Alias the Saint Read Free Page B

associate yourself with my use of it, and so you need have no fear that you will be incriminating yourself. I promise you that when you have made a sufficient quantity for my ends, I shall ask nothing more of you. Nothing shall be done to stop your return home, and no one need ever know what you have been doing. You can, if you like, adopt me as your physician, and tell any inquirers that you are taking a cure under my personal supervision. We can arrange that. Also, I give you my word of honour that no harm shall come to you while you are in my employ.”
    He looked at his watch.
    “It is half-past ten,” he said. “You have hardly been unconscious an hour, though I expect you have been wondering how many days it has been. There is plenty of time for you to give me your answer and be back at the flat by the time your brother returns. And there is only one answer that you can possibly give.”
    2
    Besides the huge flying Hirondel that was the apple of his eye, Simon Templar possessed another and much less conspicuous car which ran excellently downhill, and therefore he was able to descend upon Llancoed at a clear twenty miles an hour.
    The car (he called it Hildebrand, for no reason that the chronicler, or anyone else in this story, could ever discover) was of the model known to the expert as “Touring,” which is to say that in hot weather you had the choice of baking with the hood down, or broiling with the hood up. In wet weather you had the choice of getting soaked with the hood down, or driving to the peril of the whole world and yourself while completely encased in a compartment as impervious to vision as it was intended to be impervious to rain. It dated from one of the vintage years of Henry Ford, and the Saint had long ago had his money’s worth out of it.
    On this occasion the hood was up, and the side-curtains also, for it was a filthy night. The wind that whistled round the car arid blew frosty draughts through every gap in the so-called “all-weather” defenses seemed to have whipped straight out of the bleakest fastnesses of the North Pole. With it came a thin drizzle of rain that seemed colder than snow, which hissed glacially through a clammy sea mist, The Saint huddled the collar of his leather motoring coat up round his ears, and wondered if he would ever be warm again.
    He drove through the little village, and came, a minute later, to his destination—a house on the outskirts, within sight of the sea. It was a long, low, rambling building of two stories, and a dripping sign outside proclaimed it to be the Beacon Inn, It was half-past nine, and yet there seemed to be no convivial gathering of villagers in any of the bars, for only one of the downstairs windows showed a light. In three windows on the first floor, however, lights gleamed from behind yellow blinds. The house did not look particularly inviting, but the night was particularly loathsome, and Simon Templar would have had no difficulty in choosing it even if he had not decided to stop at the Beacon Inn nearly twelve hours before.
    He climbed out and went to the door. Here lie met his first surprise, for it was locked. He thundered on it impatiently, and after some time there was the sound of footsteps approaching from within. The door opened six inches, and a man looked out.
    “What do you want?” he demanded surlily.
    “Lodging for a night—or even two nights,” said the Saint, cheerfully.
    “We’ve got no rooms,” said the man.
    He would have slammed the door in the Saints face, but Simon was not unused to people wanting to slam doors in his face, and he had taken the precaution of wedging his foot in the jamb.
    “Pardon me,” he said pleasantly, “but you have got a room. There are eight bedrooms in this plurry pub, and I happen to know that only six of them are occupied.”
    “Well, you can’t come in,” said the man gruffly. “We don’t want you.”
    “I’m sorry about that,” said the Saint, still affably. “But