Prelude for War by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online

‘ve bin spiflicated by the smoke before ever the fire reached ‘im.” He went on looking at the Saint with a certain amount of awe. “I didn’t know ‘oo you was till after you’d gorn, sir,” he said apologetically.
    “I’m sorry,” said
the Saint gravely. “But you can still arrest
me now if you want to, so there’s no harm done.”
    “Arrest you?”
repeated the policeman. “Wot—me?” A beaming grin split his face
almost in half. “Why, I’ve read everythink they
ever printed about you, and fair larfed myself
sick sometimes, the way you put it over on those smart
alecks at Scotland Yard. But I never thought I’d ‘ave the
pleasure of meeting you and not know it—though I did wonder
‘ow you knew my name the other night.”
    “Your name?” said
the Saint faintly.
    “Yes sir. Reginald.
That was pretty good, that was. But I suppose you’ve got
pretty near the ‘ole police force of the country
taped, haven’t you?”
    The Saint swallowed. He
searched unavailingly for an adequate reply.
    Fortunately his anguished
efforts were cut short by the blessed advent of two
large cars that rolled up to the steps at
the entrance of the building, and a spontaneous move ment
of the crowd drew the policeman back to his job. The
Saint took out his cigarette case with a feeling of precarious
relief and watched the cars disgorge the dignified shapes of Luker,
Fairweather, Sir Robert and Lady Sangore, and Lady Valerie
Woodchester.
    “It must be wonderful
to be famous,” remarked Peter Quentin reverently.
    “Get yourself some
reflected glory,” said the Saint. “Take
Pat inside—I’m going to float around for a bit.”
    He waited while they
disappeared, and presently fol lowed them in. Immediately
inside the entrance was a fair- sized hall in which a
number of people were standing about, conversing in
cathedral mutters. There were single doors on
each side, and a double pair facing the entrance which opened
into the main room where the inquest was to take place.
Near these farther doors Lady Valerie was standing alone, waiting, rather
impatiently tapping the ground with one trim-shod foot.
Simon went over to her.
    “Good morning,”
he said.
    She turned languidly and inspected him, one
finely arched eyebrow slightly raised. She
had lovely eyes, large and dark and
sparkling, shaded by very long lashes. Her dark hair gleamed with a warm autumn richness. The poise of her exquisitely modelled head, the angle of her
childishly tip-tilted nose, the curl
of her pretty lips, proclaimed her utter
and profound disinterest in Simon Templar.
    “What’s happened to
Luker and the others?” Simon asked. “I saw
them come in with you just now.”
    “They’re in the office
talking to the coroner, if you want them,” she
said indifferently. Then suddenly she lost some of
her indifference. “Are you a reporter?”
    “No,” said the
Saint regretfully. “But I could get you one.
May I compliment you on your taste in clothes. I always
did like that dress.”
    He knew the dress very
well, since he had helped Patricia to choose it.
    Lady Valerie stared at him
hard for a moment and then her expression changed
completely. It ceased altogether to be cold and
disdainful: her features became animated with eagerness.
    “Oh,” she said.
“How silly of me! Of course I remember you
now. You’re the hero, aren’t you?”
    “Am I?”
    She frowned a little.
    “Not that I really
hoot a lot about this hero business,” she
went on. “I daresay it’s all very fine for great he-men to go rushing about dripping with sweat and doing noble things, but
I think there ought to be special places set apart for them to perform in.”
    “You were rescued
yourself the other night, weren’t you?” said the
Saint pleasantly.
    “Rescued? My good
man, I was simply thrown about like an old sack. When the
fire alarm went off I didn’t realize what it was for a
moment, and then when Don Knightley came charging into my room with his
hair