Free Prelude for War by Leslie Charteris Page A

his powers of resistance to
such things as smoke and fumes are probably higher than
the average, and certainly immeasurably greater than those
of a slightly built sedentary type such as the late Mr Kennet,
whose constitution, I am told, was always some what
delicate. I want you to bear this in mind a little later
on.”
    He turned back to the
Saint.
    “You appear to have
acted with singular courage, Mr Templar,” he said.
“I’m sure that that is quite obvious to all
of us here in spite of the modest way in which you have told your story. I should like to compliment you on your extremely gallant attempt to save this unfortunate young man’s life.
Next witness, please.”
    A glint of steel came into
the Saint’s eyes. He knew that the coroner had had a good talk with the party
from White ways, and it had been evident from the
start of the proceedings that everything was laid out to lead up to a verdict
of accidental death with as little fuss as possible.
That was all very well; and the Saint had quite
enjoyed himself while he was waiting for his
turn. But now he realized that he was not intended to
have a turn. His own evidence had been adroitly
manoeuvred towards bolstering up the desired verdict;
and the coroner, warned about him in time, was getting
rid of him with a pontifical pat on the back before he
had a chance to derange the well-oiled machinery. Which
was not by any means the Saint’s idea.
    “Haven’t the jury any
questions?” he asked breezily.
    He turned towards them and
looked hard at the black- bearded little man, who
was sitting slumped disconsolately in his chair. There
was something compelling about his direct gaze.
    The black-bearded little
man’s figure straightened and an eager light came into
his eyes. He rose.
    “Yus,” he said
defiantly. “I’ve got some questions.”
    The coroner’s hands
tightened together.
    “Very well,” he
snapped. “Go on and ask your questions.”
    The way in which he spoke
explained to the entire audi ence that the questions
could only be a pointless waste of their time as much as his own.
    The little man turned to
Simon.
    “You’re the chap they
call the Saint, ain’t you?” he said. “You’ve
‘ad a lot of experience of crime—murders, and that
sort o’ thing.”
    Before Simon could answer
the coroner intervened.
    “Mr Templar’s past
life .and any nickname by which he may be known to the
public are not subjects which we have to consider at this
inquiry. Kindly confine your questions to facts
relevant to the case.”
    There was an awkward pause.
The little juryman’s attitude was still undaunted, but he didn’t seem to know what to say next. He looked about him desperately, as if
search ing the room for inspiration. Finally he spoke.
    “Do you think there
was something fishy about this fire?” he
demanded.
    “Mr Templar’s personal
opinions are not matters which concern this court,”
interrupted the coroner sternly.
    The Saint smiled. He
looked at the little juryman, and spoke very clearly
and distinctly.
    “Yes,” he said.
“I think there were a lot of very fishy things
about it.”
    There was a moment of
silence so heavy that it seemed almost solid. And then it broke in a babble of
twittering speculation that surged over the room
as if a swarm of bees had been turned loose. There was
a craning of necks all over the court, a quick rustling of
notebooks among the reporters.
    Simon stood at his ease,
absorbing the pleasant radia tions of the sensation he
had created. Well, he reflected, he had certainly done it
now. He glanced at the rows of seats where the party from
Whiteways was sitting. Luker’s expression had not changed: he wore his usual
cold stony mask. Fairweather looked acutely
unhappy: he could not meet the Saint’s gaze. The
General and Lady Sangore had adopted an indignant pose
of having nothing to do with what was going on: they
sat as if red-hot pokers had been inserted into their
backs and they were pretending not to