Saint Errant Read Free Page B

the hall. On his right, covering the retreat to the back of the house, stood an outsize butler in a nightshirt with a rolling pin clutched in one hand. On his left, barring the way to the front door, was a wiry youth in trousers and undershirt. A little way up the stairs stood Burt Northwade himself, with a candle in one hand and a young cannon of a revolver in the other. The Saint’s most reckless fighting smile touched his lips under the concealing handkerchief.
    “Bon soir, messieurs,” he murmured politely. “It appears that you were not expecting me. I am accustomed to being received in formal dress. I regret that I cannot accept you in this attire.”
    He stepped back rapidly through the door, closing it after Mm. The butler and the wiry youth took a few seconds to re cover; then they made a concerted dash for the door. They burst in together, followed by Burt Northwade with the candle. The spectacle of a completely deserted library was the last thing they were expecting, and it pulled them up short with bulging eyes.
    In an abruptly contrasting silence, the nightshirted butler re turned to life. He tiptoed gingerly forward, and peered with a majestic air behind and under a large settee in a far corner of the room. The wiry youth, inspired by his example, made a dash to the nearest window curtains and pulled them wide apart, disclosing a large area of glass with the round goggling faces of two other servants pressed against it from the outside, like startled fish in an aquarium. Burt Northwade discreetly remained a scant yard inside the doorway with his sputtering candle held helpfully aloft.
    On the top of a massive ladder of bookshelves beside the door, Simon Templar rose like a panther from his prone position and dropped downwards. He fell squarely behind Northwade, easing his fall with a hand applied to the crown of Northwade’s head, which drew from the tycoon a sudden squeal of terror. The same hand pushed Northwade violently forward, and the candle which supplied the only illumination of the scene flickered and went out.
    In the darkness the door banged.
    “We might even get back in time to have a dance some where,” said the Saint.
    He materialized out of the gloom beside her like a wraith; and she gasped.
    “Did you have to scare me?” she asked, when she had got her breath.
    He chuckled. Back towards the Northwade mansion there were sounds of muffled disturbance, floating down to his ears like the music of hounds to an old fox. He slipped into the driving seat and touched the starter. The engine purred un-protestingly.
    “Did something go wrong?” she asked.
    “Nothing that wasn’t taken care of.”
    The car gathered speed into the blaze of its own headlights. Simon felt for a cigarette and lighted it from the dashboard gadget.
    “Did you get everything?” she asked.
    “I am the miracle man who never fails, Judith,” he said reproachfully. “Hadn’t I explained that?”
    “But that noise-“
    “There seems to have been some sort of alarm that goes off when the safe is opened, which you didn’t know about. Not that it mattered a lot. The ungodly were fatally slow in assembling, and if you’d seen their waist measurements you wouldn’t have been surprised.”
    She caught his arm excitedly.
    “Oh, I can’t quite believe it! … Everything’s all right now. And I’ve actually been on a raid with the Saint himself! Do you mind if I give way a bit?”
    She reached across him to the button in the middle of the steering wheel. The horn blared a rhythmic peal of triumph and defiance into the night: “Taaa ta-ta, taaa ta-ta, taa ta-ta!” Like a jubilant trumpet. Simon smiled. Nothing could have fitted better into the essential rightness of everything that had happened that evening. It was true that there had been a telephone in the library, and if there was an extension upstairs there might be gendarmes already watching the road; but they would be an interesting complication that could be