The Saint vs Scotland Yard (The Holy Terror)

He was half-way up when a bell jangled somewhere over­head, and he checked involuntarily. And then a tiny skew-eyed grin skimmed over his lips.

'Claud Eustace for the hell of it,' he murmured, and went upwards very softly.

Right up by the door at the top of the stairs he stopped again and listened. He heard slow and watchful footsteps going down the hall, followed by the rattle of a latch and the cautious whine of slowly turning hinges. And then he heard the most perplexing thing of all, which was nothing more or less than an expansive and omnipotent silence.

The Saint put up one hand and gently scratched his ear, with a puzzled crease chiselling in between his eyebrows. He was prepared to hear almost anything else but that. And he didn't. The silence continued for some time, and then the front door closed again and the footsteps started back solo on the return journey.

And then, in the very opposite direction, the creak of a window-sash sliding up made him blink.

Someone was wriggling stealthily over the sill. With his ear glued to a panel of the door, he could visualise every move­ment as clearly as if he could have seen it. He heard the faint patter of the intruder's weight coming on to the floor, and then the equally faint sound of footsteps creeping over the linoleum. They connected up in his mind with the footsteps of the man who had gone to the door like the other part of a duet. Then the second set of footsteps died away, and there was only the sound of the man's returning from the hall. Another door opened. . . . And then a voice uttered a corro­sively quiet command.

'Keep still!'

Simon almost fell down the steps. And then he windmilled dazedly back to his balance and hugged himself.

'Oh, Pat!' he breathed. 'Mightn't I have known it? And you ring the bell to draw the fire, and sprint round and come in the back way. . . . Oh, you little treasure!'

Grinning a great wide grin, he listened to the dialogue.

'Put your hands right up. . . . That's fine. . . . And now, where's Kuzela?'

Silence.

'Where is Kuzela?'

A shifting of feet, and then the grudging answer: 'Upstairs.'

'Lead on, sweetheart.'

The sounds of reluctant movement. . . .

And the whole of Simon Templar's inside squirmed with ecstasy at the pure poetic Saintliness of the technique. Not for a thousand million pounds would he have butted in just then —not one second before Kuzela himself had also had time to appreciate the full ripe beauty of the situation. He heard the footsteps travelling again: they came right past his door and went on into the hall, and the Saint pointed his toes in a few movements of an improvised cachucha.

And then, after a due pause, he opened the door and fol­lowed on.

He gave the others time to reach the upper landing, and then he went whisking up the first flight. Peeking round the banisters, he was just in time to get a sight of Patricia disap­pearing into Kuzela's study. Then the door slammed behind her, and the Saint raced on up and halted outside it.

While after the answering of the dud front-door call there had certainly been a silence. the stillness to which he listened now made all previous efforts in noiselessness sound like an artillery barrage. Against that background of devastating blank-ness, the clatter of a distant passing truck seemed to shake the earth, and the hoot of its klaxon sounded like the Last Trump.

And then Patricia spoke again, quite calmly, but with a lethal clearness that was hedged around on every side with the menace of every manner of murder.

'Where is the Saint?' she asked.

And upon those words Simon Templar figured that he had his cue.

He turned the handle soundlessly and pushed the door wide open.

Patricia's back was towards him. A little farther on to one side the second bruiser stood by with his hands high in the air. And behind the desk sat Kuzela, with his face still frozen in an expression of dumb, incredulous stupefaction. . . . And as the door swung back, and the Saint advanced gracefully into the limelight, the eyes of the two men revolved and centred on him, and dilated slowly into petrified staring orbs of some­thing near to panic.