“Too bad, old boy,” he said, with a strained display of jauntiness. He turned to Kalki. “Well, that settles it. This is your mess. You get rid of it.”
Tammy jumped to her feet, straining her wrists against the ropes that held them.
“You can’t do that!” she cried. “You must be joking. We haven’t done enough...”
Mahmud trotted forward anxious to assert himself, and pushed her back down into her chair.
“You have done enough,” Fowler said coldly. “It’s do-gooders like you, poking into things that are none of their business, that cause half the trouble in the world today. I must say I won’t be sorry to see one less of you around after tonight.”
“I can’t believe they’d be stupid enough to really do it!” she exclaimed to the Saint, as if expecting him to arbitrate the dispute.
Fowler literally snorted, disdainfully, before Simon could answer. He spoke again to Kalki.
“Kill them — quietly — and put them in those two empty tar drums behind the house. Fill the drums up with wet cement. I’ll have to pick them up and dump them offshore later.”
“That’s what I like,” Simon said admiringly to Tammy. “The efficient executive type: quick decisions, no nonsense.”
“Sorry to be so abrupt about it,” Fowler said unsorrowfully. “I’ve got to make a pick-up tomorrow night and I’ve got no time to dilly-dally here.”
“Still got the old sea-salt in the veins, hm?” Simon taunted. “What kind of scow are you using on the cross-Channel run?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Doing your bit to sink England, though, aren’t you?”
Fowler glared.
“That lot in the Admiralty didn’t need me, and now as far as I’m concerned it’s every man for himself.”
“It’s interesting,” Simon philosophised. “I’ve almost never met a crook who couldn’t make out a case that his particular racket wasn’t only justified but society practically brought it on itself. The Sea Wolf here probably figures that if he can smuggle in enough illegal immigrants it’ll help the Government to see the error of its ways and make them tighten up the immigration laws.”
“I don’t give a damn about the immigration laws,” Tammy said irrationally. “I just think you’d better let us out of here.”
Fowler glanced at his watch.
“That’s wishful thinking, Miss Rowan, and I’m afraid I have to be a realist. I must go now. Goodnight.”
Just before he reached the door, sweeping Shortwave and Mahmud out ahead of him, Kalki caught him deferentially by the arm and engaged him in a whispered conversation.
“No!” Fowler said impatiently. “The girl too! And just to be sure you don’t get any fancy ideas, you drive the van ahead of my car so I can be sure we don’t have any more slip-ups.”
He made Kalki precede him through the door, and then followed him out without a backward look at the two people he had condemned to death.
“I think you’ve got an admirer,” Simon said to Tammy. “I wonder if Kalki might take it into his head to rescue the princess from the dark tower.”
Tammy’s nerve had finally reached its limit. Her lips began to tremble even though she tried to control them.
“I’d rather be dead.” She burst abruptly into a full flood of tears. “No, I wouldn’t! I’m afraid! This is too horrible! I’m afraid to die!”
“Nature intended it that way,” Simon said, with no flippancy in his tone.
“To die?” she sobbed.
“No, to dislike the idea of dying. And since I share your attitude, I suggest that we go to work at getting out of here.”
“Out?” she moaned despairingly. “There isn’t the slightest hope unless they change their minds.”
She raised her bound wrists to dramatise her helplessness.
“Well,” said the Saint, “at least your hands are tied in front of you. So you can see what you’re doing if you want to come over and have a shot at untying me.”
2
He rolled over away from the wall towards her, and she got up from the chair chattering half hysterically in the relief of realising that she was not utterly immobilised and that there might still be something that they could attempt, however desperate.
“I’ll do my best — I will, honestly. Whatever you think, I didn’t get my job on the Evening Record by being a completely scatterbrained female.” She was on her knees beside him then, fumbling frantically. “I am trying, you know, but I can only use one hand at a time...”
“Take your time,” Simon said coolly, trying to steady her. “And don’t forget our secret weapon: that Girl Guide ring of yours. Even if you haven’t got me untied, we might get Shortwave or Mahmud in here alone with us as some point. If the chance comes, use the ring and I’ll use my feet.”
“You make it sound so easy.” She was almost giggling in the reaction of terror. “But what if the chance doesn’t come?”
“Then we can try singing Swing Low, Sweet Chariot in close harmony. Meanwhile, be sure your miniature Flit-gun is in firing order.”
“There’s nothing I can do to be sure without firing it,” she told him. “All we can do is hope.”
Simon did not have much confidence in the efficacy of wishful thinking, but for the moment there did not seem to be much else to count on.
The sounds of muttered words drifted in a meaningless jumble through the wall. Then the outside door opened and closed. After a minute the van rattled to life. Then the engine of Fowler’s car caught smoothly. Gears were shifted, and both vehicles pulled away from the house and their mechanical voices quickly faded into the distance.
“The knots are so tight, and I can only use one hand at a time,” Tammy whimpered. “I don’t think I’m getting anywhere... Now I know what a sheep in a slaughterhouse feels like waiting to get his throat cut.”
“Funny you should say that,” said a voice like the scraping of a razor’s edge on glass. “Real funny you should say that!”
Shortwave stood in the doorway, with the Saint’s throwing knife in his hand, and Tammy started and gasped as his words answered hers.
To Simon, the little man’s entrance was like a sudden chill wind in the room. He looked smaller than ever for some reason, a malevolent dwarf in workingman’s clothes, his eyes red-rimmed and thirsty for blood. In his small hand the slender knife seemed the size of a Roman sword, but much more sinister. There was no guard to protect the hand of its wielder from an opponent’s blows: the bare double edges were for attack only, the point for sudden and silent piercing.
As Shortwave stepped into the room, Mahmud appeared reluctantly behind him, but hung back at the door as Shortwave gloated over his captives.
“Who wants to be first?” the little man asked, with a taunting lilt in his voice. “Volunteers step forward.” He chuckled. “Sorry, I forgot you can’t step forward. How about crawling... like a worm?”
“I guess that’s a thrill you don’t get very often,” Simon said.
But he said it quietly and steadily, without too much goading mockery that might trigger a sudden attack he could not hope to fend off. In fact, all the mockery that ordinarily danced like summer-light in his eyes had frozen into an ice-blue glint that brought the scrawny American up short when he saw it. The Saint’s eyes were so coldly contemptuous that it would have been difficult for an observer to believe that he was the one with his hands and feet tied, while the other man held the knife.
Shortwave came forward and grabbed Tammy by one upper arm, yanking her to her feet with a show of brute strength that he could only have made with such a slight victim, and wrenched her back into the chair. He circled around to confirm that the ropes were still on Simon’s wrists. Then, avoiding the Saint’s uncanny eyes, which followed every move he made, turned to Mahmud.