Free The Saint Closes the Case by Leslie Charteris Page A

matic, the Saint shot
out a long, raking left that gathered strength from every muscle in his body
from the toes to the wrist
    And the Saint was on his way to the Hirondel
before the man reached the ground.
    Conway had only just dumped his struggling
burden into the back seat when the Saint sprang to the running-board and
clapped Norman Kent on the shoulder.
    “Right away, sonny boy!” cried the
Saint; and the Hiron del was sliding away as he and Conway climbed
into the back.
    He collected Vargan’s flailing legs in an
octopus embrace, and held the writhing scientist while Conway pinioned his ankles with the rope they had brought for the purpose. The expert
hands of the first set of kidnappers had already dealt with the rest of
him—his wrists were lashed together with a length of stout cord, and a professional
gag stifled the screams which otherwise he
would undoubtedly have been loosing.
    “What happened?” asked Norman Kent,
over his shoul der; and the Saint leaned over the front seat and
explained.
    “In fact,” he said, “we
couldn’t have done better if we’d thought it out. Angel Face certainly
brought off that raid like no amateur. But can you beat it? No stealth or
subtlety, as far as we know. Just banging in like a Chicago bandit, and
hell to the consequences. That shows how much he means busi ness.”
    “How many men on the job?”
    “Don’t know. We only met one, and that
wasn’t Angel Face. Angel Face himself may have been in the car with Vargan, but he’d
certainly taken to the tall timber when Roger and I arrived. A man like
that wouldn’t tackle the job with one soli tary car and a couple
of pals. There must have been a spare bus, with load, somewhere—probably up
the lane. There should be another way in, though I don’t know where it
is. … You’d better switch on the lights—we’re out of sight now.”
    He settled back and lighted a cigarette.
    In its way, it had been a most satisfactory
effort, even if its success had been largely accidental; but the Saint was
frown ing rather thoughtfully. He wasn’t worrying about the loss of his
car—that was a minor detail. But that night he had lost something far more
important.
    “This looks like my good-bye to England,”
he said; and Conway, whose brain moved a little less quickly, was sur prised.
    “Why—are you going abroad after
this?”
    The Saint laughed rather sadly.
    “Shall I have any choice?” he
answered. “We couldn’t have got the Furillac away, and Teal will
trace me through that. He doesn’t know I’m the Saint, but I guess they could
make the Official Secrets Act heavy enough on me without that. Not
to mention that any damage Angel Face’s gang may have done to the
police will be blamed on us as well. There’s nothing in the world
to show that we weren’t part of the original raid, except the evidence of
the gang themselves— and I shouldn’t bet on their telling… .
No, my Roger. We are indubitably swimming in a large pail of soup. By morning
every policeman in London will be looking for me, and by to-morrow
night my photograph will be hanging up in every police station
in England. Isn’t it going to be fun?—as the bishop said to
the actress.”
    But the Saint wasn’t thinking it as funny as
it might have been.
    “Is it safe to go to Maidenhead?” asked Conway.
    “That’s our consolation. The deeds of
the bungalow are in the name of Mrs. Patricia Windermere, who spends her spare time being Miss Patricia Holm. I’ve had that joke up my sleeve for the past year in
case of accidents.”
    “And Brook Street?”
    The Saint chuckled.
    “Brook Street,” he said, “is
held in your name, my sweet and respectable Roger. I thought that’d be
safer. I merely installed myself as your tenant. No—we’re temporarily cov ered there,
though I don’t expect that to last long. A few days, perhaps… .
And the address registered with my car is one I invented for
the purpose… . But there’s a snag. … Finding