It was after midnight when he arrived, and the footman who opened the door informed him that Lady Essenden had gone to bed with a headache two hours earlier.
Essenden nodded and handed over his hat and coat. In exchange, he received one solitary letter, and the handwriting on the envelope was so familiar that he carried it to his study to open behind a locked door. The letter contained in the envelope was not so surprising to him as it would have been a month before:
Have a look at the safe behind the dummy row in your bookcase.
And underneath were the replicas of the two drawings that he had seen before.
Essenden struck a match and watched the paper curl and blacken in an ashtray. Then, with a perfectly impassive fatalism, he went to the bookcase and slid back the panel which on one shelf replaced a row of books. He had no anxiety about any of the papers there, for since the first burglary he had transferred every important document in his house to a safer place.
He opened the safe and looked at the notebook he had lost in Paris.
Thoughtfully he flicked through the pages.
Every entry had been decoded, and the interpretation written neatly in between the lines.
Essenden studied the book for some minutes; and then he dropped it into his pocket and began to pace the room with short bustling strides.
The notebook had not been in the safe when he arrived back from Paris that afternoon. He knew that, for he had deposited some correspondence there before he left again to interview the commissioner. And yet, to be delivered that night, the letter which told him to look in the safe must have been posted early that morning. And early that morning Jill Trelawney and the Saint were in Paris — and the letter was post-marked in London. There was something terrifying about the ruthless assurance which emerged from the linking of those two facts.
A gentle knock on the door almost made Essenden jump out of his skin.
"Would there be anything else tonight, my lord?" inquired the footman, tactfully.
"A large brandy and soda, Falcon."
"Very good, my lord."
In a few moments the tray was brought in.
"Thank you, Falcon."
"I have cut some sandwiches for you, my lord."
"Thank you."
"Is there nothing else, my lord?"
Essenden picked up his glass and looked at it under the light.
"Have there been any callers today?"
"No, my lord. But the young man you sent down from London to inspect your typewriter came about six o'clock."
Essenden nodded slowly.
He dismissed the servant, and when the door had closed again, he went to another bookcase and extracted a couple of dusty volumes. Reaching into the cavity behind the other books, he brought out an automatic pistol and a box of cartridges. The books he replaced. Carrying the gun over to the table, he first carefully tested the action and then loaded the magazine, bringing the first cartridge into the chamber and then thumbing in the safety catch.
With the gun in his pocket he experienced a slight feeling of relief.
But for hours afterwards he sat in the study, staring at the embers of the dying fire, sipping brandy and smoking cigarette after cigarette, till the fire died altogether, and he began to shiver as the room grew colder. And thus, alone, through those hours, he pondered fact upon fact, and formed and reviewed and discarded plan after plan, until at last he had shaped an idea with which his weary brain could at the moment find no fault.
It was a wild and desperate scheme, the kind of scheme which a man only forms after a sleepless night fortified with too many cigarettes and too much strong drink taken alone and in fear; but it was the only answer he could find to his problem. He was quite calm and decided about that. When at last he dragged himself to bed, he was more calm and cold and decided than he had ever been before in all his life, was Lord Essenden, that fussy and peevish little man.
2
Simon Templar picked up the sheet of paper on which he had been working spasmodically during the return from Paris, and cleared his throat.
"We understand," he said, "that the following lines have been awarded the Dumbbell Prize for Literature:
"The King sits in the silent town,
Sipping his China tea:
'And where shall I find a fearless knight
To bear a sword for me?
'The beasts are leagued about my gates,
The vultures seek the slain,
Till a perfect knight shall rise and ride
To find the Grail again.'
Then up and spake a Minister,
Sat at the King's right knee:
'Basil de Bathmat Dilswipe Boil
Has a splendid pedigree.
'His brother is Baron de Bathmat Boil,
Who owns the Daily Squeal,
And everybody knows he is
Impeccably genteel.'
'Has he been with my men-at-arms,
Has he borne scars for me,
That I should take this Basil Boil
Among my chivalry?'
'Sire, in a war some years ago
You called him to the fray,
And he would have served you loyally,
But his conscience bade him nay.
'And they took him before the judges,
Because he did rebel,
And he lay a year in prison
To save his soul from hell.'
'Then what have I for a portent,
What bring you me for a sign,
That I should take this coistril
To be a knight of mine?'
'Sire, we are bringing in a bill
Which the Daily Squeal could foil,
And it might be wise to wheedle
Baron de Bathmat Boil.'
Then the King rose up in anger
And seared them with his gaze:
'You have taken the wine and the laughter,
The pride and the grace of days;
'The last fair woman is faded,
And the last man dead for shame,
But a dog from the gutter shall serve me
Before this man you name.'
They heard, and did not answer;
They heard, and did not bend;
And he saw their frozen stillness
And knew it was the end.
Basil de Bathmat Dilswipe Boil
They brought upon a day,
And the King gave him the accolade
And turned his face away.
And saw beyond his windows
The tattered flags unfurled;
And on his brow was a crown of iron
And the weariness of the world."
"What's that supposed to be?" asked the girl blankly.
"If you don't recognize poetry when you hear it," said the Saint severely, "you are beyond salvation. But I'll admit it's rather an amorphous product — my feelings got too strong for gentle satire as I went along. If you saw a — paper the other day, you'll notice that a sometime pacifist has recently received a knighthood. A violent atheist will probably be the next Archbishop of Canterbury, and a confirmed teetotaller is going to be the chairman of the next Liquor Commission. After which I shall put my head in a gas oven."
Jill Trelawney selected two lumps of sugar from a silver bowl.
"Something seems to have upset you," she remarked.
"The bleary organization of this wall-eyed world is always upsetting me. It would upset anyone who hadn't been spavined from birth."
"But apart from that?"
"Apart from that," said Simon Templar luxuriously, "I feel that life is very good just now. I have about a hundred thousand francs in my pocket, waiting to be translated into English as soon as the banks open in the morning. I have had a drive in the country. I have discovered that, if all else fails, I can always earn an honest living as an inspector of typewriters. I have bathed, changed, and refreshed myself from my toils and travels with a trio of truly superb kippers cooked with a dexterity that might have made me famous as a chef. My latest poetic masterpiece gives me great satisfaction. And finally, I have your charming company. What more could any man ask?"