06 Alias the Saint

"Well--no," admitted the Saint. "Not exactly. I never imagined you and Marring and Crantor went into partnership to discuss new ways of accelerating the growth of sweet peas. On the other hand, I definitely didn't know what was going on, though I've been watching you ever since you teamed up. Then when I took a peek at your workshop--"

"You were enlightened?"

"To the extent of four or five candlepower," said the Saint carefully. "I won't say that I jumped to the meaning of the bottled onions right away, and the diphenylcyanarsine was 'way beyond my scienitific powers, but I got some expert advice that cleared a lot of air. And now you've answered the Mother questions yourselves, so that lets me out. It was only Betty Tregarth that I hadn't one good clue about."

"Ah--you were interested?"

Simon lounged against the wall. He had no idea what turn the situation would take next; so, characteristically, he declined to overheat his brain with the problem.

"I was curious," he said. "But even that riddle is rapidly untangling itself with the help of other information recently acquired. I seem to remember that when you murdered Inspector Henley, who was also interested in you, there was a woman in the house. At least, the police found traces of her presence, though they had nothing to help them to identify her. And it appears that Betty Tregarth is your tame chemist." The Saint's eyes rested thoughtfully on Bernhard Raxel. "Now suppose-- just suppose--a trio of tough babies had figured out a dandy scheme of up-to-date piracy, using poison gas and all that sort of dope. They'd want someone to make the stuff for them, wouldn't they? Anyone out of the street can't walk into a shop and ask for half a dozen cylinders of assorted smells to be sent round right away in a plain van. And the number of crooked chemists isn't so colossal that people would be queuing up in front of your house to get the billet. But suppose you had located a very good woman for the job, full of qualifications and knowledge, but still feminine enough to be frightened-- and then suppose you framed her for a murder that you were going to commit anyway, framed her well enough to convince her even if the police never noticed it--and then demanded her services as the price of your protection? It might work--women have been blamed fools before now--and a scheme like that would just suit your kind of brain.

He read the accumulating confirmation in Raxel's eyes even while he was elaborating his theory, and laughed.

That's about it, isn't it Uncle?' He drawled.

Raxel nodded calmly.

"Your logic is admirable, Mr. Smith, If you had not been so foolish as to take up this case, your powers might have won you a high position in your profession. As it is---" He shrugged. "I fear our time is short. Will you kindly precede us to the cellar?" y "With all the pleasure in life," answered the Saint politely.

They went down the corridor and down the stairs in procession. On the ground floor, Crantor opened a door under the staircase, and went through, switching on a torch as he did so. The Saint saw a flight of stone stairs leading down into darkness.

"What's going to happen when I get down there?" he asked.

"We shall leave you," answered' Raxel. "I do not think you will live very long."

He gave the Saint a glimpse of the small glass bulb that he had carried down with him from the laboratory--and Simon could recognize the contents of that on sight. And the Saint had led too full a life to doubt that Raxel's intentions were perfectly deliberate and cold-blooded. He knew that Raxel intended to kill him. For an instrument there was the twinkling glass bowl of concentrated death in the Professor's hand. And the quiet, unemotional ruthlessness of Raxel's voice was very real. But for that, the whole situation might have seemed like the last fragment of a grotesque nightmare; but the Professor's gentleness was more convincing than any vindictive outburst could have been.

"Nice of you," said the Saint thoughtfully,

"I'm sorry," said Raxel, although his deep-set faded blue eyes showed neither sorrow nor any other trace of humanity. "I bear you no malice. It is simply that my interest in my own safety demands it."

Simon smiled.

"Of course, that's an important consideration," he murmured. "But I think you ought to do the thing in style while you're about it. There's a tradition in these matters, you know. I've never been executed before, and I'd like this to be something I 1can remember. It's too late for breakfast, and I suppose it'd delay you too much to ask you to let me eat a final dinner, but at least you can give me a couple of bottles of beer."

Crantor came up the stairs again, and was visibly relieved when he saw that the Saint was still holding up his hands.

"Why don't you send him along down," Professor?" he demanded. "We haven't got a lot of time to waste."