but now Lemuel must be sleeping the sleep of the dead.
Gently Simon drew the edge of the sheet over the sleeping man’s face; and onto the sheet he dripped a colourless liquid from a flask which he took from his pocket. The atmosphere thickened with a sickly reek… .
Five minutes later, in another room, the Saint was opening a burglar-proof safe with Lemuel’s own key.
He found what he was expecting to find-what, in fact, he had arranged to find. It had required no great genius to deduce that Lemuel would have withdrawn all his mobile fortune from his bank the day before; if there had been no satisfactory report from Einsmann before morning, Lemuel would have been on his way out of England long before the expiration of the time limit which the Saint had given him.
Simon burned twenty-five thousand pounds’ worth of negotiable securities in the open grate. There was already a heap of ashes in the fireplace when he began his own bonfire, and he guessed that Lemuel had spent part of the previous evening disinfecting his private papers; it would be a waste of time to search the desk. With about forty thousand pounds in Bank of England notes cunningly distributed about his person, the Saint closed the safe, after some artistic work on the interior, and returned to Lemuel’s bedroom, where he replaced the key as he had found it. Before he left, he turned the sheet back from Lemuel’s face; the bedroom windows were already open, and in a couple of hours the smell of ether should have dispersed.
“A couple of hours… .” The Saint glanced at his watch as he went down the stairs, and realized that he had only just given himself enough time. But he stopped at the janitor’s cubicle on his way out, and the helpless man glared at him defiantly.
“I’m sorry I had to hit you,” said the Saint. “But perhaps this will help to console you for your troubles.”
He took ten one-pound notes from his wallet and laid them on the porter’s desk; then he hurried down the hall, and slipped off his masking handkerchief as he opened the door.
Half an hour later he was in bed.
Francis Lemuel had arranged to be called early, in case of accidents, and the reassuring telephone message had come too late for him to countermand the order. He roused at half-past eight, to find his valet shaking him by the shoulder, and sat up muzzily. His head was splitting. He took a gulp at the hot tea which his man had brought, and felt sick.
“Must have drunk more whisky than I thought,” he reflected hazily; and then he became aware that his valet was speaking.
“There’s been a burglary here, sir. About six o’clock this morning the porter was knocked out—”
“Here-in this apartment?” Lemuel’s voice was harsh and strained.
“No, sir. At least, I’ve looked round, sir, and nothing seems to have been touched.”
Lemuel drew a long breath. For an instant an icy dread had clutched at his heart. Then he remembered-the Saint was dead, there was nothing more to fear… .
He sipped his tea again and chuckled throatily.
“Then someone’s been unlucky,” he remarked callously, and was surprised when the valet shook his head.
“That’s the extraordinary thing, sir. They’ve been making inquiries all round, and none of the other apartments seem to have been entered either.”
Lemuel recalled this conversation later in the morning. He had declined breakfast blasphemously, and had only just man aged to get up and dress in time to restore his treasures to the keeping of his bank.
He saw the emptiness of his safe, and the little drawing which the Saint had chalked inside it by way of receipt, and went a dirty gray-white.
The strength seemed to go from his knees; and he groped his way blindly to a chair, shaking with a superstitious terror. It was some time before he brought himself to realize that ghosts do not stun porters and clean out burglar-proof safes.
The valet, coming at a run to answer the frantic pealing of the bell,
Gently Simon drew the edge of the sheet over the sleeping man’s face; and onto the sheet he dripped a colourless liquid from a flask which he took from his pocket. The atmosphere thickened with a sickly reek… .
Five minutes later, in another room, the Saint was opening a burglar-proof safe with Lemuel’s own key.
He found what he was expecting to find-what, in fact, he had arranged to find. It had required no great genius to deduce that Lemuel would have withdrawn all his mobile fortune from his bank the day before; if there had been no satisfactory report from Einsmann before morning, Lemuel would have been on his way out of England long before the expiration of the time limit which the Saint had given him.
Simon burned twenty-five thousand pounds’ worth of negotiable securities in the open grate. There was already a heap of ashes in the fireplace when he began his own bonfire, and he guessed that Lemuel had spent part of the previous evening disinfecting his private papers; it would be a waste of time to search the desk. With about forty thousand pounds in Bank of England notes cunningly distributed about his person, the Saint closed the safe, after some artistic work on the interior, and returned to Lemuel’s bedroom, where he replaced the key as he had found it. Before he left, he turned the sheet back from Lemuel’s face; the bedroom windows were already open, and in a couple of hours the smell of ether should have dispersed.
“A couple of hours… .” The Saint glanced at his watch as he went down the stairs, and realized that he had only just given himself enough time. But he stopped at the janitor’s cubicle on his way out, and the helpless man glared at him defiantly.
“I’m sorry I had to hit you,” said the Saint. “But perhaps this will help to console you for your troubles.”
He took ten one-pound notes from his wallet and laid them on the porter’s desk; then he hurried down the hall, and slipped off his masking handkerchief as he opened the door.
Half an hour later he was in bed.
Francis Lemuel had arranged to be called early, in case of accidents, and the reassuring telephone message had come too late for him to countermand the order. He roused at half-past eight, to find his valet shaking him by the shoulder, and sat up muzzily. His head was splitting. He took a gulp at the hot tea which his man had brought, and felt sick.
“Must have drunk more whisky than I thought,” he reflected hazily; and then he became aware that his valet was speaking.
“There’s been a burglary here, sir. About six o’clock this morning the porter was knocked out—”
“Here-in this apartment?” Lemuel’s voice was harsh and strained.
“No, sir. At least, I’ve looked round, sir, and nothing seems to have been touched.”
Lemuel drew a long breath. For an instant an icy dread had clutched at his heart. Then he remembered-the Saint was dead, there was nothing more to fear… .
He sipped his tea again and chuckled throatily.
“Then someone’s been unlucky,” he remarked callously, and was surprised when the valet shook his head.
“That’s the extraordinary thing, sir. They’ve been making inquiries all round, and none of the other apartments seem to have been entered either.”
Lemuel recalled this conversation later in the morning. He had declined breakfast blasphemously, and had only just man aged to get up and dress in time to restore his treasures to the keeping of his bank.
He saw the emptiness of his safe, and the little drawing which the Saint had chalked inside it by way of receipt, and went a dirty gray-white.
The strength seemed to go from his knees; and he groped his way blindly to a chair, shaking with a superstitious terror. It was some time before he brought himself to realize that ghosts do not stun porters and clean out burglar-proof safes.
The valet, coming at a run to answer the frantic pealing of the bell,
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