A pair of french windows opened onto a small patio, and the Saint raced towards them. He covered the distance with the long sure strides of the trained athlete, and stood for a moment outside, waiting for any shout or commotion that might warn that he had been seen. Hearing none, he stepped into the villa.
He found himself in a spacious dining room furnished with Empire chairs and sofas, oil paintings and gilt-framed mirrors, but he did not linger to admire the decor. He passed through it quickly into the corridor outside, which apparently bisected the villa, connecting the entrance hall in the center with the twin wings of the building.
Simon flitted along it, peering into every room. Most were shrouded in dust sheets, and only a couple of sitting rooms and a study looked as if they had been recently used. He reached the hall and was considering whether to go upstairs or continue the search at the other end of the ground floor when a door opened a few yards in front of him.
He stepped back into the shadow of the stairs as Cartwright emerged, carrying a tray full of bottles and glasses. He looked as scrubbed and immaculate as when the Saint had first met him, except for a long bruise that disfigured his cheek where the fire extinguisher had connected. The Saint resisted an almost overwhelming desire to get his fingers around that slender throat, but contented himself with watching Cartwright disappear into a room at the far end of the corridor.
He could hear Emma’s voice clearly as the door was opened: “Daddy, I was afraid you’d been spirited off to the Russians or something.”
Simon moved swiftly along the passage and stood close to the door. Maclett’s rich Scottish accent was unmistakeable.
“As a matter of fact, I am. Y’know I’ve had t’claw ’n scratch m’way through, don’t y’lass. All me life. Well, I’ve got t’be sure it comes to something.”
“But what are you talking about? Sir William, what’s going on?”
Curdon’s tone was as smooth and polished as if he were addressing a committee of civil servants.
“Our Official Secrets Act says that what your father has to offer may not be offered. National security and all that. So he’s chosen to go where he and his work will find proper appreciation.”
“Emma, y’have t’understand.” Maclett’s gruff tones were soft, almost pleading. “The Russians’ve promised me m’work will be used t’benefit everyone. I’ve been planning t’go all along. I couldn’t tell ye.”
Emma sounded close to tears.
“But Sir William, you’re D16. You represent our government!”
“After twenty years of loyal poverty, miss, I am now taking the opportunity of representing me. And it is time to go, Professor.”
“Daddy, no! Please!”
“I do love ye, lass. And I’ll send fer ye once I’ve settled in.”
“Daddy, for God’s sake!”
“I pray you’ll decide to come. Think on it, Emma. Y’know y’re all I have in this world.”
Simon decided that the touching scene should go unwitnessed no longer. He drew the throwing knife from its sheath, well aware of its inadequacy against the two guns he was almost certainly going to face. He opened the door and smiled into the four astonished faces that turned towards him.
“Hello, kiddies,” lie drawled. “Is this a private defection, or can anyone join in?”
11
Simon Templar savoured the surprise he had caused. He held the knife lightly between the tips of his thumb and forefinger, pointing it at the centre of the space between Curdon and Cartwright, ready to throw at the first of the two to make a move.
Emma was the first to recover from the shock of his sudden appearance.
“Simon! I thought you were...”
The Saint smiled, but his eyes never left the two men.
“Yes, so did Willie... stop that!”
Cartwright’s hand had been sliding towards his jacket pocket. At the Saint’s command he froze, but his fingers stayed poised above the flap.
“I can throw this before either of you can draw but you know I can only throw it once, so you’ll just have to decide which one wants to be a dead hero.”
Simon looked at Curdon, the sarcastic praise of his words soured by the contempt in his voice.
“A neat trick, Willie. You almost had me fooled, and you certainly put it over on the professor like a master.”
Maclett stepped forward, and the Saint slid away from the door so that he could still keep the two agents in clear view.
“Listen, laddie, this is no concern of yours! I know ye have acted from t’best motives, but I told ye I don’t need yer help. I’m not being forced. I’m going of me own free will.”
“No, Professor, you only think you are. They’ve trapped you. If I wasn’t here, try leaving this room and see just how much freedom you really have. They’ve got too much invested in you to allow you to change your mind.”
The Saint’s voice was utterly calm and reasonable, in spite of the almost melodramatic setting, trying to connect with the rational functions of a scientific brain.
“They’ve sold you as good a line of hokum as I’ve ever heard. Sure, they’ll look after you in Moscow. You’ll be the biggest propaganda weapon they’ve had in a decade. They’ll pamper you with every comfort and provide every facility for your research work, and if that’s all you really want then you’d better go.”
He continued relentlessly: “But there’s more, much more. You’ll never be able to make a telephone call without knowing that someone is listening. You’ll never be allowed to walk down the street without seeing someone following you. You’ll never be allowed to leave the country, a country that’s a world away from the one you know. You’ll be betraying your country. That may not mean much at the moment, but it will later. The Russians don’t respect a traitor any more than the countrymen he betrays. You’re not even selling out for ideological reasons, but for money and prestige. They’ll spit in your face and slap you on the back at the same time.”
Maclett glowered at him with the resentment of a stubborn bull. He was the living personification of the fact that genius can exist without a vestige of common sense.
“Why should I believe ye rather than them? It’s no good trying to talk me out of it. Me mind’s made up. Now stand aside. I’m going to walk out of that door, and neither you nor that toothpick is going to stop me.”
Simon moved out of the professor’s path.
“Go ahead, Professor. You too, Emma. But Willie and smiling boy are staying.”
Curdon and Cartwright were standing a yard apart to the Saint’s left, with Emma forming the third point of a triangle on his right. Maclett was standing in the open doorway behind Simon. Emma started towards her father, walking diagonally across the room. No one could have blamed her — she was unaccustomed to the intricacies of such situations, and the Saint recognised the danger too late.
Emma came between the Saint and Cartwright, giving Cartwright the second’s chance he needed to reach the gun in his pocket. Cartwright gripped the girl around the waist, using her body as a shield, and the Saint found himself staring into the business end of a .38 without the faintest chance of escape or counter.
“Drop it, Templar.”
Simon let his knife fall.
“Kick it towards me.”
Again the Saint did as he was told. Cartwright released the girl, stooped, and picked up the knife. Curdon had also drawn his automatic, and the Saint raised his arms.
Emma ran to her father and buried her head in his shoulder. Maclett patted her hair as he would have a baby.
“Don’t be afraid. He wouldn’t have hurt you. He had to do it.”