Free Saint's Getaway by Leslie Charteris Page A

ladder at that hour of the morning in order to inspect
a room, and then to return with the information that it pos sesses a
window constructed of square panes of glass, struck him as being an
extraordinarily inane procedure. And he could see nothing
inside from where he was. There seemed to be only one
alternative, and that was to insert himself surreptitiously into the room.
    Fortunately one of the casements was ajar, and
he opened it wide and clambered over the sill with a silent prayer that he might
be able to pretend successfully that he was drunk.
    Every movement he made appeared to shake the
hotel to its foundations. The loose change clinked in his pockets like
a dozen sledge hammers knocking the hell out of a cracked anvil, his
clothes rustled like a forest in a gale, and the sound of his
breathing seemed loud enough to wake the Seven Sleepers of
Ephesus. The jaws of the prison yawned on every side. He could hear them.
    Then his right shin collided with something
hard. He felt around for the offending object, and presently discovered
it to be a chair lying on its side. Peering puzzledly into the gloom, he made out
the white outline of the bed. He strained his eyes at it for some
seconds; and then, with a sudden inspiration, he walked straight
across the room and switched on the light. …
    Three minutes later he was back in the suite
below.
    “I don’t profess to understand anything
that’s happening to night,” he said, “but the bird upstairs has
flown. Flown in a hurry, too, because he’s gone without his coat and
tie.”
    Patricia stared.
    “But—surely he must have gone to the
bathroom.”
    “Not unless he intends to spend the night
there. His door was shut, and the key was on the table by the bed. That’s
what they call deduction.”
    The girl sat down on the arm of the
Chesterfield with a frown of perplexity wrinkling her forehead. The
development required some thinking over.
    One thing was as plain as a pikestaff, and she
phrased it undemonstratively:
    “If we sit around here doing nothing,
we’re just asking to be shot at.”
    “Look here, Pat,” said Monty
Hayward, buttressing himself against the mantelpiece, “we’re between
several fires. Don’t forget that the police have got it in for us as well. And
one of the chief essentials in a mess like this seems to be to have the door open
for a clean getaway. Now, what would be the Saint’s idea about
that?”
    “He’d say that the main thing was to
leave no evidence.”
    “Right. Then the only serious piece of
evidence is that stiff in the next room. Whatever happens, we can’t
leave him lying about. And since we know where he was going, and the
coast is clear, I should think the best thing we could do is to help him finish his journey.”
    Patricia looked at him thoughtfully.
    “You mean, plant him in the room
upstairs—— ”
    “Exactly. And let the gang he belongs to
take care of him. It’s about time they had some worries of their own.”
    “And what about Ethelbert?”—she
indicated the prisoner with a movement of her cigarette.
    “Put a knife beside him and let him do
the best he can.
    Even if they catch him, I don’t think he’ll
have anything to say. For one thing, Stanislaus seems to have been no
friend of his; and besides, if he wanted to clear up the mystery,
he’d have to give an account of what he was doing in here, which wouldn’t be
too easy for him.”
    The argument seemed flawless. Patricia herself
could offer no improvements on the scheme; and she realized that every wasted minute increased the danger.
    She led the way into the bedroom and produced
an electric flashlamp to light Monty on his gruesome task. Luckily the
external bleeding had been comparatively slight, and no blood had
penetrated to the bedclothes. Monty picked up the rigid body in his arms and
went out without another word, and she stayed behind to
straighten the sheets and coverlet.
    The feelings of Monty Hayward as he climbed
the fire escape