Inspector Teal set Hermann down in the sitting-room, and adroitly snapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. Then he turned his slumbrous eyes on Roger.
"Hullo, unconscious!" he sighed.
"Not quite," retorted Roger shortly. "But darn near it. I got a good crack on the head giving you that shout."
Teal shook his head. He was perpetually tired, and even that slight movement seemed to cost him a gargantuan effort.
"Not me," he said heavily. "My name isn't Norman. What are you doing there?"
"Pretending to be a sea-lion," said Roger sarcastically. "It's a jolly game. Wouldn't you like to join in? Hermann will throw us the fish to catch in our mouths."
Mr. Teal sighed again, slumbrously.
"What's your name?" he demanded.
Roger did not answer for a few seconds.
In that time he had to make a decision that might alter the course of the Saint's whole life, and Roger's own with it—if not the course of all European history. It was a tough decision to take.
Should he give his name as Simon Templar? That was the desperate question that leapt into his head immediately. ... It so happened that he never carried much in his pockets, and so far as he could remember there was nothing in his wallet that would give him away when he was searched. The fraud would certainly be discovered before very long, but he might be able to bluff it out for twenty-four hours. And in all that time the Saint would be free—free to save Pat, return to Maidenhead, deal with Vargan, complete the mission to which he had pledged himself.
To the possible, and even probable, consequences to himself of such a course, Roger never gave a thought. The sacrifice would be a small one compared with what it might achieve.
"I am Simon Templar," said Roger. "I believe you're looking for me."
Hermann's eyes widened.
"It is a lie!" he burst out. "He is not Templar!"
Teal turned his somnambulistic gaze upon the man.
"Who asked you to speak?" he demanded.
"Don't take any notice of him," said Roger. "He doesn't know anything about it. I'm Templar, all right. And I'll go quietly."
"But he is not Templar!" persisted Hermann excitedly. "Templar has been gone an hour! That man——"
"You shut your disgusting mouth!" snarled Roger. "And if you don't, I'll shut it for you. You——"
Teal blinked.
"Somebody's telling a naughty fib," he remarked sapiently. "Now will you both shut up a minute?"
He locomoted fatly across the room, and stooped over Roger. But he based his decision on the tailor's tab inside Roger's coat pocket, and Roger had not thought of that.
"I'm afraid you're the story-teller, whoever you are," he sighed.
"That's my real name," said Roger bitterly. "Conway— Roger Conway."
"It sounds more likely."
"Though what that fatherless streak of misery——"
"A squeal," explained Teal patiently. "A time-honoured device among crooks to get off lightly themselves by helping the police to jump more heavily on their pals. I suppose he is your pal?" added the detective sardonically. "You seem to know each other's names."
Roger was silent.
So that was that. Very quickly settled. And what next?
Hermann, then, had patently decided to squeal. Which seemed odd, considering the type of man he had made Hermann out to be. But. . . .
Roger looked at the man, and suddenly saw the truth. It wasn't a squeal. The protest had been thoughtless, instinctive, made in a momentary access of panic lest his master should be proved to have made a mistake. Even at that moment Hermann was regretting it, and racking his brains for a lie to cover it up. Racking his brains, also, for his own defence. . . .
The situation remained just about as complicated as it had been before the incident. Now Hermann would be racking his brains for lies, and Conway would be racking his brains for lies, and both of them would have the single purpose of covering their leaders at all costs, and they'd both inevitably be contradicting each other right and left, and both inevitably ploughing deeper and deeper into the mire. And neither of them could tell the truth. ...
But could neither of them tell the truth?
The idea shattered the groping darkness of Roger's dilemma like the sudden kindling of a battery of Kleig arcs. The boldness of it took his breath away.
Could neither of them tell the truth?
As Roger would have prayed for the guidance of his leader at that moment, his leader was there to help him.
Wasn't the dilemma the same in principle as the one which the Saint had solved an hour ago? The same deadlock, the same cross-purposes, the same cataleptic standstill? The same old story of the irresistible force and the immovable object? . . . And the Saint had solved it. By sweeping the board clear with the one wild move that wasn't allowed for in the rules.
Mightn't it work again—at least, to clear the air—and, in the resultant reshuffling, perhaps disclose a loophole that had not been there before—if Roger did much the same thing— did the one thing that he couldn't possibly do—and told the truth?
The truth should convince Teal. Roger could tell the truth so much more convincingly and circumstantially than he could tell a lie, and it would be so easy to substantiate. Even Hermann would find it hard to discredit. And——
"Anyway," said Teal, "I'll be taking you boys along to the Yard, and we can talk there."
And the departure to the Yard might be postponed. The truth might be made sufficiently interesting to keep Teal in Brook Street. And then Norman Kent might arrive—and Norman was a much more accomplished conspirator than Roger. ...
"Before we go," said Roger, "there's something you might like to hear."
Teal raised his eyebrows one millimetre.
"What is it?" he asked. "Going to tell me you're the King of the Cannibal Islands?"
