Simon made his way through the front door of the cottage and the girl who had come out to see him showed him to the telephone. He dialed Scotland Yard as soon as he was alone behind the closed door.
“Hullo,” he said when he received an answer. “This is Simon Templar... Yes... Exactly. I have a message for Inspector Teal... Yes... There’s a man named Jeff Peterson he’ll want to take into custody immediately because he’s a threat to the Prime Minister of Nagawiland — Prime Minister Liskard. Do you have that clear?”
The functionary at the other end of the line had it clearly enough, but he was skeptical.
“Just get the message to Teal and make sure he knows who sent it,” said the Saint. “Peterson should be at the flat of a Mary Bannerman in Chelsea. You can get her address from the directory. It’s very urgent. Secondly, I’ve another present for him out here — wait just a minute.”
He put down the phone and went to the door of the bedroom.
“Where are we, please?” he asked the girl in the adjoining living room.
“Forty-eight Meadow Road.”
Simon went back to the phone and gave the address.
“It’s somewhere between Bray and Windsor on the south bank of the Thames,” he said. “If you’ll have some men sent out you’ll find one of Peterson’s cronies tied up in the cabin of a boat just in front of the cottage.”
“And how did all this happen?” the Scotland Yard man asked.
“I don’t have time to talk now. I’ll tell Teal later.”
He left the phone and hurried out to the car.
“I’ll sit in back and let her stretch out with her head in my lap,” Simon said. “And if you don’t mind it would be best if we don’t talk. Here’s your twenty pounds.”
The young man protested, but took the money. Then, as Simon cradled Mary’s head and comforted her, the driver pulled his sports sedan into the road and aimed it toward London.
Less than an hour later they pulled up to the entrance of Nagawi House. The pickets had exhausted their zeal and gone home; the gate was closed, and a lone uniformed guard spoke through its bars when Simon got out of the car.
“Have you any sort of official pass?” he asked.
“We’re coming to the party,” Simon said.
The driver of the car, meanwhile, gaped as Mary Bannerman sat up, blinked her eyes brightly, and stepped out on to the sidewalk next to the Saint.
“The party’s over long since,” the guard said.
“As a matter of fact it’s urgent business,” Simon told him. “The Prime Minister knows me. I have information he’ll want immediately.”
“Have you telephoned for an appointment?” the guard asked.
Mary Bannerman began quietly explaining some of the true situation to the driver of the car.
“I have a very particular reason for not telephoning,” Simon said. “And I’m sure Prime Minister Liskard doesn’t make appointments in the middle of the night.”
“I know he doesn’t. You’d best come back tomorrow.”
“I’m telling you it’s urgent,” Simon said angrily. “The Prime Minister’s life literally may depend on it.”
Only then did the guard look particularly interested.
“I’ll call his secretary, then,” he said.
“No,” Simon insisted.
“Why not? I’ll do it now.”
Simon looked desperately toward the lighted windows on the ground floor of the big house. Behind him the driver of the car was saying a puzzled good night. He turned his car back in the direction from which he had come and drove away.
The sound of a shot cracked out through the night from one of the rooms of Nagawi House. The guard stiffened and then started running toward the front door. Lights flashed on inside the house. Simon grabbed Mary’s hand and hurried with her around the corner of the wall away from the gate.
“Where are we going?” she gasped. “They haven’t shot Tom, have they?”
“I’m going over the wall, and you should know whether they’ve shot Tom or not.”
“I don’t know! It was just...”
“I believe you. Listen. Get away from here. Catch a taxi and check in at the Hilton — you can say you missed your last train home, since you’ve got no luggage. Stay in your room until I contact you. All right?”
“All right.”
“Good girl. Now, if you’ll excuse me...”
They were next to the wall at its nearest distance to the house, in a sort of alleyway between it and the next building. Simon stepped back, and then with a light leap he caught the top of the wall and swung his body up and over it.
On the inside, he set off at a run toward the rear of the house. That area was lighted only by a single diffuse floodlight, and no one seemed to be keeping watch. With the night guard to testify that he had been at the front gate when the shot was fired, he had no fear of being accused of having anything to do with that, and now he only wanted to get to the scene of shooting as fast as possible. He remembered the location of the Prime Minister’s study, which was near a corner of the building opposite the side on which he had entered the grounds.
When he reached the study windows he heard excited voices inside. One of the windows was open, its curtains stirring in the cold night air. Simon, in the light which came from the room, looked at the wet, soft earth along the side of the house. The only footprints were his own.
He hoisted himself up on the windowsill and vaulted into the study.
The effect on the people already there was dramatic in the extreme. Anne Liskard, who was in her nightgown, screamed. A half-dressed manservant fell back against the entrance door. Todd and Stewart, in pajamas and dressing gowns, froze and gaped. Another man, in a suit, had his hand on the telephone.
The only member of the tableau who did not react was Thomas Liskard. He was seated in his large chair with his head on the desk. In one of his hands was a pistol. Blood covered one side of his head and stained the blotter where it lay.
“What are you doing here?” Stewart demanded of the Saint in a shocked voice.
“I was at the gate when I heard the shot, so I got here as soon as I could — over the wall and around the house. I thought I might catch somebody trying to run away.”
“You’ll have some explaining to do yourself,” Todd said. “But he shot himself. There was nobody to run away.”
Anne Liskard had been sobbing as Simon entered, but now she broke in frantically. “Why doesn’t somebody do something?”
“We can’t do much, really,” Todd replied in a lower voice. “He’s dead.”
Simon was bending over Liskard. Below the hand which held the gun was a scrawled note.
“There’s no other way for me.”
The Saint touched Liskard’s wrist. The man who was dressed, who turned out to be the secretary, was dialing a number on the telephone.
“Get away from him,” Stewart snapped, coming toward the Saint.
Simon straightened up and addressed the secretary.
“Who are you calling?”
“The police, of course.”
“Make it an ambulance,” said the Saint. “The Prime Minister is still alive.”
11
The Saint’s words had almost as electric an effect as his entrance into the study had had. Anne Liskard gave a sharp cry and ran to her husband. The men stared.
“Better not touch him,” Simon said. “The sooner a doctor gets to him the better.”
The secretary called for an ambulance, and set about herding out the lesser members of the staff.
“Are you sure?” asked Todd, the Foreign Minister. “He doesn’t seem to be breathing.”
“Try his pulse,” Simon said.
The others, satisfied that Liskard was alive, broke into a babble of conversation.