15 The Saint in New York

Heimie breathed hard, but did not speak; and the Saint answered for him. His voice floated airily through the night.

'No, brother,' he said smoothly, 'Heimie has not got it. I have it—and I also have Heimie. You will advance slowly with your hands well above your head, or else you may get it your­self.'

For the third time that night the moon demonstrated its friendliness. On his right the Saint could make out a dark and shadowy figure, though he could not see the newcomer clearly on account of the trees at the roadside. But a vagrant beam of the moon danced glitteringly on something metallic in the intruder's hand, and the new voice spoke viciously.

'You rat!'

The gun banged in his hand, spitting a venomous squirt of orange flame into the blackness, and the bullet whisked through the leaves and thudded into the tree where the Saint stood. Simon's eyes narrowed over the sights, as coldly delib­erate as if he had been firing on a range; his forefinger closed on the trigger, and the metallic object on which the moon­beam danced spun crazily from the man's hand and flew across the road. A roar of pain and an unprintable oath drowned the clatter of metal on the macadam, and the same voice yelled: 'Get him, Heimie!'

In the next second the black bulk of the man was charging down on him. Simon pressed the trigger again coolly; but nothing happened—the hammer fell on a dud cartridge. He dropped the parcel under his arm and snatched at the slid­ing jacket, but the charging weight of the man caught him before the next shell was in the chamber.

Simon went back against the tree with a force that seemed to bruise his very lungs through the pads of muscle across his back. His breath came with a grunt and he rebounded out again, sluggishly, like a sandbag, and felt his fist smack into a chest like a barrel. Then the man's arms whipped round him and they went down together, rolling heavily over the uneven ground.

The sky was shot with daubs of vivid colour, while a black­ness deeper than the blackness of night struggled to close over the Saint's brain. His chest was a dull mass of pain from that terrific crash against the tree, and the air had to be forced into it with a mighty effort at each agonizing breath, as if his face were smothered with a heavy cushion. Nothing but a titanic vitality of will kept him conscious and fighting. The man on top of him was thirty pounds heavier than he was; and he knew that if Heimie Felder recovered from the superstitious paralysis which had been gripping him, and located the centre of the fight soon enough, there would be nothing but a slab of carved marble to mark the spot where a presumptuous outlaw had bucked the odds once too often.

They crashed through a low bush and slithered down a slight gradient, punching and kicking and grappling like a pair of wildcats. The big man broke through Simon's arms and got hold of his head, gouging viciously. The Saint's head bumped twice against the hard turf, and the flashing daubs of colour whirled in giddy gyrations across his vision. Sud­denly his body went limp, and the big man let out an exultant yell.

'I got him, Heimie! I got him! Where are ya?'

Simon saw the close-cropped bullet head for one instant clearly, lifted in black silhouette against the swimming stars. He swung up the useless automatic which he was still clutch­ing and smashed it fiercely into the silhouette; and the grip on his head weakened. With a new surge of power the Saint heaved up and rolled them over again, straddling the cursing man with his legs and hammering the butt of his gun again and again into the dark sticky pulpiness from which the curs­ing came. ...

A rough hand, which did not belong to the man under­neath him, essayed to encircle his throat from the rear; and Simon gathered that the full complement of the opposition was finally gathered on the scene. The cursing had died away, and the heavy figure of his first opponent was soft and motion­less under him and the Saint dropped his gun. His right hand reached over his shoulder and grasped the new assailant by the neck.

'Excuse me, Heimie,' said the Saint, rather breathlessly— 'I'm busy.'

He got one knee up and lifted, pulling downwards with his right hand. Heimie Felder was dragged slowly from the ground: his torso came gradually over the Saint's shoulder: and then the Saint turned his wrist and straightened his legs with a quick jerk, and Heimie shot over and downwards and hit the ground with his head. Apart from that solid and soporific thump, he made no sound; and silence settled down once more upon the scene.

The Saint dusted his clothes and repossessed himself of his automatic. He wiped it carefully on Heimie's silk handker­chief, ejected the dud cartridge which had caused all the trouble,