(Simon Templar 20) Leslie, Charteris - Prelude for War.pdf

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PRELUDE
FOR WAR
LESLIE CHARTERIS
NEW YORK
PRELUDE FOR WAR
Copyright © 1938 by Leslie Charteris
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or
by any means, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without
permission in writing from the publisher.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Military props for cover design courtesy of Jacques Noel Jacobsen Jr.,
Collector Antiquities, Inc.
An Ace Charter Book by arrangement with Doubleday and Company, Inc..
First Ace Charter Printing: July 1982
Printed simultaneously in Canada
PRELUDE FOR WAR
CONTENTS
I
II
III
How Simon Templar Went to a Fire, and
Patricia Holm Heard of a Financier
How Lady Valerie Complained about Heroes,
and Mr Fairweather Dropped His Hat
How Simon Templar Drove to London, and
General Sangore Experienced an Impediment in His
Speech
How Kane Luker Spoke His Mind, and
Hoppy Uniatz Did the Best He Could with His
How Simon Templar Obliged Lady Valerie,
and Chief Inspector Teal Refused Breakfast
How Mr Fairweather Opened His Mouth,
and Mr Uniatz Put His Foot in It
How Simon Templar Conversed with Sundry Persons,
and Police-Constable Reginald Congratulated Him
How Kane Luker Called a Conference, and
Simon Templar Answered Him
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
Epilogue
I
How Simon Templar Went to a Fire,
and Patricia Holm Heard of a Financier
P
ERHAPS THE STORY
really began when Simon Templar switched on the
radio. At least, before that everything was peaceful; and afterwards, for
many memorable days which were to find an unforgettable place in his
saga of hairbreadth adventure, there was no peace at all. But Simon
Templar’s life always seemed to run that way: his interludes of peace
seemed to have something inescapably transient about them, some inborn
predestined seed of dynamite that was foredoomed to blast him back into
another of those amazing episodes which to him were the ever-recurrent
breath of life.
He was not thinking of trouble or adventure or anything else exciting.
He lounged back comfortably in the long-nosed rakish Hirondel, his
finger tips barely seeming to caress the wheel as he nursed it over the
dark winding roads at a mere whispering sixty; for he was in no hurry.
Overhead a bright moon was shining, casting long shadows over the fields
and silvering the leaves of passing trees and hedges. His blue eyes
probed lazily down the white reach of the headlights; and the unruffled
calm of his brown face of a mocking buccaneer might have helped anyone
to understand why in many places he was better known as “The Saint”
than he was by his own name—without giving any clue to the disturbing
fact that a mere mention of the Saint in initiated quarters was capable of
reducing detectives and convicted criminals alike to a state of unprintable
incoherence. None of the adventures that had left that almost incredible
legend in their trail had left a mark on his face or in his mind: he was
simply and serenely enjoying his interlude, though he must have known,

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