(The Saint) Charteris, Leslie - Wanted For Murder Short Storys.pdf

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Leslie Charteris 1931 - Wanted For Murder
AUTHOR'S FOREWORD
Eighteen years went by between the first Sherlock Holmes book, A Study in
Scarlet (1887), and the last, The Return of Sherlock Holmes (1905), and Sir
Arthur Conan Doyle went on to live 25 years after that, during which he
saw great changes in the world. Throughout that time, so far as I know, the
popularity of his detective was undimmed, and the books were always in
print in some edition or other, as they are to this very day. But Sir Arthur
never seems to have thought of revising them to keep them in touch with
the changing times, and apparently found nothing incongruous in leaving
Baker Street to the gas light and hansom cabs which he himself had long
since seen replaced by electricity and motor cars, to say nothing of radio in
the home and airplanes roaring overhead.
The stories in this volume were written almost an equivalent quarter-
century ago, during which the changes in the world have been more drastic
even than in Doyle's. The radio has been supplanted by television, a
science-fiction fantasy now made commonplace with commercials; aircraft
still ply overhead, but they are jets at least, threatening to become
supersonic, if they are not already rocket-launched satellites; and the
automobiles, paradoxically, are mechanically capable of travel ling about as
fast on a good road as the planes that Doyle saw, but crawl through London
traffic today at a pace which would have made one of those old horse
carriages seem airborne. And I must admit that I don't have Doyle's self-
restraint, and that I have often been tempted to bring the oldest Saint stories
up to date, and in a few cases have done something about this when they
were reprinted.
In a foreword to the last reprint of Enter the Saint, I discussed and disposed
of the idea of attempting to bring the older Saint books up to date, so I shall
not repeat the argument here.
I shall just ask you to remember that this reprint has also been left in its
original form, to recognize that the settings are those of 1930 and not of
today, and to be indulgent with the writing of a very young and precocious
author, just making his debut, and with an awful lot to learn.
THE LOGICAL ADVENTURE
THE most exciting stories of the Saint come, it seems to me, from among
his later exploits, from the days when he was working practically alone-
although Patricia Holm was never far away, and Roger Conway was always
within call at times of need. I often think that it best suited the Saint's
peculiar temper to be alone: he was so superbly capable himself, and so
arrogantly confident of his own capability, that it irked him to have to
deputize the least item of any of his schemes to hands that might bungle it,
and exasperated him beyond measure to have to explain and discuss and
wrangle his inspirations with minds that leaped to comprehension and
decision less swiftly and certainly than his own. These trials he suffered
with characteristic good humour; yet there is no doubt that he suffered
sometimes, as may be read in other tales that have already been told of him.
It is true that the Saint once became something perilously like a gang; there
came about him a band of reckless young men who followed him cheerfully
into all his crimes, and these young men he led into gay and lawless
audacities that made the name of the Saint famous-or infamous -over the
whole world; but even those adventures were no more than episodes in the
Saint's life. They were part of his development, but they were not the end.
His ultimate destiny still lay ahead; he knew that it still lay ahead, but he
did not then know what it was. "The Last Hero" he was called once; but the
story of his last heroism is not to be told yet, and the manner of it he never
foresaw even in his dreams.
This story, then is one of a handful that I have unearthed from my records
of those days of transition, when the Saint was waiting upon Fate. They
were days when he seemed to be filling up time; and, as might have been
expected of the man, he beguiled the time in his own incomparable fashion,
with his own matchless zest; but it is inevitable that his own moods should
be reflected in these tales which are exclusively his- that the twist of the
tales should indicate what he himself felt about them at the time: that they
were not really important and yet that they were none the less fantastically
delightful interludes. For Simon Templar was incapable of taking anything
of life half-heartedly-even an interlude. And it may be that because of all
these things, because he had that vivid sense of the pleasant unimportance
of all these adventures, the spirit of laughing devil-may-care quixotry that
some have called his greatest charm dances through these tales as it does
through few others.
I am thinking particularly of the adventure on which this story is based-a
slight story, but a story. Yet it began practically from nothing-as, indeed, did
most of the Saint's best stories. It has been said that Simon Templar had
more than any ten men's fair share of luck in the way of falling into ready-
made adventures; but nothing could be farther from the truth. It was the
Saint's own unerring, uncanny genius, his natural instinct for adventure, that
made him question things that no ordinary man would have thought to
question, and sent him off upon broad, clear roads where no ordinary man
would have seen the vestige of a trail; and some volcanic quality within
himself that startled violent action out of situations that the ordinary man
would have found stillborn. And if there is any story about the Saint that
illustrates this fact to perfection it is this story which opens-ordinarily
enough-upon the American Bar of the Piccadilly Hotel, two Manhattans,
and a copy of the Evening Record.