Roger shook his head. How easy it was! Teal might have been the one man in the C.I.D. who would have fallen for it, but he at least was a certainty. Such a lethargic man could not -by any stretch of imagination be in a hurry over anything— least of all over the prosaic task of taking his prisoners away to the station.
"I'll do a squeal of my own," said Roger.
Teal nodded.
As if he had nothing to do for the rest of the night, he settled himself in a chair and took a packet of chewing-gum from his pocket.
With his jaws moving rhythmically, he prompted: "Well?"
"If it's all the same to you," said Roger, to waste time, "I'd like to sit in a chair. This floor isn't as soft as it might be. And if I could smoke a cigarette——"
Teal rose again and lifted him into an armchair; provided him also with a cigarette. Then the detective resumed his own seat with mountainous patience.
He made no objection to the delay on the grounds that there were men waiting for him outside the building. Which meant, almost certainly, that there weren't. Roger recalled that Teal had the reputation of playing a lone hand. It was a symptom of the man's languid confidence in his own experienced ability —a confidence, to give him his due, that had its justification in his record. But in this case. . . .
"I'm telling you the truth this time," said Roger. "We're in the cart—Simon Templar included—thanks to some pals of Hermann there—only Templar doesn't know it. I don't want him to be pinched; but if you don't pinch him quickly something worse is going to happen to him. You see, we've got Vargan. But we weren't the first raiders. They were Hermann's pals——"
"Another lie!" interposed Hermann venomously. "Do you have to waste any more time with him, Inspector? You have already caught him in one lie——"
"And caught you sneaking about with a gun," snapped Roger. "What about that? And why the hell am I tied up here? Go on—tell him you're a private detective, and you were just going out to fetch a policeman and give me in charge!"
Teal closed his eyes.
"I can't listen to two people at once," he said. "Which of you is supposed to be telling this story?"
"I am," said Roger.
"You sound more interesting," admitted Teal, "even if Hermann does prove it to be a fairy-tale afterwards. Go on, Conway. Hermann—you wait for your turn, and don't butt in again."
Hermann relapsed into a sullen silence; and Roger inhaled deeply from his cigarette and blew out with the smoke a brief prayer of thanksgiving.
"We went down to Esher to take Vargan," he said. "But when we got there, we found Vargan was already being taken. He seemed very popular all round, that night. However, we were the party that won the raffle and got him away."
"Where did you take him?"
"You follow your own advice, and don't butt in," said Roger shortly. "I'll tell this story in my own way, or not at all."
"Go on, then."
"We took Vargan—somewhere out of London. Then Templar and I came back here to collect a few things . . .How did you find this place, by the way?"
"I went to Brighton, and found your motor agent," said Teal comfortably. "All motor agents spend Sunday in Brighton and the most expensive cars out of their showrooms. That was easy."
Roger nodded.
He went on, slowly, with one eye on the clock:
"Hermann's pals knew we were interested in Vargan before the fun started. Never mind how—that's another story. . . . No, it isn't—now I come to think of it. You remember the first stunt at Esher?"
"I do."
"Two people escaped past Hume Smith's chauffeur—a man and a woman. They were Templar and a friend of his. They stumbled on the place by accident. They were driving past, and they saw a light and went to investigate. The alarm that scared them off was the second man—the giant whose footprints you found. I'll tell you his name, because he's the leader of Hermann's gang——"
Hermann cut in: "Inspector, this will be another lie!"
Teal lifted one eyelid.
"How do you know?" he inquired mildly.
"He knows I'm telling the truth!" cried Roger triumphantly. "He's given himself away. Now I'll tell you—the man's name was Dr. Rayt Marius. And if you don't believe me, get hold of one of his shoes and see how it matches the plaster casts you've got of the footprints!"
Both Mr. Teal's chins were sunk on his chest. He might have been asleep. His voice sounded as if he was.
"And these people traced you here?"
"They did," said Roger. "And on the way they got hold of the girl who was with Templar that first night—the girl he's in love with—and Marius came to say that he would exchange her with Templar for Vargan. But Templar wasn't swapping. He wanted 'em both. We were able to find out where the girl was being taken, and Templar went off to rescue her. I was left to guard the prisoners—Marius and Hermann and another man called Otto. They tricked me and got away —Marius and Otto—and Hermann was left to guard me. I was to be an additional hostage against Templar. Marius and Otto went off in pursuit—they'd already arranged for an ambush to stop Templar on the road. Marius did that by telephone, from here—you can ring up the exchange and verify that, if you don't believe me. And Templar doesn't know what he's in for. He thinks he'll take the men in the house on the hill off their guard. And he's gone blinding off to certain death——"
"Half a minute," said Teal. "What house on the hill is this you're talking about?"
The tone of the question indicated that the authentic ring of truth in the story had not been lost on Teal's ears; and Roger drew a deep breath.
Now—what? He'd told as much as he'd meant to tell—and that was a long and interesting preface of no real importance. Now how much could he afford to add to it? How great was the Saint's danger?
