Whereupon quite a number of interesting jobs of looking proceeded to take place in various directions.
The Saint looked at the two arms of the law, and his face broke into an affable and untroubled smile of welcome. He took his right hand out of the breast of his coat with his cigarette case in it.
The constable looked at the Saint, and his mouth sagged open. He said in a dazed and dumbfounded sort of voice: "Gorblimey, it's 'im." Then he went on staring, while his honest red face expressed an inward struggle between admiration and duty.
The sergeant looked at the Saint and stiffened. He looked slightly frightened, but his uneasiness was clearly subservient to his sense of responsibility. He planted himself more firmly on his by-no-means-ethereal feet, as if bracing himself to deal with trouble.
Then another thought seemed to cross his mind, distracting him. He tried to resist it, but it grew stronger. He frowned. He looked at Lady Valerie again, rather perplexedly.
Lady Valerie looked at him and twitched a rather weak and uncertain little smile. Then she looked at the Saint.
The Saint looked at her. His face was cheerfully composed, but his eyes said again, for her alone, the same things that they had said when the two of them had looked at one another before he told her to open the door. It was as if they met her with a challenge, a suggestion, a request, a mocking invitation, a sardonic query, anything but a plea; and yet no other eyes on earth could have pleaded more compellingly. And now she understood some things that she had not understood before.
She looked at the sergeant again.
The sergeant looked at the constable.
The constable looked at the sergeant, not very intelligently, perhaps, but with a dawning grasp of what was troubling his superior's mind.
Both of them looked at the Saint.
Both of them looked at Lady Valerie.
Both of them looked at the Saint once more.
The sergeant scratched his head.
"Well, I dunno," he announced helplessly. "There must be somethink barmy about this."
Simon had his cigarette case open. He took out a cigarette.
"What's on your mind, brother?" he inquired amiably.
The sergeant took another look round, and apparently could only come to the same conclusion. As if in token of surrender, he took off his hat.
"Well sir, it's like this. Just a few minutes ago we received a message from Scotland Yard saying as you'd kidnapped Lady Valerie Woodchester, an' she'd escaped from you, an' they 'ad reason to believe she might 'ave come here to Anford, an' you might be arfter 'er to try an' kidnap 'er again, an' we was to endeavour to trace 'er an' afford her every protection, an' if we found you hanging about there was a warrant for your arrest. Well, we tried the hotels first, and as soon as we rang up 'ere they told us that Lady Valerie 'ad just come in and taken a room. So I come along to see if she'd like to make a statement an' if she wanted a man to look arfter 'er, an' now you're here with" er, and… Well," said the sergeant, plugging his initial thesis, "there must be somethink barmy about it."
"There's a warrant for my arrest?" Simon ejaculated. "What on earth is it for?"
"Kidnapping Lady Valerie. An' obstructing the police in the execution of their duty."
Simon had wondered how Mr Teal would officially describe being locked up in a wardrobe with an ex-cabinet minister.
"Good Lord," he said, "does it look as if Lady Valerie was excited about being rescued?"
"That," said the sergeant, with lugubrious finality, "is wot looks so barmy."
The Saint grinned and leaned back.
"Are you sure somebody hasn't been pulling your leg?" he suggested.
"I dunno. If anybody has, 'e'll be sorry he ever tried it before I've finished with 'im. But it sounded all right, just like the regular communications we 'ave from the Yard when there's anythink doing." The sergeant turned his disappointedly bewildered eyes back to the girl. "Did Mr Templar kidnap you, miss?" he asked, like a drowning man clutching at the last straw.
Lady Valerie looked at the Saint again and back to the two policemen.
Simon put his cigarette between his lips and drew at it very slowly.
"Why," she said, "that's the funniest thing I ever heard!"
There was a silence in which no pins could have been heard dropping because nobody was dropping pins. The sergeant scratched another part of his head and squeezed little wedges of coagulated dandruff from under his fingernails. He looked as unhappy as any public servant must look when confronted by a situation that fails to follow the dotted line. Simon took his cigarette out of his mouth and trickled the smoke out in a long leisured streamer through the unaltered quizzical curve of his lips. His gaze rested contemplatively on Lady Valerie as her glance returned to him. She looked coy and complacent, like a puppy that has got away with an unguarded plate of foie gras canapés. It was left to the constable to make the first constructive contribution. An expression of mingled relief and pride had ironed the wrinkles out of his countenance when he heard Lady Valerie's confirmatory denial: quite plainly he had been making a dutiful effort to convince himself that the Saint had actually been caught more or less red handed, but he had never really made it stick hard enough to be able to let go of it, and it was distinctly cheering to him to be absolved from the strain of continuing to hold it down. Now he was free to indulge in his own theories, and the solution came to him with dazzling simplicity.
