06 Alias the Saint

The car (he called it Hildebrand, for no reason that the chronicler, or anyone else in this story, could ever discover) was of the model known to the expert as "Touring," which is to say that in hot weather you had the choice of baking with the hood down, or broiling with the hood up. In wet weather you had the choice of getting soaked with the hood down, or driving to the peril of the whole world and yourself while completely encased in a compartment as impervious to vision as it was intended to be impervious to rain. It dated from one of the vintage years of Henry Ford, and the Saint had long ago had his money's worth out of it.

On this occasion the hood was up, and the side-curtains also, for it was a filthy night. The wind that whistled round the car arid blew frosty draughts through every gap in the so-called "all-weather" defenses seemed to have whipped straight out of the bleakest fastnesses of the North Pole. With it came a thin drizzle of rain that seemed colder than snow, which hissed glacially through a clammy sea mist, The Saint huddled the collar of his leather motoring coat up round his ears, and wondered if he would ever be warm again.

He drove through the little village, and came, a minute later, to his destination--a house on the outskirts, within sight of the sea. It was a long, low, rambling building of two stories, and a dripping sign outside proclaimed it to be the Beacon Inn, It was half-past nine, and yet there seemed to be no convivial gathering of villagers in any of the bars, for only one of the downstairs windows showed a light. In three windows on the first floor, however, lights gleamed from behind yellow blinds. The house did not look particularly inviting, but the night was particularly loathsome, and Simon Templar would have had no difficulty in choosing it even if he had not decided to stop at the Beacon Inn nearly twelve hours before.

He climbed out and went to the door. Here lie met his first surprise, for it was locked. He thundered on it impatiently, and after some time there was the sound of footsteps approaching from within. The door opened six inches, and a man looked out.

"What do you want?" he demanded surlily.

"Lodging for a night--or even two nights," said the Saint, cheerfully.

"We've got no rooms," said the man.

He would have slammed the door in the Saints face, but Simon was not unused to people wanting to slam doors in his face, and he had taken the precaution of wedging his foot in the jamb.

"Pardon me," he said pleasantly, "but you have got a room. There are eight bedrooms in this plurry pub, and I happen to know that only six of them are occupied."

"Well, you can't come in," said the man gruffly. "We don't want you."

"I'm sorry about that," said the Saint, still affably. "But I'm afraid you have no option. Your boss, being a licensed innkeeper, is compelled to give shelter to any traveller who demands it and has the money to pay for it. If you don't let me in, I can go to the magistrate to-morrow and tell him the story, and if you can't show a good reason for having refused me you'll be slung out. You might be able to fake up a plausible excuse by that time, but the notoriety I'd give you, and the police attention I'd pull down on you, wouldn't give you any fun at all. You go and tell your boss what I said, and see if he won't change his mind."

At the same time, Simon Templar suddenly applied his weight to the door. The man inside was not ready for this, and he was thrown off his balance. Simon calmly walked in, shaking the rain off his hat.

"Go on--tell your boss what I said," said the Saint encouragingly. "I want a room here to-night, and I'm going to get one."

The man departed, grumbling, and Simon walked over to the fire and warmed his hands at the blaze. The man came back in ten minutes, and it appeared at once that the Saint's warning had had some effect.

"The Guv'nor says you can have a room."

"I thought he would," said the Saint comfortably, and peeled off his coat. There were seventy-four inches of him, and he looked very lean and tough in his plus-fours,

"There's a car outside," he said. "Shove it in your garage, will you. Basher?"

The man stared at him.

"Who are you speaking to?" he demanded. "Speaking to you, Basher Tope," said the Saint pleasantly. "Put my car in the garage."

The man came nearer and scowled into Simon's face. The Saint saw alarm dawning in his eyes. "Who are you?" asked Tope hoarsely, "Are you a split?"

"I am," admitted the Saint mendaciously. "We wondered where you'd got to, Basher. You've no idea how we miss your familiar face in the dock, and all the wardens at Wormwood Scrubs have been feeling they've lost an old friend."

Basher's mouth twisted.

"We don't want none of you damned flatties here," he said. "The Guv'nor better hear of this."