A taxi took him to Paddington, and he arrived outside the platform barrier just as the guard was blowing his whistle.
He had no ticket, but such minor difficulties were never allowed to stand in Simon Templar's way. Nor was the ticket collector. Simon picked him. up and sat him on a convenient luggage trolley, and raced down the platform as the train was gathering way. He opened the door of the first convenient carriage and swung into it. Looking back through the window, he saw the chase of porters tailing off breathlessly. They might telephone to Birmingham and prepare a reception for him there, but that would not take long to deal with.
Then he turned to inspect the other occupants of the carriage, whose flabbergasted comments had been audible behind him as he looked back out of the window; but the first person he noticed was not a man in the carriage. It was a man who happened to be passing down the corridor.
The Saint strode over a barricade of legs, odd luggage, and a bird cage, and went down the corridor in the man's wake. Coming up sufficiently close behind him, he trod heavily on the man's heels; and Stephen Weald turned with an oath.
"What the—"
The exclamation died suddenly, and Weald's face went grey as he recognized the offender.
Simon's lips twitched into a little smile of sprightly merriment.
"So we're all going to Birmingham together!"
Then, with a surprising abruptness, he turned away into the nearest carriage, where he had already perceived a vacant seat, and composed himself to the enjoyment of a cigarette.
Weald passed on.
A little farther down the corridor was the compartment in which he and the girl had found places. She looked up as he showed in the doorway, and he gave her an imperceptible signal. She came out to join him in the corridor.
"What is it?"
"Let's go to the dining car," said Weald. "We shan't be overheard there."
He led the way, and no more was said until they were securely ensconced and tea had been ordered.
"Well, what is it, Weald?"
"The Saint's on the train! I've just seen him."
She stopped in the act of fitting a cigarette into a holder.
"The Saint? You're dreaming."
He shook his head. The hand with which he offered her a match was shaking.
"I tell you I saw him. He spoke to me. He's in a compartment three divisions back from ours. I don't know how he got away, but he's done it."
The girl's eyes narrowed.
"It's that man Dyson. Heavens, Templar's clever! You were listening when he warned me about Dyson, weren't you? And we took it just the way the Saint meant us to take it. Dyson's done the double-cross."
"And Pinky—?"
"Pinky's a back number."
The girl admitted the fact grimly. She was calm about it.
"Why do you think the Saint is in this, Jill?"
"Who knows why the Saint does anything? You've read the stories in the newspapers — he was pardoned, and now he seems to be working right in with the police… But you're right. This isn't like any ordinary racket of the Saint's."
"What are we going to do?" asked Weald tremblingly.
"I'll tell you in a minute," she said. "Keep quiet, and don't bother me."
She drew at her cigarette, looking out of the window at the darkening scenery. It was some time before she looked at Weald again.
Then she said:
"We go on, of course!"
Weald's mouth fell open.
"But Templar's on the train. I'm not being funny—"
"Neither am I. The Saint's expecting to scare us off Donnell, but we aren't going to be scared. If he's on the train, we haven't a way out, anyway. The only thing for us to do is to go on. We may be able to deal with him at Donnell's, but we can't here, that's certain. The train's packed, and we'd never get away with it."
"He'll have a posse at Donnell's."
She laughed, a hard little laugh.
"That posse's another of the Saint's fairly tales. I don't believe a man like that would dream of using one. He's got too darn good an opinion of himself. Don't you see that it amuses him to go about alone like this and get away with it? He gets twice as much kudos for the job as he would if he went round with a bodyguard. But this time he isn't going to get away with it. That's my answer. If you know anything better I'll hear it."
Weald said nothing. The train ran on.
He avoided her eyes. Picking up his cup to drink mechanically, he spilt tea over the tablecloth. But that might have been the jolting of the train. He hoped she would think it was. He knew she was watching him.
What little colour there could be in his face had not come back since he saw the Saint, for Stephen Weald had seen the jaws of destruction yawning at him at the same time.
It had all happened so quietly and gently up to that point that he had never seen the danger until it was upon him. There had been nothing concrete in the mere knowledge that the Saint was after the Angels of Doom, imposing as the Saint's reputation was. And though each of Simon Templar's visits to Belgrave Street had been both an insult and a threat, none of them had been sufficiently terrifying to rouse an alarm which could not be dissipated with a drink after he had left. And now it seemed as if all that had changed as suddenly as if a charge of dynamite had been detonated under the whole situation. And all through such a simple thing. Before that there had been no evidence against any of them. But now there was. Simon Templar had been held up and bound and locked in a cellar, and now he was free to tell the tale, with Dyson's evidence to support it.
That might well be the beginning of the end. Weald had always had a wholesome respect for the tenacity of the police when once they got hold of a solid bone to chew. Throughout his career he had made a point of keeping away from any material contact with them. As long as they were working in the dark against him he could feel safe, but once they could make any definite accusation, and thus get a hold on him, there was no knowing where it might end.
But in Jill Trelawney there was no sign of weakening.
"We can still pull through," she said.
Weald's thin fingers twitched his tie nervously.
"How can you say that after what we know now?"
"We're not dead yet. In your way, you're right, of course. We've tripped over about the most ridiculous little thing that we could have tripped over, and if we aren't careful we'll go stumbling over the edge of the precipice. But I'm not giving an imitation of a jelly in an earthquake."
"Nor am I," said Weald angrily.
The mocking contempt remained in her eyes, and he knew that he was not believed.
With a certain grim concession to her sense of humour she remembered the Saint's warning before they left Belgrave Street. The Saint had certainly been right. In the circumstances, Weald was likely to be very much less use than a tin tombstone. She saw the way he put a hand to cover the twitching of his weak mouth, and realized that Stephen Weald was going to pieces rapidly.
Chapter IV
How Jill Trelawney told a lie, and
Simon Templar spoke nothing but the truth
1
HARRY DONNELL lived in a house in a mean street on the outskirts of Birmingham. It was a curious house, but as soon as he had seen it he knew that few other houses could have fulfilled his requirements so completely, for he had always boasted that if necessary he would resist arrest to the death.
This house had grown up, somehow, in the very inside of a block. Being completely surrounded by the other houses of the block necessarily deprived its rooms of most of the light of day, but Donnell could not see this as a disadvantage. The same fact made the house very difficult to attack, and this to his mind was compensation enough. In fact, the building could only be approached directly through a straight and narrow alleyway between two of the outer houses.