The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

The oncoming car was less than twenty yards away. In any other circumstances, with the road to themselves, Simon might have been able to shoot Cullis, or even simply hit him over the back of the head with the butt of his gun, and trust to being able to keep the car straight while he clambered over and pushed the man out of the way and took the wheel. But there and then there was no chance to do that. In another second or two they would smash head on into the other car. ...

Cullis's intention was obvious.

With a desperate wrench the Saint rammed Cullis's face down between the spokes of the steering wheel; and for a moment the car was out of control. Then, pushing Cullis sideways, Simon grabbed the wheel and wrenched the car round.

The oncoming headlights blazed straight into his eyes, hurtling towards them. The driver of the other car swerved, but he could hardly manoeuvre on that narrow road, and there was no time for him to pull up.

Simon heard the futile scream of brakes violently ap­plied, and thought he would die smiling.

'Here we go,' he thought, and held the wheel round on a reckless lock.

He only just failed. For one horrible instant he saw the off-side wing light of the approaching car leaping directly into the off-side wing light of the car in which he rode. Even so, he might have succeeded if Cullis had not got a hand back on the wheel and fought to turn it the other way.

Simon lashed at him with one elbow, but it was too late for that to be any good. The running board of the other car slashed their front wing like a knife; and there was a grating, tearing, shattering noise of tortured metal.

Simon was shot over the steering wheel by the impact. The car seemed to heave itself into the air, and for one blinding, numbing second he seemed to hang suspended in space. Then the road hit him a terrible blow across the shoulder blades; there was a splintering clatter, another and more violent jar, and dead silence.

He did not know how long he lay there on his back with his feet propped up somewhere in the air, bruised and aching in every limb, and only wondering whether he was really dead at last—and if not, why not. . . . A colos­sal weight seemed to be pressing into his chest. . . .

He opened one eye, and discerned brake and clutch and accelerator pedals mysteriously suspended over his head.

There was something else on his chest. He made this out to be the front seat—and the body of a man.

He tried to raise one hand, and found that it moved in a pool of something warm and sticky; and he wondered whether the blood was Cullis's or his own.

Then there was a thunder of knocking on the ship­wrecked coachwork beside his ear, and a voice said, rather foolishly:

'Are you all right in there?'

'Can't see how anyone can be alive in this mess,' said another voice. 'They must have been doing over fifty.'

But the Saint had recognized the first voice, and a husky croak of a chuckle came from his lips.

'Dear old Claud Eustace,' he said. 'Always ten minutes too late!'

 

 

Chapter XIV

HOW SIMON TEMPLAR PUT ON HIS HAT