Prelude for War Read Online Free Page A

was
beginning to revive him, and in a few minutes his superb resilience would do
the rest. He reviewed his injuries more systematically,
and realized that com paratively
speaking he was almost miraculously unscathed.
    The thing that had come
nearest to downing him was the smoke and fumes of the
fire; and the effects of that were dispersing themselves like magic now that he
could breathe again without feeling as if he were
inhaling molten ash.
    He cocked an eye at the
stolid country policeman who was holding his other arm.
    “Do you have to be
quite so professional, Reginald?” he
murmured. “It makes me feel nervous.”
    The constable’s hold
relaxed reassuringly.
    “I’d get along and see
the doctor, sir, if I was you. He’s in the lodge now
with Lady Sangore.”
    “Is that the old
trout’s name ? And I’ll bet her husband is
at least a general.” The Saint was starting to get his bearings, and his legs began to feel as if they belonged to him again.
He searched for a cigarette. “Thanks, but Lady Sangore
can have him. I’d rather have a drink. I wonder if
we could get any co-operation from the owner of this jolly
little bonfire?”
    “You mean Mr
Fairweather, sir? That’s him, coming along now.”
    While Simon had been inside
the house, a number of other people had arrived
on the scene, and another police man and a sergeant were
loudly ordering them to stand back. Paying no attention
to this whatever, they swarmed excitedly round the Saint,
all talking at once and completely frustrating the fat
little Mr Fairweather, who seemed to be trying to make a
speech. The voice of the general rose above the confused
jabber like a foghorn.
    “A fine effort, young man. A splendid
effort, by Gad 1 But you shouldn’t have
tried it.”
    “Tell the band to
strike up a tune,” said the Saint shortly. “Did
anybody find a ladder?”
    With his strength rapidly
coming back, he still fought against admitting defeat. His face was hard and
set and the blue in his eyes was icy as he glanced over the
group.
    “A ladder wouldn’t be
much use now,” said a quiet voice. “The
flames are pouring out of his window. There isn’t a hope.”
    It was the square-jawed
man who spoke; and again it seemed to Simon that there
was a faint sneer in his dark eyes.
    The Saint’s gaze turned
back to the house; and as if to confirm what the other had
said there came from the blaze a tremendous rumbling rending sound. Slowly,
with massive deliberation, the roof began to
bend inwards, sagging in the middle.
Faster and faster it sagged; and then, with a shattering grinding roar like an avalanche, it crumpled up and vanished. A great shower of golden sparks
shot upwards and fell in a brilliant
rain over the lawns and garden.
    “You see?” said
the square man. “You did everything you
could. But it’s lucky you turned back when you did. If you
had reached his room, the chances are that you’d never have
got back.”
    Simon’s eyes slanted
slowly back to the heavy-set power ful face.
    It was true that there was
nothing more that he could do. But now, for the first
time since the beginning of those last mad minutes,
he could stop to think. And his mind went back
to the chaotic questions that had swept through it for one
vertiginous instant back there in the searing stench of the fire.
    “But I did reach his
room,” he answered deliberately. “Only I
couldn’t get in. The door was locked. And the key
wasn’t in it.”
    “Really?”
    The other’s tone expressed
perfunctory concern, but his eyes no longer held their
glimmer of cold amusement. They stared hard at Simon with
a cool, analytical steadiness, as if weighing him up, estimating his
qualities and methodically tabulating the
information for future reference.
    And once more that queer
tingle of suspicion groped its way through the Saint’s
brain. Only this time it was more than a vague,
formless hunch. He knew now, beyond any shadow
of doubt, with an uncanny certainty, that he was on