"I can see wot's 'appened," he proclaimed. "It's as clear as daylight. It's a gang. That's wot it is. One of these gangs which Mr Templar is always breakin' up 'as got it in for 'im, and they're tryin' to frame him for this kidnapping which he knows nothing about so as to get 'im out o' the way and leave 'emselves free to get on with their dirty work. That's wot it is."
The sergeant did not seem impressed.
"It isn't because any threats 'ave bin made to you in case you tell the truth, is it, Lady Valerie?" he persisted, as if hoping against hope. "Because if they 'ave, I can tell you that while we're here you need 'ave no fear of any menaces, no matter ooze—"
"Of course not," said the girl. "Really, Sergeant, you're very kind, and I'm sure you mean well and all that sort of thing, but this is getting too ridiculous for words."
"It's a gang," repeated the constable confidently. "That's wot—"
"Will you shut your mouth?" said the sergeant crushingly; and when his subordinate had obeyed he looked rather miserable and lonely. "Wot the 'ell," he said, giving way to forces stronger than official rank, "are we goin' to do about this?"
There was a pause of intense cogitation.
"Get 'old of Scotland Yard," said the constable, "and tell 'em wot Lady Valerie says."
"While we keep Mr Templar in custody," said the sergeant, seeing light.
"But you can't!" the girl said indignantly. "How can you lock Mr Templar up in your beastly prison for kidnapping me when I'm here to prove that he hasn't done anything of the sort? I mean, I'm the one who's supposed to have been kidnapped, so I ought to have some say about it. Who's got any right to say I've been kidnapped if I say I haven't?"
The sergeant wriggled wretchedly inside his coat.
"I dunno, miss," he said. "But those are the instructions we 'ad from London."
"I won't hear of it!" she said tearfully.
She sat down on the bed beside the Saint and took hold of his arm. Her lovely brown eyes gazed at him with something like worship.
"Do you think we ought to tell them, Simon?" she said.
"Do you?" he replied, not knowing what she was talking about, but with an awful premonition.
"Yes." She flounced up and took hold of the sergeant's arm. "You see," she said, "Mr Templar and I are going to be married."
Simon Templar leaned back on his elbows just a split second before he would have fallen back on them. His brain whirred like a clock preparing to strike.
The sergeant blinked.
The constable gulped, and then his face opened in a great joyful romantic beam.
He said: "Wot?"
She said: "Yes. You see, we only just fixed it up last night, when we found out we were in love. And — and we didn't want any publicity. I mean, you know what the newspapers would do with anything like that. So we thought we'd just run away. I suppose some of my friends have been trying to get hold of me, or something, and when they found I'd disappeared they thought something frightful had happened to me, and so they told Scotland Yard and started all this silly scare; but there's nothing in it really, and we've just eloped, and we're going to get married as soon as we can fix it up, and you can't arrest Mr Templar because that would spoil everything and it 'd be in all the papers and we'd get all the limelight that we're trying to get away from. You do understand, don't you?"
The Saint lay completely back and closed his eyes, because he could think of nothing else to do.
And she had the nerve to sit down beside him and kiss him.
And then the constable was pumping his limp hand and saying: "Well sir, may I 'ave the honour of being the first to congratulate you."
"You may, Reginald," said the Saint feebly. "Indeed you may. And for all I know, you may be the last."
"Well, I dunno," said the sergeant, harping on his theme."I suppose in that case all we can do is take a statement an' let both of you go."
"I'll take it down," said the constable.
He rummaged eagerly in his pocket and pulled out sheets of official foolscap. With his tongue protruding, he wrote laboriously at dictation.
" 'My name is Lady Valerie Woodchester… I was not kidnapped by Mr Simon Templar. I am in love with him. We have eloped together… I eloped in secret because we did not wish any fuss…' Will you sign your name 'ere, miss?"
Lady Valerie signed.
"Mr Templar 'd better sign it, too," said the sergeant gloomily.
The Saint drew a deep breath, but he could say nothing. He took the pen and wrote his name with a steady hand.
The sergeant read over the sheet, folded it, and put it in his pocket.
"Well," he said despondently, "that's all we can do. Will you be stayin' 'ere for some time, sir?"
"No," said the Saint definitely. "We were only spending a few hours before we went on to Southampton to catch a boat." He got up. "We'll go out with you."
They went out. The constable carried Lady Valerie's tiny valise. Simon paid the bill for her room at the desk. They left the hotel.
