The Saint Steps In

'Then I must have the dates mixed up.'

He turned away from the door, saying things silently to him­self. He addressed himself with a searing minuteness of detail which would almost certainly have been a cue for mayhem if it had been done by anybody else.

There was still no other cab in sight.

He turned south on 23rd Street, and he had reached the in­tersection of Q Street before he began to wonder where he was going or what good it was likely to do. He paused uncer­tainly on the corner, looking towards the bridge over Rock Creek Park. A dozen alternatives chased through his mind, and so many of them must be wrong and so few of them offered anything to pin much to.

And then he saw her coming around the curve of the bridge, walking with her young steady stride, and everything he had imagined seemed foolish again. For about five or six seconds.

A car came crawling up from behind her, passed her, stopped, and backed up into an alley that branched diagonally off from the north side of the street. He had instinctively stood still and merged himself into the shadow of a tree when he saw her, so the two men who came out of the alley a mo­ment later must have thought the block was deserted except for themselves and the girl. They wore handkerchiefs tied over the lower part of their faces, and they closed in on her, one on each side, very professionally, and he was too far away to hear whatever they said, but he saw them turn her into the alley as he started running soundlessly towards them.

He came up on them in such a swift catlike silence that it must have seemed to all of them as if a shadow materialised before their eyes.

'Hullo, Madeline,' he drawled.  'I was afraid I'd missed you, darling.' , Her face looked pale and vague in the gloom.

The masked man on her left spoke in muffled accents. He was tall and wide-shouldered, and he seemed to be of the type that never lost a fist fight when he was a schoolboy.

'Better stay out of this, bud, if you don't want to get into trouble.'

His voice was a deep hollow rasp, behind the mask. He looked like a man who could provide trouble or cope with it. The man on the other side had much the same air. He weighed a little more, but he was inches shorter and carried it chunk­ily.

'I like trouble,' Simon said breezily. 'What kind have you got?'

'FBI trouble,' said the tall man flatly. 'This girl's—uh— being detained for questioning, Run along.'

'Detained?' asked the Saint. 'Just why?'

'Beat it,' growled the chunky one. 'Or we might think of taking you along with us.'

'You,' said the Saint calmly, 'are the first FBI operatives I've ever met who wore handkerchiefs over your noses and so far forgot their polish that they'd say anything like 'beat it', or call anybody 'bud'. If you're posing as G-men, you're making a horrible mess of it. So, if you show your credentials, I'll be happy to go along with the young lady. But I don't think you will, or can.'

He was ready for the swing the tall man launched at him, and he swayed back just the essential six inches and let the wind of it fan his chin. Then he shifted his weight forwards again and stepped in with his right forearm pistoning at waist level. The jar of the contact ran all the way up to his shoul­ders. The tall man grunted and leaned over from the middle and the Saint's left ripped up in a short smash to the mufflered jaw that would have dropped the average citizen in his tracks. The tall man was somewhat tougher than the average. He went pedaling back in a slightly ludicrous race with his own center of gravity, but he still had nothing but his feet on the ground when a large part of his companion's weight descended on the Saint's neck and shoulders.

Simon's eyes were blurred for an instant in a pyrotechnic burst of lights, and his knees began to bend; then he got his hands locked behind the chunky man's head, and let his knees sag even lower before he heaved up again. The chunky man came somersaulting over his shoulder and hit the ground with a thud that a deaf man could have felt several feet away. He rolled over in a wild flurry and wound his arms around the Saint's shins, binding Simon's legs together from ankle to knee.

In a clutch like that, Simon knew that he had no more chance of staying upright than an inverted pyramid. He tried to come down as vertically as possible, so as to stay on top of the chunky man, trying to land on him with his weight on his knees and aiming a downward left at him at the same time.

Neither of those schemes connected. Simon afterwards had a dim impression of running feet, of Madeline Gray crying out something incoherent; then a very considerable weight hit him in the middle and sent him spinning.

Half winded, he grappled blindly for a hold while the man who had tackled him swarmed over him with the same inten­tion. He had had very little leisure for thinking, and so it was a moment or two before he realised that this was not the come­back of the tall bony partner. This man's outlines and archi­tecture were different again. And then even before Simon could puzzle any more about it the girl was clawing at his antagonist, beating ineffectually on his broad back with her fists; but it was enough of an interruption to nullify the Saint's temporary disadvantage, and he got first a knee into the man's stomach, and then one foot in what was more of a shove than a kick, and then he was free and up again and looking swiftly around to see who had to be next.

He was just in time to catch a glimpse of the chunky man's rear elevation as it fell into the parked car a few yards away. The tall bony one had already disappeared, and presumbly he was at the wheel, for the engine roared up even before the door slammed, and the car leapt away with a grind of spinning tires that would have made any normal war-time motorist wince. It screamed out of the alley as Simon turned again to look for the third member of the opposition.

The third member was holding one hand over his dia­phragm and making jerky little bows over it, and saying in a painful and puzzled voice: 'My God . . . You're Miss Gray, aren't you?'

As Simon stepped towards him he said: 'Damn, I'm sorry. I must have picked the wrong side. I was just driving by——'

'You've got a car?' Simon snapped.

'Yes. I just got out——'

Simon caught the girl's hand and raced to the street. There was a convertible parked just beyond the alley, but it was headed in the opposite direction from the way the escaping car had turned. And the other car itself was already out of sight.

The Saint shrugged and searched for a consoling cigarette.

'I'm really terribly sorry.' The other man came up with them, still holding his stomach and trying to straighten him­self. 'I just saw the fight going on, and it looked as if someone was in trouble, and naturally I thought the man on the ground was the victim. Until Miss Gray started beating me up ... I'm afraid I helped them get away.'

'You know each other, do you?' asked the Saint.

She was staring puzzledly.

'I've seen you somewhere, but——'

'Walter Devan,' said the man. 'It was in Mr. Quennel's office. You were with your father.'

Simon put a match to his cigarette. With the help of that better light, he shared with her a better view of the man's face. It was square-jawed and powerful, with the craggy leathery look of a prizefighter.

'Oh yes!' She turned to the Saint. 'Mr. Devan—Mr. Tem­plar.'

Simon put out his hand.

'That's quite a flying tackle you have,' he said, and Devan grinned.

'It should be—I played professional football when I was a lot younger. You're a pretty good kicker yourself.'

'We are a lot of wasted talent,' said the Saint.

'Perhaps it's all for the best,' Devan said. 'Anyway, we got rid of those hoodlums, and some of them can be very ugly There have been a lot of hold-ups and housebreakings around here lately. The bad boys hide in the park and come out after dark.'

Simon thought of mentioning the fact that these particular bad boys had had a car, but decided that