“If I weren’t,” said the Saint, “I’d never have got into this caper.”
4
They were soon out of the hills, and as they drove along a rutted lane in flat countryside the Saint considered what to do next.
“I think,” he said, “our best bet is to head for a border post and take it from there. We’ve got to get back into Austria and contact Max. If we’re lucky we’ll be able to talk our way through, if not — well, there’s always the odd miracle if you’ve led a good life like I have.”
“If you’ve led a good life,” Frankie said, “Machiavelli should be made a saint.”
“Only I beat him to it,” Simon reminded her.
“I don’t like it,” Leopold said darkly. “We shall all be arrested and shot.”
“Oh, Leopold, you are always so negative,” Frankie protested.
“As the model said to the photographer,” flipped the Saint. “At any rate this crate lives up to its prospectus. They say it’ll do a hundred without turning a hair, although on a track like this it hasn’t much of a chance. But this Cotal electric gearbox is very convenient.” He accelerated rapidly after a skidding turn. “We ought to get somewhere pretty fast as long as we keep her filled up and remember to cough in the tyres every now and then.”
“Exactly!” said Leopold, in a voice which sounded both gloomy and supercilious.
“What does that mean?” demanded Frankie.
“Yes,” Simon seconded. “ ‘Exactly’ may be precise, but it also leaves one neither here nor there. All over the place, so to speak, and not anywhere in particular.”
“Have you looked at the petrol gauge recently?” Leopold asked sourly.
The Saint looked.
“Hmmm. Yes, I see what you mean. Rather low. They must have hit the tank when they were shooting at us, the naughty boys. Let’s hope the puncture isn’t right at the bottom. Well, have faith, as the Good Book says, and ye shall move internal combustion engines. I’m sure Moses didn’t worry about petrol pumps.”
“Yes, but he was walking,” Frankie said.
“And so may we be shortly,” responded the Saint. “Onward Christian soldiers, and all that. It’s an idea. We can arrive at the border on bare feet and say we’re pilgrims headed for Berlin to lay a wreath on the tomb of the Unknown Rabbi. That ought to get us the red carpet treatment, though I’d rather not wonder what they’d dye it with.”
“We shall soon be on a better road,” Frankie said, and they were.
They tore through a poverty-stricken village of strangely oriental-looking dirty whitewashed hovels. Some children and old peasants watched their passage with amazement, their interest making their slant Magyar eyes almost round.
Glancing at the fuel gauge every few seconds, Simon saw that the level was falling much faster than even extravagant consumption would account for, although not so fast as to reveal a catastrophic outpour. Therefore they should have quite a few miles still in hand — but the precise number would depend entirely on the level at which the tank had been perforated. If the damage was high up enough, the leak might stop by itself while they had a few gallons left; but if it was right at the bottom, the tank would very soon run dry. They were “ifs” with the palm-sweating uncertainty of Russian roulette.
Simon decided that it was worth wasting a precious minute to know the worst — or the best. He brought the car to a stop, got out, and ran back to kneel in the road behind it.
In little more than a minute he was back in the driver’s seat and starting off again.
“The hole in the tank is very low down and pretty big,” he reported almost conversationally. “I stuffed a handkerchief in it, but we’d lose as much petrol as we’d save while we were trying to make a better patch. We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed and see how far we go.”
“There you are!” said Leopold lugubriously. “I told you this whole idea was crazy.”
“You are a man of very sound if limited judgment,” Simon assured him consolingly.
“No, we have a good chance,” Frankie contradicted. “I know this road, and the border post is now only a few kilometres away.”
“Yes,” said Leopold darkly, “and what happens then? They stop us and ask for our papers, and while they are examining them the Gestapo catches up with us.”
He passed his finger across his throat expressively, as Simon saw in the rear-view mirror. To Simon Templar, the gesture was an irresistible provocation.
“Quite right,” he assented heartily. “Sound, if limited, again. Besides, they’re bound to have reported this car missing. Every official from here to Berchtesgarten will be watching out for it. Now if you’ve got any other jolly thoughts to boost our morale, do let us share them.”
Leopold lapsed into aggrieved silence, and the Saint drove steadily on at the best speed he could estimate as a compromise between the need to evade pursuit and the need to conserve fuel.
Presently the winding but improved lane that they were on ended abruptly in a T-junction with what was obviously a main road.
“We’ve done it!” claimed Frankie excitedly. “Turn right, and the frontier is only about two kilometres.”
It was just as Simon braked for the turn that the engine coughed, started up again, coughed, ran for a few seconds, and then died.
“Well,” said the Saint, “that’s that. Don’t say anything, Leopold. This is no time for sound if limited pronouncements. What we need is another miracle. I have it! Cogito ergo sum — the old cogs are going round.” He leapt out of the car. “Come on, Leopold. Bring my bag of tools, and make sure it’s mine.”
A moment later he had exposed the engine of the Delage and was working on the carburettor with a spanner from the tool kit. When he had the top off he reached into the bag again and pulled out the brandy bottle. He unscrewed the top and took a swig.
“Prost,” he said, and poured the rest of the cognac into the carburettor.
“Gott im Himmel!” squealed Frankie, who was leaning out of the car window to watch.
“Now I know you are mad!” exploded Leopold.
“I admit it’s a bit of a waste,” said the Saint calmly. “Delamain ’14 wasn’t exactly meant for use in cars. But it always pays to have the best.”
“But surely a car won’t run on brandy?” said Frankie.
“A car will run on anything that’s got enough alcohol in it. I’m sure that Delamain won’t let us down. After all, it’s a mature and brave spirit, as they say.”
“And how far will that get us?”
“Hardly anywhere,” said the Saint cheerfully, as he squeezed behind the wheel again. “But that’s where we’re going. Come on, Leopold, don’t bother about the tools. Pile in!”
Simon pressed the starter, and the motor sprang to life almost immediately. He put the car in gear and started off.
As he began to turn out of the lane, he had to brake quickly to give way to a black Audi saloon that came speeding along the main road from their left. There were three men in it, in civilian clothes, and the two who were not driving turned automatically to glance at the Delage as they swept past.
Simon glimpsed on their faces a much more startled reaction than the situation warranted. And there was something about the character of the faces themselves, combined with the character of the car, that spelled out just one word in his brain.
The word went into italics when the Audi’s stop lights blazed red and the car swerved sharply to the righthand verge and then swung into an abrupt left turn across the highway and stopped, effectively blocking the road.
“Gestapo!” the Saint said aloud.