"Eight to one," murmured the Saint complacently-"and waltzed home with
two lengths to spare. That's another forty quid for the old oak chest. Where
shall we celebrate old dear?"
Patricia Holm smiled.
"Won't you ever take an interest in something outside the racing reports?"
she asked. "I don't believe you even know whether we've got a
Conservative or a Labour Government at the moment."
"I haven't the faintest idea," said the Saint cheerfully. "Apart from the fact
that a horse we've never seen has earned us the best dinner that London can
provide, I refuse to believe that anything of the least importance has
happened in England to-day. For instance"-he turned the pages of the
newspaper-"we are not at all interested to learn that 'Evidence of a
sensational character is expected to be given at the inquest upon Henry
Stobbs, a mechanic, who was found, dead in a garage in Balham yesterday.'
I don't believe the man had a sensational character at all. No man with a
really sensational character would be found dead in a garage in Balham...
Nor are we thrilled to hear that 'Missing from her home at South Norwood
since January last, the body of Martha Danby, a domestic servant, was
discovered in a disused quarry near Tavistock early this morning by a tramp
in an advanced state of decomposition.' Not that we don't feel sorry for the
tramp -it must be rotten for the poor fellow to have to cruise about the
world in an advanced state of decomposition-but my point is--"
"That'll do," said Patricia.
"O.K.," said the Saint affably. "So long as you understand why I'm so--
Hullo-what's this?"
He had been folding the paper into a convenient size for the nearest waste
basket when his eye was caught by a name that he knew; and he read the
paragraphs surrounding it with a sudden interest. These paragraphs figured
in that admirable feature "Here and There," conducted by that indefatigable
and ubiquitous gossip "The Eavesdropper."
"Well, well, well!" drawled the Saint, with a distinct saintliness of
intonation; and Patricia looked at him expectantly.
"What is it?"
"Just a little social chatter," said Simon. "Our friend is warbling about the
progress of civil aviation, and how few serious accidents there have been
since light aëroplane clubs started springing up all over the country, and
how everyone is taking to the air as if they'd been born with wings. Then he
says: 'There are, of course, a few exceptions. Mr. Francis Lemuel, for
instance, the well-known cabaret impresario, who was one of the founders
of the Thames Valley Flying Club, and who was himself making rapid
progress towards his "A" license, was so badly shaken by his recent crash
that he has been compelled, on medical advice, to give up all idea of
qualifying as a pilot.' The rest is just the usual kind of blurb about Lemuel's
brilliant career as a cabaret impresario. But that is interesting-now, isn't it-to
know that dear Francis was sighing for the wings of a Moth!"
"Why?"
The Saint smiled beatifically, and completed the operation of preparing the
Evening Record for its last resting place.
"There are many interests in my young life," he murmured, "of which you
are still in ignorance, dear lass. And little Francis is one of them-and has
been for some time. But I never knew that he was a bold, bad bird-man-
outside of business hours.... And now, old Pat, shall we dine here or push on
to the Berkeley Arms?"
And that was all that was said about Francis Lemuel that night, and for ten
days afterwards; for at that time, bowing before Patricia's pleading, Simon
Templar was trying to lead a respectable life. And yet, knowing her man,
she was a little surprised that he dropped the subject so quickly; and,
knowing her man again, she heaved a little sigh of rueful resignation when
he met her for lunch ten days later and showed quite plainly in his face that
he was on the trail of more trouble. At those times there were a renewed
effervescence about the Saint's always electric personality, and a refreshed
recklessness about the laughter that was never far from the surface of his
blue eyes, that were unmistakable danger signs. The smooth sweep of his
patent-leather hair seemed to become sleeker and slicker than ever, and the
keen brown face seemed to take on an even swifter and more rakish
chiselledness of line than it ordinarily wore. She knew these signs of old,
and challenged him before he had finished selecting the hors d'aeuvres.
"What's on the programme, Saint?"
Simon sipped his sherry elegantly.
"I've got a job."
"What's that?"
"You know-work. Dramatis persona: Simon Templar, a horny-handed son
of toil."

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