Roger knew the Saint's fighting qualities. Would those qualities be great enough to pull off a victory against all the odds? And would the arrival of the police just after that victory serve for nothing but to give the Saint another battle to fight? . . . Or was the Saint likely to be really up against it? Might it be a kind treachery to spill the rest of the beans—if only to save Pat? How could a man weigh a girl's safety against the peace of the world? For, even if the betrayal meant the sacrifice of the Saint and himself, it would leave Vargan with Norman Kent. And, in case of accidents, Norman had definite instructions. ...
But where was Norman?
Roger looked into the small bright eyes of Chief Inspector Teal. Then he looked away, to meet the glittering, veiled eyes of Hermann. And, in the shifting of his gaze, he managed to steal another glimpse of the clock—without letting Teal see that he did so.
"What house on what hill?" demanded Teal again.
"Does that matter?" temporised Roger desperately.
"Just a little," said Teal, with frightful self-restraint. "If you don't tell me where Templar's gone, how am I going to rescue him from this trap you say he's going into?"
Roger bent his head.
Unless Norman Kent came quickly, now, and outwitted Teal, so that Roger and Norman could go together to the relief of the Saint, there would be nothing for it but to tell some more of the truth. It would be the only way to save the Saint— whatever that salvation might cost. Roger saw that now.
"Get through on the phone to the police at Braintree first," he said. "Templar will pass through there. Driving an open Hirondel. I'll go on when you've done that. There's no time to lose. ..."
All at once, Teal's weary eyes had become very wide awake. He was studying Roger's face unblinkingly. "That story's the truth?"
"On my word of honour!"
Teal nodded very deliberately.
"I believe you," he said, and went to the telephone with surprising speed.
Roger flicked his cigarette-end into the fireplace, and sat with his eyes on the carpet and his brain reeling to encompass the tumult unleashed within it.
If Norman was coming, he should have arrived by then. So Norman had decided not to come. And that was that
The detective's voice came to Roger through a dull haze of despair.
"An open Hirondel . . . probably driving hell-for-leather. . . . Stop every car that comes through to-night, anyway. . . . Yes, better be armed. . . . When you've got him, put a guard in the car and send him back to London—New Scotland Yard —at once. . . . Ring me up and tell me when he's on his way. ..."
Then the receiver went back on its hook.
"Well, Conway—what about this house?" Something choked Roger's throat for a moment.
Then:
"We only know it as 'the house on the hill.' That was what it was called in the letter we found on Marius. But it's at——"
Zzzzzzing . . . zzzzzing!
Teal looked at the door. Then he turned sharply.
"Do you know who that is?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
Zzzzzzzzzzing!
Again the strident summons; and Roger's heart leapt crazily. He never knew how he kept the mask of puzzlement on his face, but he knew that he did it: the fading suspicion in Teal's stare told him that. And he had put everything he knew into his lie. "I haven't the faintest idea. . . ."
But he knew that it could only be one man out of all the world;
Hermann also knew.
But Roger gave no sign, and never looked at the man. It remained a gamble. With Roger telling the truth—and intending, for all Hermann knew, to go on telling the truth—the man was in a quandary. The story that Roger was building up against himself was also giving Hermann a lot to answer. . . . Would Hermann be wise and swift enough to see that he would have a better chance with his unofficial enemies than with the police? . . .
Hermann never spoke.
Then Teal went out into the hall; and Roger could have cried his relief aloud.
But he could not cry out—hot even to warn Norman. That would be no use against Teal, as it would have been of use against Hermann. Norman had got to walk into the snare— and might all the Saint's strange gods inspire him as they would have inspired the Saint himself. . . .
Teal opened the front door. And he kept his right hand in his coat pocket.
Norman hesitated only the fraction of a second.
Afterwards, Norman said that the words came to his lips without any conscious thought, as if a guardian angel had put them unbidden into his mouth.
"Are you Mr. Templar?" asked Norman Kent.
And, as he heard the words that he had not known he was going to speak, he stood appalled at the colossal simplicity and colossal daring of the ruse.
"No, I'm not," said Teal curtly.
"Is Mr. Templar in?"
"Not at the moment."
"Well, is there anything you could do? I've never met Mr. Templar; but I've just had an extraordinary message, and I thought, before I went to the police——"
The word pricked Teal's ears.
"Maybe I can do something for you," he said, more cordially. "Will you come in?"
"Certainly," said Norman.
Teal stood aside to let him pass, and turned to fasten the door again.
Hanging on the walls of the hall were a number of curious weapons, relics of the Saint's young lifetime of wandering in queer corners of the globe. There were Spanish knives, and a matador's sword; muskets and old-fashioned pistols; South Sea Island spears, Malay krises and krambits and parangs; a scimitar, a boomerang from New Zealand, an Iroquois bow, an assegai, a bamboo blow-pipe from Papua; and other things of the same kind.
Norman Kent's eye fell on a knobkerry. It hung very conveniently to his hand.
He took it down.