The Saint in Miami

back up at Simon with sunken rabbit eyes which formed reddish beads in a face of a million lines. The wrinkles converged on loose-hung lips drawn back over snaggly yellow teeth. Topping the face was a dirty thatch of unkempt hair.

'A very pretty creature,' said the Saint, and turned to Karen. 'Is he a friend of yours?'

Her red lips tightened. 'Thanks for the flattery.'

'Well, have you ever seen him before?'

'Thank God, no. Why should I have?'

'I just wondered,' said the Saint carelessly, 'who he was aiming at.'

From behind them, Patricia asked anxiously: 'What happened, boy? We heard the shot from the beach.'

The red-haired girl whirled round and stared at her with detached appraisal. Peter Quentin came up on the run and stopped beside Pat, and did his own staring. As between expert inventories, there was nothing much in it for either side to claim an edge.

'Friends of mine,' said the Saint. 'Miss Holm and Mr Quentin.' He pointed to the bullet hole in the wall. 'Miss Leith very kindly came here to tell me something, and she was about to do it when our little playmate took a pot at us.'

'I warn't shootin' at nobody,' the man broke out in a sullen whine.

'Get up,' ordered the Saint coldly.

The man hesitated, and Hoppy prodded him in the stom­ach with the muzzle of the rifle.

'Giddap, youse! You hoid what de boss said.' The man scrambled to his feet, and Hoppy turned to Simon. 'Lemme woik him over a bit, boss. I can break him down.'

'In the rumpus room,' said the Saint Mr Uniatz took hold of the prisoner's collar and moved him off, encouraging his progress by goosing him briskly in the stern with the rifle barrel. Simon followed, and was not surprised to find the others silently entering the play room after him.

He waved them to chairs, and carefully closed the door. The room was spacious and rather bare, an admirable venue for some mildly atheletic cross-examination. Best of all, it was well soundproofed with an eye to its normal function; but that features was equally convenient for other things. Mr Un­iatz pushed the scowling captive into a seat, and then became aware that in addition to its other advantages the room also contained a bar. It seemed to him that this was a last refining touch of architectural genius. Satisfied that the situation was now under the Saint's adequate command, he eased away on a voyage of exploration . . .

Simon straddled a chair, leaned on his folded arms, and scrutinised the specimen for dissection for a leisured period which was intended to give it every opportunity to realise its predicament.

'You can make it just as tough as you like, brother,' he an­nounced at length. 'What were you shooting at us for?'

The man glared back at him with stubborn animosity, wriggling uneasily on the edge of the hard seat which.Hoppy had chosen for him. The overalls he wore were a shade too small. An ungainly stretch of sockless ankle showed white above the tops of his shoes. 'What's your name?' asked the Saint patiently. The red eyes squinted.

'None of your goddam-'

The rest of the speech was cut off with a clunking sound as Mr Uniatz tapped him moderatingly on the side of the head with the bottle of Peter Dawson which he had just opened. ''I can make him come t'ru, boss,' he volunteered. 'I know a guy once in Brooklyn I have to ask questions about some dough he is holdin' out. He talks for two hours straight when I hold matches under his toes.'

'You see, brother,' Simon explained. 'Hoppy gets homesick for the good old days every now and again and wants to play, and I simply haven't the heart to refuse him.'

The man's gnarled fingers clasped and unclasped nervously. He ran one hand up the leg of his overalls to remove sweat from the palm.

'My name's Lafe Jennet,' he said sulkily. 'I was shootin' at a bird. You ain't goin' to kill nobody and you ain't goin' to hurt nobody, and I ain't aimin' to talk none to you.'

'Boss,' pleaded Mr Uniatz, wanning to the flow of inspira­tion and Scotch whisky, 'I got anudder idea. You get some pliers outa de car an' take hold of de guy's toenails-'

'We may have time to try both,' said the Saint cheeringly. 'Take off his shoe.'

He rose and turned his back and strolled towards a window. He heard Hoppy's frightening voice. 'Stick out ya foot or I'll kick ya shins in.'

'The other one,' Simon said without looking round. 'Not the one he stuck out. Take off his other shoe.'

'It don't make no difference, boss. It woiks the same.'

'The other shoe, Hoppy.'

He gazed out at the sunlit scene outside, and waited. The sound of a brief scuffle ended in a grunt of pain. 'It's off, boss. Which ja wanna try foist?'

Karen Leith crushed out her cigarette and gave a tiny sigh.

'Take a look at his ankle and tell me what you see,' Simon instructed.

'Chees, boss, he's got ringwoim,' Hoppy exclaimed admir­ingly. 'Howja know dat?'

'It's the gall of a leg-iron.' Simon turned from the win­dow and strode back towards the prisoner. 'You've been towing around a ball in a chain gang, Lafe. You ought to have blown yourself to a pair of socks. The mark shows.'

'You're pretty damn smart, ain't you?' Jennet spat out. 'Well, I been in a chain gang an' I served my time. So what's it to you?'

Simon stepped back a pace and surveyed the calloused ankle.

'You escaped, Lafe,' he stated impassively. 'You hung it on the limb. Somebody knocked that shackle off you with a sledgehammer. Your ankle's still black and blue. Of course, if you'd rather talk to Sheriff Haskins than to me, we can always send for him.'

Jennet's bloodshot eyes swivelled from left to right, as if in search of a way of escape that was not there. He sat erect for an instant, a picture of deadly hatred; then he slumped back and gripped his hands about one knee. 'I'll talk to you, mister.'

'That's splendid.' Simon drew his cigarette into a glow. 'Who hired you to shoot at us?'

'I don't know.' The Saint raised his eyebrows. 'Hoppy-'

'I told you, I don't know. That is, I don't know nuthin' except his name-Jesse Rogers.'

Behind him, Simon heard the quick grating creak of a wicker chair. For some reason it made his mind flash back to the night before, when Karen Leith had spilled her champagne.

He turned quickly. She was lighting a cigarette with a tremorless hand. She had taken the match from a box on a table beside her-her shift of position in reaching for the light accounted for the sound.

Simon resumed his interrogation with a sheepish feeling that for once his nerves had played him false. 'Where does this guy live?'

'I don't know.'

'I suppose you don't know nothing except his address.'

'See here,' Jennet snarled. 'I said I'd talk, an' I'm talkin'. I lammed from the gang a week ago from a road camp near Olustee. I got a friend owns a barge near heah. I done some-thin' for him once, so he done somethin' for me. He hid me out.'

'What's his name?'

'A Greek called Gallipolis. This Rogers comes in to do a little gamblin'. Somehow he got on to me. He come out there early this momin'. It was a case of you or me. Either I did the job or he sent me back to the gang. I never saw him be­fore, an' I don't know nuthin' about him.'

'Are you sure,' said the Saint, 'that you weren't hired to kill a girl? A red-haired girl?' He pointed to Karen. 'Like this one?'

'No, mister. It was you.'

'You must be a lousy shot.'

'I'm the best danged-'

Jennet broke off raggedly.

The Saint looked at him peacefully and said: 'Oh, are you? Then under those humble and somewhat smelly overalls you must hide a kind heart after all.'