Patricia answered the ring.
"Hullo, sweetheart," he said. His voice was level, too certain of its words to show excitement. "Yes… No trouble at all. Everything went according to plan, and we're all sitting pretty — except the deputation from the ungodly. Now listen. I've got a job for you. Call Orace and tell him to expect you. Then get out the Daimler, and tell Sam Outrell to pull Stunt Number Three. As soon as you're sure yon aren't followed, come over here. Hustle it… No, I'll tell you when you arrive. There are listeners… Okay, darling. Be seein' ya."
He put down the phone and turned to Bravache. The pupils of his eyes were like chips of flint.
"So you were going to kill Lady Valerie and blame it on to me," he said with great gentleness. "That was as far as we'd got, wasn't it? The Sons of France avenge the murder of one of their sympathizers, and all sorts of high-minded nitwits wave banners. Do you see any good reason why you shouldn't take some of your own medicine?"
"You daren't do it!" said Bravache whitely. "The Sons of France will make you pay for my death a hundred times!"
Dumaire's face was yellow with fear. Simon took him by the scruff of the neck and heaved him over to the window. He parted the curtains and pointed downwards.
"I suppose you came here in a car," he said. "Which of those cars is yours?"
The man shook like a leaf but did not answer.
Simon turned him round and hit him in the face. He held him by the lapels of his coat and brought him back to the window.
"Which of those cars is yours?"
"That one," blubbered Dumaire.
It was a small black sedan, far more suitable for the transport of unwilling passengers than the open Hirondel.
Simon released his informant, who tottered and almost fell when the Saint's supporting grip was removed. The Saint lighted another cigarette and spoke to Peter.
"You can use their car. Take them to Upper Berkeley Mews."
He looked up to find Hoppy Uniatz' questioning eyes upon him. There were times when Mr Uniatz had a tendency to fidget, and these times were usually when he felt that a very obvious and elementary move had been delayed too long. It was not that he was a naturally impatient man, but he liked to see things disposed of in the order of their importance. Now he grasped hopefully for the relief of the problem that was uppermost in his mind.
"Is dat where we give dem de woiks, boss?"
"That's where you give them the works," said the Saint. "Will you come outside for a minute, Peter?"
He took Peter out into the hall and gave him more detailed instructions.
"Did you hear enough while you were waiting to convince you that I haven't been raving?" he said.
"I always knew you couldn't be," Peter said sombrely, "because you sounded so much as if you were. I'm damned if I know how you do it, but it always seems to be the way."
"You'll see it through?"
"No," said Peter. "I'm going home to my mother." His face was serious in spite of the way he spoke. "But aren't you taking an unnecessary risk with Bravache and friend? Of course I'm not so bloodthirsty as Hoppy—"
The Saint drew at his cigarette.
"I know, old lad. Maybe I am a fool. But I don't see myself as a gangster. Do it the way I told you. And when you've finished, bring Hoppy back here and let him pick up the Hirondel and drive it down to Weybridge. You can stay in town and wait for developments — I expect there'll be plenty of them. Okay?"
"Okay, chief."
Simon's hand lay on Peter's shoulder, and they went back into the living room together. The Saint's new sureness was like a steel blade, balanced and deadly.
3
"You can't do this!" babbled Bravache. Little specks of saliva sprayed from his mouth with his words. "It is a crime! You will be punished — hanged. You cannot commit murder in cold blood. Surely you can't do that!" His manner changed, became fawning, wheedling. "Look, you are a gentleman. You could not kill a defenceless man, any more than I could. You have misunderstood my little joke. It was only to frighten you—"
"Put some tape on his mouth, Hoppy," ordered the Saint with cold distaste.
Pietri and Dumaire were gagged in the same way, and the three men were pushed on out of the flat and crowded into the lift. Simon left them with Peter and Hoppy in the foyer of the building while he went out to reconnoiter the car. It was nearly half-past two by his watch, and the street was as still and lifeless as a graveyard. The Saint's rubber-soled shoes woke no echoes as they moved to their destination. There was a man dozing at the wheel of the small black sedan and he started to rouse as the Saint opened the door beside him, but he was still not fully awake when the Saint's left hand reached in and took hold of him by the front of his coat and yanked him out like a puppy.
"Have you tried this for insomnia?" asked the Saint conversationally, and brought up his right hand in a smashing uppercut.
The man's teeth clicked together; his knees gave; he buckled forward without a sound, and Simon let him fall. He went back to the entrance of the building.
"All clear," he said in a low voice. "Make it snappy."
He led the way back to the black sedan and picked up his sleeping patient. There was a board fence on the opposite side of the road, above which rose the naked girders of another new apartment building under construction. Simon applied scientific leverage, and the patient rose into the air and disappeared from view. There was a dull thud in the darkness beyond.
Simon crossed the road again. The loading of freight had been completed with professional briskness while he was away. Already Peter Quentin was at the wheel; and Hoppy Uniatz, sitting crookedly beside him in the other front seat, was covering the three men who were bundled together in the back. The engine whirred under the starter.
Simon looked in at the prisoners, and particularly at the staring cringing eyes of Bravache.
"It won't hurt much, Major," he said, "and you ought to be proud to be a martyr for the flag… On your way, boys."
He stood and watched the receding taillight of the car until it turned the corner at the end of the street; and then he strolled slowly back to the entrance of the building. He waited there less than five minutes before a dark Daimler limousine swept into the street and drew up in front of the door.
The Saint leaned in the open window beside the driver and kissed her.
"What's been happening?" asked Patricia.
In a few sentences he let her know as much as he knew himself; and while he was speaking he rummaged in the nearest side pocket of the car. He found what he was looking for — a chauffeur's blue cap — and set it at an angle on her curly head.
"I'll be back in a minute," he said.
When he re-entered the flat Lady Valerie Woodchester was dressed. She came out of the bedroom carrying a small valise.
"What's happened to everyone?" she asked in surprise.
"Peter and Hoppy have removed the exhibits," he said irrepressibly. "They'll get what's coming to them somewhere else. We didn't want to make any more mess for you here."
The edges of pearly teeth showed on her underlip.
"Could you call me a taxi?"
"I could do better. I sent for one of my more ducal cars, and it's waiting outside now. You won't mind if I see you as far as the Carlton, will you? I don't want you to be put to the trouble of having to call me out again tonight."
For a moment he thought she was going to lose her temper, and almost hoped that she would. But she turned her back on him and sailed out into the corridor without a word. He followed her into the elevator, and they rode down in supercharged silence. At the door he helped her into the Daimler and settled himself beside her. The car moved off.
They drove a couple of blocks without a word being spoken. Lady Valerie stared moodily out of the window on her side, scowling and biting her lips. The Saint was bubbling inside.