And he was holding a gun of his own.
He swung it slowly up and aimed it unwaveringly at a point a few inches below Rockham’s collarbone.
“That was a tough break for you,” he said in his own voice. “And I’ve been luckier than perhaps I deserve.”
Rockham smiled faintly.
“You were certainly careless. But then, so was I. I should have kept count.” Rockham had paled for a moment as Simon’s gun came up, but otherwise his composure was almost unruffled. “I rather think you did. And I think I know why you haven’t shot me yet. You’re out of ammunition yourself.” He gestured at the revolver. “Am I right?”
“Maybe, maybe not, You’ve only one way to find out. And it’s your kind of gamble, Rockham.”
Rockham edged a step closer.
“Who are you?” He asked the question in simple curiosity, without malice.
“My name is Simon Templar. And I shall have no compunction about shooting you if you don’t stay exactly where you are.”
The other man stared for a moment. And then he laughed — a rich bass chuckle that was full of genuine amusement.
“The Saint! And you announced yourself literally when you arrived to — enlist. It’s perfect! My congratulations. But you — you’re working for these people, the authorities?”
“For the moment,” Simon said, “I’m afraid I am.”
“I didn’t think the Saint was an organisation man.”
Simon looked at him steadily and said nothing.
“If you’d come after me for yourself,” Rockham said, “I might have understood.”
Simon looked at him in silence for a while longer, his mind full of so many thoughts that he would not have been able to give expression to them all even if he had wanted to; and when he spoke it was to say just one thing which would have to stand for all the others which were unspoken.
“In a funny sort of way,” he said slowly, “it was for myself, that I got into this. Maybe I was wrong to take the job — I honestly don’t know. But there was a man I once worked with, a couple of thousand years ago. We went through a lot together — and when I heard that your organisation had killed him and dumped his body in the river, I had to try to do something about it. It was that simple. I don’t know if you can understand that.”
Rockham listened quietly, and then he said: “I believe I can. And I’d like to think I’d have done the same in your shoes.”
He paused; and as before, you could almost hear the hum of dynamos in that competent brain as he searched for a fruitful line that might offer a chance of extracting some advantage from the situation. “I’m sorry about your friend,” he went on. “But nothing you can do now will bring him back.” He spread his strong square hands in a gesture conveying the hopelessness of looking for resurrection. “After this, it looks as if The Squad’s all washed up — thanks to your efforts. Maybe you’ll think that’s enough to settle the score on your friend’s behalf.” He pointed up the stairs. “Up there’s a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of human booty. All we have to do is take it. We could still get away — the jeep’s outside. And we’d make a great partnership.”
He looked at the Saint hopefully; but the Saint was sadly shaking his head.
“No deal, Rockham. Apart from the fact that I don’t like your line of business and that partnerships don’t appeal to me anyway, there are a couple of important details you’ve overlooked. One — about a minute ago the shooting stopped out there. Which can only mean one thing — that the cavalry, so to speak, have arrived, even if well after the nick of time.”
He crossed carefully to the window, using a sideways crablike motion that was less elegant than functional, in that it meant he didn’t take his eye off Rockham for an instant until one brief glance out of the window was enough to confirm his inference.
“Looks like three more platoons of the Paras,” he told Rockham laconically. “And your lads are herded together with their hands up. So your daring escape in the jeep would have to be — well — pretty daring.”
Rockham’s gaze was stony.
“And the other point I’ve overlooked?”
“Simply that someone’s been playing come-into-my-parlour with you. This whole thing’s a set-up, and has been from start to finish. You thought you’d been commissioned by the Chinese. But your Chinese — your real client — had no more to do with Peking intelligence than Christopher Robin. At least, not the way I add it up.”
“Then Instrood is—”
“A fake — a plant. Like most of the rest of the cast. Instrood was bait. He was put here to tempt you — and incidentally I think there was another reason, too — one that doesn’t directly concern you or The Squad.”
“Then who is — was — my real client?”
The Saint saw the realisation dawning in Rockham’s eyes even while he was speaking the question; and he saw how those eyes dilated and quivered like a jungle animal’s when the net first falls; and he knew then beyond any kind of doubt that the man before him would never be taken alive — that he would strangle himself in the toils of the net rather than submit. And for that at least the Saint saluted Rockham, even as he went on inexorably with what he had to say.
“Your client?” he echoed lazily. “You remember I said I’d give you ten to one the girl was working for your client? I meant just that. She’s an intelligence agent — British, not Chinese — and the man responsible for this whole elaborate charade is her boss. Hers, and for just a little while longer — mine. You won’t know his name, but I think you should hear it at least once. It’s Pelton, David Pelton.”
Rockham was still standing immobile on the stairs, holding his empty revolver. The Saint, who was keeping his own gun pointed steadily at the same button of Rockham’s uniform tunic and never relaxing his vigilance for an instant, knew that Rockham’s efficient brain had already come to terms with his desperate situation. There was only the slightest tensing and twitching of the muscles in his jaw to betray the struggle it must have cost him to reach that hard accommodation with reality.
“I’m afraid you’re done for,” the Saint said almost sympathetically. “The trap’s closed. Your king’s in a corner.”
Rockham’s pale eyes had steadied. He nodded just once, curtly, to acknowledge the facts as Simon had so starkly put them.
“Then I’m going to have to go out in a blaze of glory,” he said, “and take at least one enemy piece with me if I can. I’m going to have to take that gamble on your empty gun.”
He tossed his own gun on the floor with a clatter. Then, very slowly and gracefully, his lethal karate-calloused hands began to weave confusing preparations patterns in the air, as he glided a step closer to the Saint.
“Be sure of this,” Rockham said. “If I hit you, I can break any of your bones like a twig.” He paused, and added: “So if there’s a bullet left in that gun after all — you’d better shoot to kill.”
With that final statement, Rockham had come close, Simon knew, to asking for quick deliverance as a favour. And as Rockham suddenly leapt towards him, he honoured that last request, and shot him accurately through the heart.
Ruth Barnaby appeared soon after the slam of the shot had detonated into silence.
For a few moments she took in the scene impassively. Rockham was lying face down and unmoving, with the blood oozing from under him.
“It’s the kind of end destiny must have marked out for him a long time ago,” said the Saint quietly. “And it was self-defence for me, technically — even if he did prefer death to whatever the authorities would have done with him.”
Ruth eyed him sharply.
“Don’t say you’re sorry for him?”