The Saint Goes On (The Saint Series) by Charteris Leslie

Author:Charteris, Leslie [Charteris, Leslie]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2014-03-17T16:00:00+00:00

6

“What’s the matter?” repeated Lord Ripwell, with pardonable blankness.

“Nothing,” said the Saint absently. “It’s just some more of the pieces falling into place. Wait a minute.”

He jumped up and began to pace quickly up and down the room, slamming the directory shut and chucking it back under the table. The train of thought was moving faster, dashing hectically up and down over its maze of sidings faster than he was covering the floor. His tanned keen face was cut into bronze lines of intense thought, with his sea-blue eyes blazing vividly against the sunburned background. He wheeled round with his fist smashing impetuously into his palm.

“It’s getting together…To kill Mrs Ellshaw just because she’d come to see me wasn’t such a good motive. I was flattering myself a bit. But she’d always have to talk—to someone. Suppose it was the two young gennelmen that she did for? That’s the sort of coincidence that happens. When Ellshaw had to disappear, who could have foreseen that his wife might go to work for someone who knew the bloke who…Wait for it again…Yes, they knew Kenneth. And Kenneth never said whether he’d heard of Ellshaw—never had a chance to…My God, I’d forgotten that piece of organization!”

Ripwell’s pleasant face was hardening uncertainly.

“What are you driving at? If you’re suggesting that Kenneth is a murderer—”

“Murderer?” The Saint came up with a start, half dazed, out of the trance in which he had been letting his thoughts race on aloud, without making any effort to dictate their destination. “I never said that. But—God, am I getting this untied?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” persisted Ripwell hoarsely.

Simon swung back to the bed and dropped his hands on the old man’s shoulders.

“Don’t worry,” he said gently. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you. Even now. I’m not quite sure what I do mean. But I’ll look after things. And I’ll be right back.”

He pressed Ripwell quietly back on the pillows and went out quickly, making for the stairs with an exuberant stride that almost bowled Martin Irelock off the landing.

“What’s the excitement?” demanded the secretary.

“I’ve got some more ideas.” Simon kept hold of the arm which he had clutched to save Irelock from taking the worst of the spill. “Are you busy?”

“No—I was just making sure that your room’s all right.”

“Then come downstairs again. I want to talk to you.”

He did not release the arm until they were downstairs in the living-room. The French casement was ajar, the half-drawn curtains stirring in the draught. Simon took out his cigarette-case.

“Where’s Teal?”

“I don’t know. Oldwood’s man just arrived—I expect he’s showing him round.”

The Saint put a cigarette between his lips and took a match from the ash-stand, stroking it alight with his thumb-nail.

“I’ve remembered something that may interest you,” he said. “An interesting scientific fact. If you have a sample of fresh blood, it’s possible to analyse its type and get an exact mathematical ratio of probabilities that it came from some particular person.”

Irelock blinked.

“Is it really? That’s interesting.”

“I said it was interesting.

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