decisive sentences.
Out of these sentences Simon caught one word. The word was toten, and it did not require a German scholar to grasp the general idea. “Wir mussen ihn toten,” Raxel had said, or words to that effect.
“So at last they’ve decided to kill me,” thought the Saint, eating toast and marmalade. “Presumably my demise will be arranged at the earliest possible opportunity. Well, that means I’ve got them on the hop at last!” ‘
However, the thought failed to disturb him visibly, and in a few moments he rose and left the room. Betty Tregarth had not put in an appearance, but he had not expected that, and so he was not disappointed. The venomous eyes of the ptber three men followed him out.
In the parlour he found a tall, lean-limbed man wielding a broom.
“Morning, Dun,” said the Saint.
The man turned a leathery face towards him and grinned.
“Morning, Saint.”
“How are things?”
Duncarry grinned.
“O.K. so far. I haven’t heard or seen anything to speak of—I don’t think they’re sure of me yet. You told me to lie low, so I haven’t been nosing around at all.”
“That’s right,” said the Saint. “Keep on being quiet. I’ve done all the nosing that need be done. But keep your eyes skinned. There’s going to be trouble coming to me soon, I gather, and it’s coming good and fast. So long!”
He drifted away.
There seemed to be no point in hanging about the inn that morning, and he decided to walk down to the George and have a drink. In the bar he remembered the ship which was anchored opposite the Beacon, and mentioned it to the proprietor.
“I think it belongs to one of the gentlemen up the road,” that mine of local gossip informed him. “Gentleman of the name of Crantor. It came in here about a fortnight ago, and the crew all drove away in a car. I don’t think there’s anybody on board now.
“There’s smoke comes up from her funnel,” Simon pointed out, “You can’t keep a fire going without somebody to look after it.”
“Maybe there’s a man or two just looking after the ship. Anyway, half a dozen men drove away with Crantor the day the ship came in, and he came back alone. One of the boys did ask what the ship was for—we don’t get ships like that in here so often that people don’t talk about it. That was in the days when some of the boys used to go up to the Beacon for their drinks, before the new boss there got so rude to them that nobody could stand it any longer. I think it was Bill Jones who asked what the ship was doing. Mr. Raxel said they were working on a new invention—a new sort of torpedo or something—and they were going to use the ship for trying it out at sea. That might easily be true, because about a month ago a lorry came in and delivered a lot of stuff at the Beacon, and the drivers had a drink here on their way out of the village. Chemistry apparatus it was, they said, and Raxel ordered it.”
The Saint nodded vaguely; and then suddenly he stiffened. The proprietor also listened. That sort of thing is infectious.
Simon went over and looked out of the window. His ears had not misled him—a rickety Ford truck was crashing down the street. It stopped outside the door of the George, and two men came in and walked up to the counter.
“Couple o’ quick halves, mate,” ordered one of them.
They were served. The drinks were swallowed quickly. They seemed to be in a hurry.
“Got a rush order,” one of them explained. “A couple of boxes to get to Southampton to catch a boat that’s sailing to-morrow morning, and all luggage has got to be on board to-night. Can you tell us where the Beacon is?”
“Drive on to the end of the road, and turn to your right,” said the Saint. “You’ll find it on your right, about three hundred yards up. What ship are these boxes going to?”
“Couldn’t tell you, mate. All I know is that we’ve got to get them to Southampton by nine o’clock tonight. Cheerio!”
They went out,
Out of these sentences Simon caught one word. The word was toten, and it did not require a German scholar to grasp the general idea. “Wir mussen ihn toten,” Raxel had said, or words to that effect.
“So at last they’ve decided to kill me,” thought the Saint, eating toast and marmalade. “Presumably my demise will be arranged at the earliest possible opportunity. Well, that means I’ve got them on the hop at last!” ‘
However, the thought failed to disturb him visibly, and in a few moments he rose and left the room. Betty Tregarth had not put in an appearance, but he had not expected that, and so he was not disappointed. The venomous eyes of the ptber three men followed him out.
In the parlour he found a tall, lean-limbed man wielding a broom.
“Morning, Dun,” said the Saint.
The man turned a leathery face towards him and grinned.
“Morning, Saint.”
“How are things?”
Duncarry grinned.
“O.K. so far. I haven’t heard or seen anything to speak of—I don’t think they’re sure of me yet. You told me to lie low, so I haven’t been nosing around at all.”
“That’s right,” said the Saint. “Keep on being quiet. I’ve done all the nosing that need be done. But keep your eyes skinned. There’s going to be trouble coming to me soon, I gather, and it’s coming good and fast. So long!”
He drifted away.
There seemed to be no point in hanging about the inn that morning, and he decided to walk down to the George and have a drink. In the bar he remembered the ship which was anchored opposite the Beacon, and mentioned it to the proprietor.
“I think it belongs to one of the gentlemen up the road,” that mine of local gossip informed him. “Gentleman of the name of Crantor. It came in here about a fortnight ago, and the crew all drove away in a car. I don’t think there’s anybody on board now.
“There’s smoke comes up from her funnel,” Simon pointed out, “You can’t keep a fire going without somebody to look after it.”
“Maybe there’s a man or two just looking after the ship. Anyway, half a dozen men drove away with Crantor the day the ship came in, and he came back alone. One of the boys did ask what the ship was for—we don’t get ships like that in here so often that people don’t talk about it. That was in the days when some of the boys used to go up to the Beacon for their drinks, before the new boss there got so rude to them that nobody could stand it any longer. I think it was Bill Jones who asked what the ship was doing. Mr. Raxel said they were working on a new invention—a new sort of torpedo or something—and they were going to use the ship for trying it out at sea. That might easily be true, because about a month ago a lorry came in and delivered a lot of stuff at the Beacon, and the drivers had a drink here on their way out of the village. Chemistry apparatus it was, they said, and Raxel ordered it.”
The Saint nodded vaguely; and then suddenly he stiffened. The proprietor also listened. That sort of thing is infectious.
Simon went over and looked out of the window. His ears had not misled him—a rickety Ford truck was crashing down the street. It stopped outside the door of the George, and two men came in and walked up to the counter.
“Couple o’ quick halves, mate,” ordered one of them.
They were served. The drinks were swallowed quickly. They seemed to be in a hurry.
“Got a rush order,” one of them explained. “A couple of boxes to get to Southampton to catch a boat that’s sailing to-morrow morning, and all luggage has got to be on board to-night. Can you tell us where the Beacon is?”
“Drive on to the end of the road, and turn to your right,” said the Saint. “You’ll find it on your right, about three hundred yards up. What ship are these boxes going to?”
“Couldn’t tell you, mate. All I know is that we’ve got to get them to Southampton by nine o’clock tonight. Cheerio!”
They went out,
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