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Authors: Leslie Charteris
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a plain modern affair of blue tiles and
tin, and it would have been difficult to work any grisly gadgets into
its bluntly bour geois lines. Or, it appeared, into the lines of anything
else in that room.
“Which,” said the Saint drowsily, “is absurd.”
There remained of course, Wilfred Garniman’s bedroom— the Saint
had long since listed that as the only feasible alterna tive. But,
somehow, he didn’t like it. Plunder and pink poplin pyjamas didn’t seem a
psychologically satisfactory combination —particularly when
the pyjamas must be presumed to sur round something like Wilfred Garniman
must have looked like without his Old Harrovian tie. The idea did not ring a bell. And
yet, if the boodle and etceteral appurtenances there of and howsoever were
not in the bedroom, they must be in the study—some blistered whereabouts
or what not… .
“Which,” burbled the Saint, “is ab sluly’ pos rous .
…”
The situation seemed less and less annoying. … It really didn’t matter very much… . Wilfred Garniman, if one came to think of
it, was even fatter than Teal … and one made allowances for
detectives… . Teal was fat, and Long Harry was long, and Patricia played
around with Scorpions; which was all very odd and amusing, but nothing to
get worked up about before breakfast, old dear …
Chapter IX
Somewhere in the infinite darkness appeared a tiny speck of
white. It came hurtling towards him; and as it came it grew larger and whiter
and more terrible, until it seemed as if it must smash and
smother and pulp him into the squashed wreckage of the whole universe at his
back. He let out a yell, and the upper half of the great white sky fell
back like a shutter, sending a sudden blaze of dazzling light into his
eyes. The lower bit of white touched his nose and mouth damply, and an
acrid stinging smell stabbed right up into the top of his head and trickled
down his throat like a thin stream of condensed fire. He gasped, coughed,
choked—and saw Wilfred Garniman.
“Hullo, old toad,” said the Saint weakly.
He breathed deeply, fanning out of his nasal passages the fiery tingle
of the restorative that Garniman had made him inhale. His head cleared magically, so
completely that for a few moments it felt as
if a cold wind had blown clean through it; and the dazzle of the light dimmed out of his eyes. But he looked down, and saw that his wrists and ankles
were securely bound.
“That’s a pretty useful line of dope, Wilfred,” he mur mured
huskily. “How did you do it?”
Garniman was folding up his handkerchief and returning it to his pocket, working with
slow meticulous hands.
“The pressure of your head on the back of the chair re leased the
gas,” he replied calmly. “It’s an idea of my own—I have always
been prepared to have to entertain undesirable visitors. The lightest pressure is
sufficient.”
Simon
nodded.
“It certainly is a great game,” he remarked. “I never
noticed a thing, though I remember now that I was blithering to myself
rather inanely just before I went under. And so the little man works off
his own bright ideas… . Wilfred, you’re coming on.”
“I brought my dancing partner with me,” said Garniman, quite
casually.
He waved a fat indicative hand; and the Saint, squirming over to
follow the gesture, saw Patricia in another chair. For a second or two he
looked at her; then he turned slowly round again.
“There’s no satisfying you jazz fiends, is there?” he drawled. “Now I suppose you’ll wind up the gramophone and start again… .
But the girl seems to have lost the spirit of the thing… .”
Garniman sat down at the desk and regarded the Saint with the heavy inscrutable face of a
great gross image.
“I had seen her before, dancing with you at the Jericho, long
before we first met—I never forget a face. After she had succeeded
in planting herself on me, I spent a little time assuring myself that
I was not mistaken; and then the solution
tin, and it would have been difficult to work any grisly gadgets into
its bluntly bour geois lines. Or, it appeared, into the lines of anything
else in that room.
“Which,” said the Saint drowsily, “is absurd.”
There remained of course, Wilfred Garniman’s bedroom— the Saint
had long since listed that as the only feasible alterna tive. But,
somehow, he didn’t like it. Plunder and pink poplin pyjamas didn’t seem a
psychologically satisfactory combination —particularly when
the pyjamas must be presumed to sur round something like Wilfred Garniman
must have looked like without his Old Harrovian tie. The idea did not ring a bell. And
yet, if the boodle and etceteral appurtenances there of and howsoever were
not in the bedroom, they must be in the study—some blistered whereabouts
or what not… .
“Which,” burbled the Saint, “is ab sluly’ pos rous .
…”
The situation seemed less and less annoying. … It really didn’t matter very much… . Wilfred Garniman, if one came to think of
it, was even fatter than Teal … and one made allowances for
detectives… . Teal was fat, and Long Harry was long, and Patricia played
around with Scorpions; which was all very odd and amusing, but nothing to
get worked up about before breakfast, old dear …
Chapter IX
Somewhere in the infinite darkness appeared a tiny speck of
white. It came hurtling towards him; and as it came it grew larger and whiter
and more terrible, until it seemed as if it must smash and
smother and pulp him into the squashed wreckage of the whole universe at his
back. He let out a yell, and the upper half of the great white sky fell
back like a shutter, sending a sudden blaze of dazzling light into his
eyes. The lower bit of white touched his nose and mouth damply, and an
acrid stinging smell stabbed right up into the top of his head and trickled
down his throat like a thin stream of condensed fire. He gasped, coughed,
choked—and saw Wilfred Garniman.
“Hullo, old toad,” said the Saint weakly.
He breathed deeply, fanning out of his nasal passages the fiery tingle
of the restorative that Garniman had made him inhale. His head cleared magically, so
completely that for a few moments it felt as
if a cold wind had blown clean through it; and the dazzle of the light dimmed out of his eyes. But he looked down, and saw that his wrists and ankles
were securely bound.
“That’s a pretty useful line of dope, Wilfred,” he mur mured
huskily. “How did you do it?”
Garniman was folding up his handkerchief and returning it to his pocket, working with
slow meticulous hands.
“The pressure of your head on the back of the chair re leased the
gas,” he replied calmly. “It’s an idea of my own—I have always
been prepared to have to entertain undesirable visitors. The lightest pressure is
sufficient.”
Simon
nodded.
“It certainly is a great game,” he remarked. “I never
noticed a thing, though I remember now that I was blithering to myself
rather inanely just before I went under. And so the little man works off
his own bright ideas… . Wilfred, you’re coming on.”
“I brought my dancing partner with me,” said Garniman, quite
casually.
He waved a fat indicative hand; and the Saint, squirming over to
follow the gesture, saw Patricia in another chair. For a second or two he
looked at her; then he turned slowly round again.
“There’s no satisfying you jazz fiends, is there?” he drawled. “Now I suppose you’ll wind up the gramophone and start again… .
But the girl seems to have lost the spirit of the thing… .”
Garniman sat down at the desk and regarded the Saint with the heavy inscrutable face of a
great gross image.
“I had seen her before, dancing with you at the Jericho, long
before we first met—I never forget a face. After she had succeeded
in planting herself on me, I spent a little time assuring myself that
I was not mistaken; and then the solution
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