreseeable but unpredictable things which can give the agley treatment to the best-laid plans of mice. But not necessarily of men — or some men. The lights of a car appeared on the narrow road leading in towards the house.
“Run!” snapped the Saint, giving Adrian a shove. “Straight back there — you’ll find Julie about a hundred yards into the woods. Don’t either of you wait or come near here again!”
Adrian did not need urging. He sprinted away towards the frontier of trees with surprising speed. Simon spun round and dashed back into the house, closing the door behind him just as the automobile’s lights swept full across the roof of the old well. He put the painting safely aside, wished he had time to douse the smouldering rags which were filling the place with smoke, drew his automatic again, and stood behind the bolted door.
Footsteps. One man’s footsteps. Then six knocks in the password pattern. Smoothly the Saint freed the latch and opened the door, keeping his face in the darkness.
“My God, is the place on fire?” cried the man on the threshold.
The Saint felt one of those moments of supreme satisfaction which helped make his adventures worthwhile from much more than a financial point of view.
“No, indeed, Mr. Pargit-Fawkes. Just a little something I was cooking up. As a matter of fact, everything is under perfect control.” He then confronted the art dealer with his pistol in a manner that caused Pargit’s refined hands to rise directly into the air like a pair of hoisted flags. “But in view of the uncomfortable conditions here, I’d be much obliged if you could drive me in to London. I’d like us to pay a call together on a colleague of yours.”
Chapter 10
Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal arrived at his Scotland Yard office at 9:35 in the morning to discover that others than the Lord move in mysterious ways, and that the axiom about His helping those who help themselves occasionally makes an exception for those whose minds are on other things entirely.
Not that Teal had completely forgotten Templar and their mysteriously abbreviated visit to the Leonardo Galleries, but he would hardly have associated it at first with the mystery that greeted him when he walked into his Spartan chambers. Before he could be told the business of the bearded young man and slender girl who waited in his ante-room, a telephone was thrust into his plump hand, and the voice of his superior, the Assistant Commissioner, came through in tones startlingly lacking their habitual acerbity.
“Teal, I must congratulate you! A good job. I’ve just had a call from Lord Oldenshaw on the return of his painting. He’s pleased as Punch, which isn’t surprising, considering the thing turns out to be worth half a million. Have you been back in touch with the Dorset police this morning?”
Mr Teal was beginning to exhibit the symptoms of any unemployed handyman who has just been informed that he has been awarded the Nobel Prize for Physics.
“Not yet,” he improvised. “I wanted to get a few more details sorted out first—”
“They’re holding the three for us in Dorset until we decide if we want them here,” the Assistant Commissioner informed him. “Lord Oldenshaw was under the impression you’d be rounding up the ringleaders here in London. What are you doing about it?”
“I... I’m setting it up now,” Teal said. “It’s a ticklish business. I’ve got to be sure there aren’t any loose ends.”
“Carry on!” the Assistant Commissioner said. “Report back to me as soon as you can, and the best of British luck.”
Chief Inspector Teal, trying feverishly to fathom his chief’s unwonted cordiality, hung up the telephone and shakily stuffed a stick of spearmint into his mouth. His cherubic countenance glistened, moist and red. Through his brain hurtled awful fantasies of some Saintish prank that would make him, earnest and hardworking Chief Inspector Teal, the immortal dunce of Scotland Yard.
“What happened in Dorset?” he asked his secretary, keeping his voice low.
“The Norcombes notified the local police where they could pick up the gang who’d been holding Mr. Norcombe a prisoner.”
“Norcombes?” Teal said blankly.
“Those are the Norcombes, waiting to see you.”
Teal decided wisely that the less he said the less his ignorance would become manifest to the world. He went out again into the ante-room.
“Mr and Mrs Norcombe?”
“Not Mr and Mrs,” the girl replied. “I’m Julie Norcombe. This is my brother, Adrian.”
Adrian jumped to his feet and stuck out his hand. Teal shook it warily.