Free The Saint vs Scotland Yard by Leslie Charteris Page A

everywhere,
in a sheath strapped to his left forearm—the knife that had saved him on countless other
occasions such as this.
    Clumsily he pulled himself out of the chair, and rolled the few yards
to the desk. There was a telephone there; he dragged himself to his
knees and lifted the receiver. The ex change took an eternity to answer. He
gave Teal’s private number, and heard the preliminary buzz in the receiver as
he was connected up; and then Wilfred Garniman spoke behind him, from
the doorway.
    “Ah! You are still active, Templar?”
    He crossed the room with quick lumbering strides, and snatched
the instrument away. For a second or two he listened with the receiver at
his ear; then he hung it up and put the telephone down at the
far end of the desk.
    “You have not been at all successful this evening,” he re marked
stolidly.
    “But you must admit we keep on trying,” said the Saint cheerfully.
    Wilfred Garniman took the cigarette from his mouth. His expressionless eyes
contemplated the Saint abstractedly.
    “I am beginning to believe that your prowess was overrated. You came
here hoping to find documents or money—perhaps both. You were
unsuccessful.”
    “Er—temporarily.”
    “Yet a little ingenuity would have saved you from an un pleasant
experience—and shown you quite another function of this piece of
furniture.”
    Garniman pointed to the armchair. He tilted it over on its back, prised
up a couple of tacks, and allowed the canvas finishing of the bottom to fall
away. Underneath was a dark steel door, secured by three swivel catches.
    “I made the whole chair myself—it was a clever piece of work,”
he said; and then he dismissed the subject almost as if it had
never been raised. “I shall now require you to rejoin your
friend, Templar. Will you be carried, or would you prefer to walk?”
    “How
far are we going?” asked the Saint cautiously.
    “Only
a few yards.”
    “I’ll walk, thanks.”
    Garniman knelt down and tugged at the ankle ropes. A strand
slipped under his manipulations, giving an eighteen- inch hobble.
    “Stand up.”
    Simon obeyed. Garniman gripped his arm and led him out of the
room. They went down the hall, and passed through a low door under the
stairs. They stumbled down a flight of narrow stone steps.
At the bottom, Garniman picked up a candlestick from a niche in the wall
and steered the Saint along a short flagged passage.
    “You know, Wilf,” murmured the Saint conversationally,
“this has happened to me twice before in the last six months.
    And each time it was gas. Is it going to be gas again this time, or are you
breaking away from the rules?”
    “It will not be gas,” replied Garniman flatly.
    He was as heavily passionless as a contented animal. And the Saint
chattered on blithely.
    “I hate to disappoint you—as the actress said to the bishop— but I
really can’t oblige you now. You must see it, Wilfred. I’ve got such a lot more
to do before the end of the volume, and it’d wreck the whole show if I went
and got bumped off in the first story. Have a heart, dear old
Garbage-man!”
    The other made no response; and the Saint sighed. In the matter of cross-talk comedy,
Wilfred Garniman was a depressingly feeble
performer. In the matter of murder, on the other hand, he was probably depressingly efficient; but the Saint couldn’t help feeling that he made death a most
gloomy busi ness.
    And then they came into a small low vault; and the Saint saw
Patricia again.
    Her eyes were open, and she looked at him steadily, with the faintest of smiles on her
lips.
    “Hullo, boy.’”
    “Hullo, lass.”
    That was all.
    Simon glanced round. In the centre of the floor there was a deep hole,
and beside it was a great mound of earth. There was a dumpy white sack
in one corner, and a neat conical heap of sand beside it.
    Wilfred Garniman explained, in his monotonously apathetic way.
    “We tried to sink a well here, but we gave it up. The hole is only about
ten feet