Free Alias the Saint by Leslie Charteris, David Case Page A

them, right beside the door, were loose. Handicapped though he was by having only one free hand, he succeeded in getting his fingers under each slab in turn, and dislodging it, and dragging it away. The earth underneath was moist and soft.
    Simon Templar began to dig.
    It took him three hours by his watch to burrow under the door, but at last he achieved an aperture large enough to worm his way through. He leaned against the wall on the other side for a few moments, to rest himself, and then felt his way down the corridor and up the stairs.
    Mercifully, the door at the top of the stairs was unlocked, and it opened at once. Manifestly, Raxel had had no doubt that the Saint would not live long enough to find any way out of the cellar. Simon burst through, and rushed for the nearest window. He had not even time to open it—he smashed it with his respirator bottle, and filled his aching lungs with great gasping breaths of frosty fresh air.
    After a short time he was able to breathe more easily, and then he made a round of the ground floor, opening every window and door to give free passage to the sea breeze, which was soon blowing strongly enough through the house to sweep away any of the gas which filtered up from the cellar.
    It was in the kitchen that he found Detective Duncarry securely trussed up and gagged in a chair. Simon cut him loose, and heard the story.
    “I don’t know how it happened. One minute I was cleaning up a saucepan, and then I got a sickening welt on the back of the head that knocked me right out. Next thing I knew, I was tied up like a Christmas turkey,”
    “And I suppose if I’d died, as I was meant to, you’d have sat here till you starved to death,” said the Saint. “It’s a great life if you don’t weaken,”
    He lighted a cigarette and paced the room feverishly, refusing to talk. Raxel, Crantor, and Basher Tope had gone—he did not have to search the inn to know that. And the ship had gone. Looking out of the window, he could see nothing but blackness. Nowhere on the sea was visible anything like a ship’s lights. But then they’d had a long start while he was sapping under that cellar door.
    And now he knew exactly what the Professor’s scheme was, and the magnitude of it took his breath away.
    He wasted only a few minutes in coming to a decision; and then, with Duncarry to help him,, he went round to the garage and examined the dilapidated Hildebrand. It had not been touched— but, of course, Raxel could not have foreseen that the Saint would be in a position to use it. Anyway, it didn’t look up to much, as cars went, and Simon eyed it disparagingly.
    “Now, why did I ever think it might be a comic stunt to arrive here in this ruin?” he wanted to know.
    But certainly that car was the only vehicle which would take him out of Llancoed that night, for there would be no trains running .from a one-horse village like that, at that hour.
    “Where are you making for?” asked Duncarry, as Simon let in the clutch and the car moved off with a deafening rattle.
    “Gloucester,” said the Saint briefly. “And Hildebrand is going to touch the ground in spots, like he’s never skipped before. Now get down on your knees in front of the dashboard. Dun, and pray that nothing busts!”
    Duncarry pulled his nose.
    “This show will be all over before I even know what it’s about,” he said. “I’ve followed you right from the beginning without asking a single question, and I’ve never beefed about it. I’ve waltzed around looking villainous—left to starve—and you haven’t heard me complain. But now—”
    “Know anything about the Megantic, son?” asked the Saint; and Duncarry, who was an earnest student of the newspapers, nodded.
    “Sure—she’s carrying another instalment of your War Debt over to the States. Just a few million pounds’ worth of gold,” he said, and the Saint’s eyebrows moved slowly northwards.
    It was the one item of information that he lacked, and the