"I never aspired to be an outlaw myself, if it comes to that," he said. "Simon, I simply loathe your sense of humour."
The Saint shrugged his shoulders. He was unrepentant. And already his brain was leaping ahead into a whirlwind of surmise and leaving that involuntary explosion of rejoicing far behind it.
He had summarized for Monty everything that he knew or guessed himself—in a small nutshell. He had divined the situation right from the overture, had been irrevocably confirmed in his suspicion in the first act, and had turned his deductions over and over in his mind during the interval until they had taken to themselves the coherence of concrete knowledge. And in his last sentence he had epitomized the facts with a staccato conciseness that lammed them together like a herd of chortling toads.
They failed lamentably to depress him. Never again would he mourn over his lost virtue. What had to be would be. He had angled for adventure, and it had been handed to him abundantly. Admittedly the violent decease of Stanislaus complicated matters to no small extent, but that only piled on proof that here was the authentic article as advertised. Whoever the gangs were that he was up against, they had already provided prompt and efficient evidence that they were worthy of his steel. His heart warmed towards them. His toes yearned after their posteriors. They were his boy friends.
His brain went racing on towards the next move. The other two were watching him expectantly, and for their benefit he continued with his thoughts aloud.
"If anybody is wanting to get out," he said, "this is the time to go. The birds who bumped off Stanislaus are going to have lots more to say before they're through, and it's only a question of hours before they say it. The guy who did the bumping has gone home to report, and the only thing we don't know is how long they'll take to get organized for the come-back. Even now——"
He broke off and stood listening.
In the silence, the gentle drumming on the outer door of the suite, which had commenced as an almost inaudible vibration, rose slowly through a gradual crescendo until they could all hear it quite distinctly; and the Saint's brows levelled over his eyes in a dark line. Yet he rounded off his speech without a tremor of expression.
"Even now," said the Saint unemotionally, "it may be too late."
Monty spoke.
"The police—or Stanislaus's pals—or the knife experts?"
Simon smiled.
"We shall soon know," he murmured.
There was a gun gleaming in his hand—a wicked little snub-nosed Webley automatic that fitted snugly and inconspicuously into the palm. He slipped back the jacket and replaced it in his pocket, keeping his hand there, and crossed the room with his swift, swinging stride. And as he reached the door, the knocking stopped.
The Saint halted also, with the furrows deepening in his forehead. Not once since it began had that knocking possessed the timbre which might have been expected from it—either of peremptory summons or stealthy importunity. It had been more like a long tattoo artistically performed for its own sake, with a sort of patient persistence that lent an eerie quality to its abrupt stoppage. And the Saint was still circling warily round the puzzle when the solution was launched at him with a smooth purposefulness that made his heart skip one beat.
"Please do nothing rash," said a mellifluous voice in perfect English.
The Saint spun round.
In the communicating doorway of the sitting room stood a slim and elegant man in evening dress, unarmed except for the gold-mounted ebony cane held lightly in his white-gloved fingers. For three ticked seconds the Saint stared at him in dizzy incredulity; and then, to Monty Hayward's amazement, he sagged limply against the wall and began to laugh.
"By the great hammer toe of the holy prophet Hezekiah," said the Saint ecstatically—"the Crown Prince Rudolf !"
2
The prince stroked his silky figment of moustache, and behind his hand the corners of his mouth twitched into the shadow of a smile.
"My dear young friend, this is a most unexpected pleasure! When you were described to me, I could scarcely believe that our acquaintance was to be renewed."
Simon Templar looked at him through a sort of haze.
His memory went careering back over two years—back to the tense days of battle, murder, and sudden death, when that slight, fastidious figure had juggled the fate of Europe in his delicate hands, and the monstrous evil presence of Rayt Marius, the war maker, had loomed horribly across an unsuspecting world; when the Saint and his two friends had fought their lone forlorn fight for peace, and Norman Kent laid down his life for many people. And then again to their second encounter, three months afterwards, when the hydra had raised its head again in a new guise, and Norman Kent had been remembered. . . . Everything came back to him with a startling and blinding vividness, summed up and crystallized in the superhuman repose of that slim, dominating figure—the man of steel and velvet, as the Saint would always picture him, the stormy petrel of the Balkans, the outlaw of Europe, the man who in his own strange way was the most fanatical patriot of the age; marvellously groomed, sleek as a sword-blade, smiling. ...
With a conscious effort the Saint pulled himself together. Out of that maelstrom of reminiscence, one thing stood out a couple of miles. If Prince Rudolf was participating in the spree, the soup into which he had dipped his spoon was liable to contain so little poppycock that the taste would be almost imperceptible. Somewhere in the environs of Innsbruck big medicine was being brewed; the theory of ordinary boodle in some shape or form, which the Saint had automatically accepted as the explanation of that natty little strong-box, was wafted away to inglorious annihilation. And somewhere behind that smiling mask of polished ice were locked away the key threads of the intrigue.
"Rudolf—my dear old college chum!" Mirthfully, blissfully, the Saint's voice went out in an expansive hail of welcome. "This is just like old times! . . . Monty, you must let me introduce you: this is His Absolute Altitude, the Crown Prince, Rudolf himself, who was with us in all the fun and games a year or two ago. . . . Rudolf, meet Saint Montague Hayward, chairman of the Royal Commission for Investigating the Incidence of Psittacosis among Dromedaries, and managing editor of The Blunt Instrument, canonized this very day for assassinating a reader who thought a blackleg was something to do with varicose veins. . . . And now you must let us know what we can do for you—Highness!"
The prince glanced down with faint distaste at the bulge of the Saint's pocket. Grim, steady as a rock, and unmistakable, it had been covering him unswervingly throughout that gay cascade of nonsense, and not one of the Saint's exaggerated movements had contrived to veer it off its mark by the thousandth part of an inch.
"I sincerely trust, my dear Mr. Templar," he remarked, "that you are not contemplating any drastic foolishness. One corpse is quite sufficient for any ordinary man to have to account for, and I cannot help thinking that even such an enterprising young man as yourself would find the addition of my own body somewhat inconvenient."
"You guess wrong," said the Saint tersely. "Corpses are my specialty. I collect 'em. But still, we're beginning to learn things about you. From that touching speech of yours, we gather that you belong to the bunch who presented me with the first body. Izzat so?" The prince inclined his head.
"It distresses me to have to admit that one of my agents was responsible. The killing was stupid and unnecessary. Emilio was only instructed to follow Weissmann and report to me immediately he had reached his destination. When Weissmann was first arrested, and then rescued and abducted by yourself, the ridiculous Emilio lost his head. His blunder is merely a typical example of misplaced initiative." The prince dismissed the subject with an airy wave of his hand. "However, the mistake is fortunately not fatal, except for Weissmann—and Emilio will not annoy me again. Is your curiosity satisfied?"