“He’s heard us,” Mary said.
“Try it again before we run aground.”
The Saint hurried to the stern, which seemed the part of the boat most likely to strike land first. The starter was grinding loudly. Rogers was yelling as he ran through the fog.
“Benson! What’s happening? Is that you?”
Then suddenly he appeared among trees and mist on the bank as the engine at last grumbled into full rhythm. The propeller bit into the mud and then pushed free. The boat began to move back toward midstream. Rogers had already drawn his pistol, and he tossed off a wild shot in their general direction. The Saint ducked hastily behind the deckhouse.
“Get down!” he shouted to Mary Bannerman.
“Full speed ahead,” she cried, “and damn the torpedoes!”
Rogers fired out of the fog three more times in rapid succession. One of his bullets smashed a pane of glass a few inches from the girl’s head. She dropped to her knees, still holding the wheel. Simon heard her feeble exclamation.
“Oh, my...”
Rogers, who was just barely visible, started to run down the riverside parallel to the boat, but with the help of the current they were moving much faster than he could, and then he slipped and tripped over something and went sprawling.
“That’s one torpedo we won’t have to worry about any more for the present,” Simon said.
“He — he really was shooting at us,” Mary stammered shakily.
She got to her feet and Simon steadied her with an arm around her shoulders as he took the wheel.
“That’s revolution,” he said. “Remember, you can’t make an omelet without...”
“I know, I know,” Mary said.
Simon squinted into the misty dark.
“There’s just one thing. I wish you transformers of society had picked a more suitable time of year for your egg cracking. Like Easter, for instance.”
“What’ll we do now?”
“Get to a telephone, and then back to London as fast as possible.”
“In this?”
“No. We should be able to get a cab in Windsor even at this hour. In the meantime, tell me everything you know about this plot against Liskard.”
“You know it,” she said. “Jeff got the letters from me. We were going to send them to the papers and force Tom to resign.”
“Why all the pussyfooting around? Why didn’t you just publicize the letters right away without tipping Liskard off?”
Mary frowned and shook her head. Simon was piloting the boat, and she was standing close to him, hugging herself to keep warm.
“It seemed unnecessary to me. A bit extra sadistic. It was Jeff who insisted on it. I thought it would be safer and better all around if we just got it over with as fast as possible.”
“That would have been the reasonable way,” the Saint agreed. “So unless your boyfriend’s unreasonable he must have had something else in mind.”
“Don’t call him my boyfriend,” Mary said bitterly. “And what else could he have had in mind?”
“Something much worse than you did.”
“What?”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Simon said grimly. “I see lights up ahead.”
10
The cluster of lights the Saint had seen through the fog marked the site of a cottage on the right bank of the river. There was a sound of loud dance music even above the rumble of the boat’s engine.
“Maybe we can get a lift into London from there,” Simon said to Mary Bannerman.
Then came a muffled shout from below.
“Hallo! Who’s there?”
“I’ll have to take care of our patriot,” Simon said. “Cut the engine down and make a circle or something before we dock.”
He hurried below to the cabin, where Benson lay trussed on the floor. He stopped shouting and stared with open fear at the Saint.
“What are you going to do to me?” he whimpered. “Where are we?”
“You don’t happen to have any more chloroform among your stores, do you?” Simon asked him. “You used to be rather partial to it, I remember.”
Benson could only gape as Simon pulled out a knife and then did not use it on the thin man’s scrawny neck but on one of the bunk sheets.
“Open wide and take your medicine,” Simon said to him.
“What do you mean?” Benson quavered.
“Open your mouth,” Simon repeated harshly.
Benson opened, and the Saint shoved a generous wad of cloth into his mouth, then wrapped a long strip of the sheet around his head several times to cover his mouth.
“Now try to yell,” Simon said.
“Mmp!” grunted Benson unhappily.
The Saint tore a flyleaf out of a book from one of the shelves and wrote a brief message on it: “I am a bad man. Please hand me over to the police.”
He folded the note and tucked it into Benson’s shirt so that most of the paper would be plainly visible to anybody entering the cabin.
“I hope nobody will come and find you before Claud Eustace Teal can send somebody out to pick you up, but I can’t take you with me and I’m afraid Miss Mary wouldn’t approve of my throwing you overboard. You can wait for your pals in jail. Nighty-night.”
Simon left the cabin in darkness and rejoined Mary Bannerman at the helm.
“Now,” he said, “let’s bring her in.”
He steered the cruiser to the landing stage and skillfully brought her to rest without the slightest bump. Before the current could start to affect the craft he cut the power and made fast to shore. Three men — two with drinks in their hands — were already coming out of the cottage toward the river to see what was happening.
“Stay here, Mary, and just follow my lead,” he told her, and went to meet them.
“Come to join the party?” one of the men asked.
They were young, well-dressed, and obviously well along in the process of enjoying themselves. A girl came to the door of the cottage and looked out, sipping from a tall glass.
“We’re not party-crashing,” Simon said. “I’m afraid we have a bit of an emergency. My wife is ill and I must get her to our doctor in London. Could I use your phone to call a taxi?”
“Oh, the poor thing,” said the girl in the doorway. “We can’t let her just... pop off or something.”
“None of us here going to London,” mumbled one of the young men drunkenly.
“Would twenty pounds make the trip worth your trouble?” Simon asked.
The tipsy one who had spoken just before the girl was the first to answer.
“It jus’ happens I have to go London! It jus’ happens!”
“You’re not going anywhere,” one of his soberer companions said. Then he spoke to Simon. “Of course we’ll help. I’m the only one fit to drive. Is she really bad — your wife, I mean?”
“Not terribly, yet,” Simon answered. “It’s a sort of attack she gets sometimes, and only her own doctor knows what to do about it.”
He went back to get Mary, who made a face at him as he helped her out of the boat. She sagged against him as he walked with her toward the cottage.
“Now’s your chance to do some more acting,” he said under his breath. “Just moan in a spartan sort of way occasionally and don’t say anything. If anybody asks you questions just shake your head and close your eyes.”
The sober young man came to help.
“Shall we get right to the car or would she like to rest here first?” he asked.
“It’s best to go straight to town,” Simon answered. “If you have a telephone I’d like to make a call, though.”
“Go right ahead. It’s in the bedroom on the left. I’ll help your wife into the car.”