As if the Saint’s last word had been a stage cue, there was suddenly a horrendous uproar from the dining room.
Shortwave was yelling at the top of his voice: “Hey! Don’t leave me! I just heard — they’re gonna get me! D-d-d-don’t leave me! I heard...”
3
“Just what did you hear?” Simon asked.
Shortwave, wild-eyed and sweating, scarcely managed to bring his vocal dam-burst under control. Abdul Haroon was as he had been when the Saint and Tammy had hurried in, speechless and staggered by the whole affair, sagging weakly against a wall.
“I heard they’re gonna get me,” Shortwave babbled. “It started working again, and I heard it.”
“What started working again?” Tammy asked.
“My head,” Shortwave said impatiently. “Like, you know, I can hear stuff, and just then I’m sittin’ here and bang it starts up again and I hear a little bit of Tea for Two and some static and then I hear Fowler saying to Kalki he better get me because I squealed...”
The little man ended his sentence not so much because he seemed to have run out of things to say as because his lungs ran out of air. While he was reinflating, Tammy rolled her eyes and tapped her temple with a forefinger for Simon’s and Haroon’s benefit. Simon nodded.
“I can’t think why I should waste time soothing your psyche,” he said to his captive, “but I can think of two reasons why you couldn’t have heard that even if your circuits did warm up again. Number one, you’re wired for radio transmissions, and I should think Kalki and Fowler would talk to one another on the telephone or in person. Number two, and much more significant they couldn’t possibly know you squealed unless they’d been here five minutes ago... unless you’re going to tell me they’ve got antennae of their own, and a network hook-up.”
“I d-d-d-dunno, but I heard it. They know it, I’m telling you! It come through as clear as a bell. Wait a minute!” He stopped and listened intently staring at the table. “The princess wore a trendy silk and organdie cocktail dress with matching...” He looked up and shook his head with relief. “Naw, that ain’t Fowler.”
“Definitely not,” agreed the Saint.
“But it was before!” Shortwave insisted.
“It was your guilty conscience,” Tammy said sceptically. “It’s high time you developed one.”
“And leaving you with that edifying thought, we’ll be on our way.”
The most observant and objective judge would have had a hard time deciding whether it was Shortwave or Haroon who reacted more boisterously to that piece of news. They both began yawling at once, and out of the caterwauling came the general impression that neither of them wanted to be left anywhere — but above all else did they not want to be left there, especially not with one another.
“I cannot!” Haroon was wailing. “I cannot have it! I cannot, cannot, cannot!”
“You can’t d-do this to me!” Shortwave yelped. “It’s murder! They know I’m here — I heard it! You can’t.”
The Saint restored order by sheer force of personality. His firm calm voice, fortified by his commanding height and the unruffled authority of his stance, soon had the effect which oil is reputed to exercise on troubled waters.
“Neither one of you characters is in any position to argue,” he said. “You’ll do exactly as I say because you’ve got no choice.” He looked down at Shortwave. “You’re the little hero who wanted to slice up our gizzards last night, don’t forget, and you’re lucky the worst we’re going to do to you for the moment is lock you up for the day.” He turned to Haroon. “Where can we stow him?”
“You can’t!” the owner cried. “There is no place!”
“What about his flat?” Tammy suggested.
“We can’t get Shortwave up there without carrying him through the street,” Simon told her, “Doesn’t this place have a cellar, Abdul?”
“You cannot!”
Simon spoke like a man who sees the end of his patience in plain view just ahead.
“You’ll do what I tell you or you’ll be in jail before you know what hit you!”
Haroon yielded.
“Back here,” he said. “The stairs are beyond the washroom.”
Shortwave kept up a steady stream of protest while he was being transferred down to a small windowless basement which apparently served only as a sort of limbo for an assortment of junk that Haroon could find no use for but could not quite bring himself to throw out. There was a table with three legs, a chair with a broken back, a couple of cases of empty dust-caked wine bottles, a stack of cardboard cartons and boxes, and a rolled-up mattress with its stuffing protruding through multiple hernias.
“A lot cosier than a drum of wet cement,” Simon said approvingly. “And if you’re reasonably unobnoxious, maybe Mr. Haroon will give you some more nice curry later in the day. You can put a gag on him before your hired hands come in for the evening, Abdul, and if he starts making a nuisance of himself pat him on the head with your biggest frying pan — and hope you don’t bend the frying pan. I’m going to put in an anonymous tip to Scotland Yard to be on the lookout for him, just in case he figures some way to get loose... But if he does get loose, Abdul, I shall hold you responsible, and I mean totally responsible. If you don’t want this admirable little eatery of yours to open under new management next week, while you settle down to lose a few pounds on good old British bread and water, you’ll be absolutely sure that Shortwave is sitting right here when I come back. Is that clear?”
Haroon nodded vigorously. Having double-checked Shortwave’s bonds and surroundings, the Saint came back up the steep stairs, closed the door at the top, and walked with Tammy and Haroon back to the rear of the restaurant.
“All right, Abdul, have a nice day, and good luck to you in finding some fresh staff. When Miss Rowan and I get finished you shouldn’t have as many worries about keeping the personnel alive as you’ve had up till now. And you’ll be able to breathe like a free man for the first time in — how long?”
Abdul Haroon grinned pallidly and used one of the English expressions on which he prided himself.
“In donkey’s years,” he said, and stood despondently waiting for the Saint and Tammy to drive away.
Tammy watched the pear-shaped restaurateur through the back window of the car until Simon had turned out of the alley into the street at the end.
“Do you think he’ll be all right?” she asked.
“You could get better odds on his health than ours today, I think. If he does what I told him he shouldn’t have any problems.”
Tammy sat back in her seat and tried to relax.
“So we’re headed for the sea?” she said.
“Right. After we’ve stopped by my place for breakfast, and your flat for a change of clothes.”
“What’ll we do when we get there? And I mean the sea — not your ‘place,’ wherever it is.”
“Have a lovely time, of course. The sky is clear; the air is crisp. The only thing we don’t know is how the water is. I should have asked Shortwave for the marine forecast.”
Tammy smiled, stretched her arms, and clasped her hands behind her head.
“I think that wretched little beast is cracking up. I hope he spends the rest of his life thinking he’s a television set with a burnt-out picture tube.” She shivered involuntarily. “I’m so glad to be away from him, I just can’t tell you! You know, I’m only just starting to realise how terrified I was last night.”
4
But while Tammy was in the processing of cleansing Shortwave from her mind, Abdul Haroon was finding him considerably less easy to ignore.