Simon steered the cortege along the street to the side turning where he had parked the Daimler. If Lady Valerie was surprised to see it she gave no sign. He opened the near-side door and ushered her in with ceremonial courtesy. Just then he was too full of thoughts for words. He went round the car and got into the driving seat.
The constable leaned in at the window.
"Good-bye, sir," he said jovially. "And I 'opes all your troubles are little ones."
"So do I," said the Saint, from the bottom of his heart, and let in the clutch.
The sergeant and the constable stood and watched him go. Simon saw them receding in the driving mirror. The sergeant looked vaguely frustrated, as if he still thought he ought to have done something else even though he couldn't think of anything else he could have done. The constable looked as if he wished he had had a handful of confetti in his pocket.
Simon drove out of town and took the cross-country road that led towards Amesbury. His emotions were approximately those of a shell that has just been fired out of a gun. He had been shot into space with one terrific explosion, and now he was sailing along with the fateful knowledge that there was another almighty bang waiting at the other end of the journey. The old proverbial voyagings between frying pans and fires seemed like comparatively pale and peaceful transitions to him. He drove very carefully, as if the car had been made out of glass.
Lady Valerie snuggled up against him.
"Are you happy, darling?" she said.
"Beloved," said the Saint chokily, "I'm so happy that I could wring your neck."
"Don't you appreciate what I've done for you?"
"Every bit of it," he said, with superhuman moderation. "So much so that if I'd had the least idea what was in your mind—"
"Where shall we go for our honeymoon?"
Simon nursed the car round a corner like an old lady wheeling her granddaughter's pram.
"Listen," he said, "I don't particularly care where you go for our honeymoon so long as it's no place where I'm going. If you have any sense, which is getting more-doubtful every minute, you'll travel like smoke for the next few days and put the biggest distance you can between yourself and London; and you won't send your friends any picture post-cards on the way to let them know where you are."
Her lips trembled slightly.
"I see," she said. "You… you've had all you want from me, and now you just want to get rid of me. Well, I've been too clever for you this time. I'm not going to be got rid of."
"Do you want to die young?" demanded the Saint exasperatedly. "Don't you see that I'm going to be much too busy to look after you? For Pete's sake, have a little sense. I'll let you off at Southampton, where there are lots of boats going to nice places like New Zealand and so forth."
"And what are you going to do after you've ditched me?" she asked sulkily. "I suppose you'll go dashing back to your blonde girl friend and tell her how clever you are."
"I don't have to tell her," said the Saint. "She knows."
"Well, you're not as clever as all that," flared the girl in open mutiny. "You heard what I told those two policemen. You didn't deny it then — anything was all right with you so long as it helped you to get away. You — you signed your name to it. And I won't be ditched. If you try to get rid of me now I–I'll sue you for breach of promise!"
Simon steadied himself. Now that the impending thunderstorm had broken, exactly as he had been nerving himself for it, he almost felt better.
"No jury would give you a farthing damages, sweetheart," he said. "As a matter of fact, they'd probably give me a reward for letting you out of an agreement to marry me."
"Oh, would they? Well, we'll see. It's all very well for you to go around breaking thousands of hearts and pushing around all the women you meet like a little Hitler bossing his tame dummies in the Reichstag—"
The car rocked with a force that flung her away from him.
The Saint straightened it up again anyhow. He let go the wheel and thumped his fists on it like a lunatic.
He yodelled. His face was transfigured.
"My God," he yelled, "how did you think of it? Of course that's what it was. That's the answer. The Reichstag!"
She gaped at him, rubbing a bruised elbow where it had hit the door in that wild swerve.
"What's the matter?" she asked blankly. "Have you gone pots or something?"
"The Reichstag!" he whooped deliriously. "Don't you see? That's what Kennet wrote on that bit of paper. REMEMBER THE REICHSTAG!"
He was so dazed with understanding that he had not noticed a big black Packard which had crept up behind them, was hardly aware when it pulled out in the narrow road and raced level with the crawling Daimler. Almost unconsciously he swung in to let it pass.
Lady Valerie looked back over her shoulder and suddenly screamed. With a quick panicky movement she turned and grabbed at the steering wheel and twisted it sharply. From the overtaking car came the crisp high-pitched crack of a gun, and the windscreen splintered in front of Simon's eyes. Then the Daimler lurched madly as its near-side wheels slithered and plunged into a gully at the side of the road. The bank that rose up from there to the bordering hedge seemed to loom directly ahead. Simon felt himself hurled forward helplessly in his seat; the steering wheel struck him a violent blow in the chest and knocked the wind out of him; then he rose into the air as if deprived of weight. Something struck him a fearful blow on the top of the head. Bright lights whirled dizzily before his eyes and faded into a blackening mist of unconsciousness.