A few minutes later, the Saint joined Roger Conway and Norman Kent in the sitting-room. He had already started up the Hirondel, tested its smooth running as well as he could, and examined the tyres. The sump showed no need of oil, and there was gasoline enough in the tank to make a journey twice as long as the one they had to take. He had left the car ticking over on the drive outside, and returned to face the decision that had to be taken.
"Ready?" asked Norman quietly.
Simon nodded.
In silence he took a brief survey through the French windows; and then he came back and stood before them.
"I've only one preliminary remark to make," he said. "That is—where is Tiny Tim?"
They waited.
"Put yourselves in his place," said the Saint. "He hasn't got the facilities for trailing us that Teal has had. But Teal is here; and wherever old Teal is, Angel Face won't be far behind. Angel Face, being presumably anything but a bonehead, would naturally figure that the smartest thing to do, knowing Teal was trailing us, would be to trail Teal. That's the way I'd do it myself, and you can bet that Angel Face is nearly as rapid on the bounce, in the matter of brainwaves, as we are ourselves. I just mention that as a factor to be remembered during this fade-away act—and because it's another reason for us to solve a certain problem quickly."
They knew what he meant, and met his eyes steadily—Roger Conway grim, Norman Kent grave and inscrutable.
"Vargan will not listen to reason," said the Saint simply. "You heard him. . . . And there's no way out for us. We've only one thing to do. I've tried to think of other solutions, but there just aren't any. . . . You may say it's cold-blooded. So is any execution. But a man is cold-bloodedly executed by the law for one murder that is a matter of ancient history. We execute Vargan to save a million murders. There is no doubt in any of our minds that he will be instrumental in those murders if we let him go. And we can't take him with us. ... So I say that he must die."
"One question," said Norman. "I believe it's been asked before. If we remove Vargan, how much of the menace of war do we remove with him?"
"The question has been answered before. I think Vargan is a keystone. But even if he isn't—even if the machinery that Marius has set in motion is able to run on without wanting more fuel—even if there is to be war—I say that the weapon that Vargan has created must not be used. We may be accused of betraying our country, but we must face that. Perhaps there are some things even more important than winning a war. ... Do you understand, I wonder?"
Norman looked through the window; and some whimsical fancy, unbidden alien at such a conference, touched his lips with the ghost of a smile.
"Yes," he said, "there are so many important things to think of."
The Saint turned to Roger Conway.
"And you, Roger—what do you say?"
Conway fingered an unlighted cigarette.
"Which of us shall do it?" he asked simply.
Simon Templar looked from Roger to Norman; and he said what he had always meant to say.
"If we are caught," he said, "the man who does it will be hanged. The others may save themselves. I shall do it."
Norman Kent rose.
"Do you mind?" he said. "I've just remembered I left my cigarette-case in my bedroom. I'll be back in a moment."
He went out, and passed slowly and thoughtfully down the little hall to a door that was not his own.
He knocked, and entered; and Patricia Holm looked round from the dressing-table to see him.
"I'm ready, Norman. Is Simon getting impatient?"
"Not yet," said Norman.
He came forward and set his hands on her shoulders. She turned, with a smile awakening on her lips; but the smile died at the sight of a queer light burning deep in his dark eyes.
"Dear Pat," said Norman Kent, "I've always longed for a chance to serve you. And now it's come. You knew I loved you, didn't you?"
She touched his hand.
"Don't, Norman dear . . . please! ... Of course I knew. I couldn't help knowing. I'm so sorry. . . ."
He smiled.
"Why be sorry?" he answered gently. "I shall never bother you. I wouldn't, even if you'd let me. Simon's the whitest man in the world, and he's my dearest friend. It will be my happiest thought, to know that you love him. And I know how he loves you. You two will go on together until the stars fall from the sky. See that you never lose the splendour of life."
"What do you mean?" she pleaded.
The light in Norman Kent's eyes had in it something like a magnificent laughter.
"We're all fanatics," he said. "And perhaps I'm the most fanatical of us all. . . . Do you remember, Pat, how it was I who first said that Simon was a man born with the sound of trumpets in his ears? . . . That was the truest thing I ever said. And he'll go on in the sound of the trumpet. I know, because to-day I heard the trumpet myself. . . . God bless you, Pat."
Before she knew what was happening, he had bent and kissed her lightly on the lips. Then he walked quickly to the door, and it was closing behind him when she found her voice. She had been left with no idea of what he meant by half the things he had said, and she could not let him go so mysteriously.
She called him—an imperative Patricia.
"Norman!"
He was back in a moment, almost before she had spoken his name. Something had changed in his face.
His finger signed her to silence.
"What is it?" she whispered.
"The last battle," said Norman Kent quietly. "Only a little sooner than we expected. Take this!"
He jerked back the jacket of a small automatic, and thrust it into her hands. An instant later he was rapidly loading a larger gun which he took from his hip pocket.
Then he opened the window noiselessly, and looked out. He beckoned her over. The Hirondel stood waiting on the drive, less than a dozen yards away. He pointed.
"Hide behind the curtains," he ordered. "When you hear three shots in quick succession, it's your cue to run for the car. Shoot down anyone who tries to stop you."
"But where are you going?"
"To collect the troops." He laughed soundlessly. "Goodbye, dear!"
He put his hand to his lips, and was gone, closing the door softly behind him.
It was when he had left the room for the first time that he had heard, through the open door of the sitting-room, the terse command, "Put up your hands!" in a voice that was certainly neither Roger's nor Simon's. Now he stood still for a moment outside Patricia's door, listening, and heard the inimitably cheerful accents of Simon Templar in a tight corner.
"You're welcome—as the actress said to the bishop on a particularly auspicious occasion. But why haven't you brought Angel Face with you, sweetheart?"
Norman Kent heard the last sentence as he was opening the door of the kitchen.
He passed through the kitchen and opened another door. A flight of steps showed before him in the light which he switched on. He went down, and a third door faced him—a ponderous door of three-inch oak, secured by two heavy bars of iron. He lifted the bars and went in, closing that third door behind him as carefully as he had closed the first two. The three doors between them should be enough to deaden any sound. . . .
Vargan was sitting huddled up in a chair, scribbling with a stump of pencil in a tattered notebook.
He raised his head at the sound of Norman's entrance. His white hair was dishevelled, and his stained and shabby clothes hung loosely on his bones. The eyes seemed the only vital things in a lined face like a creased old parchment, eyes with the full fire of his madness stirring in them like the pale flickering flame that simmers over the crust of an awakening volcano.
Norman felt a stab of absurd pity for this pitifully crazy figure. And yet he knew that his business was not with the man, but with the madness of the man—the madness that could, and would, let loose upon the world a greater horror than anything that the murderous madness of other men had not conceived.
And the face of Norman Kent was like a face graven in dark stone.
"I have come for your answer, Professor Vargan," he said.
The scientist sat deep in his chair, peering aslant at the stern dark figure framed against the door. His face twitched spasmodically, and his yellow hands clutched his notebook clumsily into his coat; he made no other movement. And he did not speak.
"I am waiting," said Norman Kent presently.
Vargan passed a shaky hand through his hair.
"I've given you my answer," he said harshly.
"Think," said Norman.
Vargan looked down the muzzle of the automatic, and his lips curled back from his teeth in an animal snarl.
"You are a friend of my persecutors," he croaked, and his voice rose to a shrill sobbing scream as he saw Norman Kent's knuckle whiten over the trigger.