The Saint and Mr Teal (Once More the Saint)

the thing was true. Sylvester Quell-'Binks' could make gold. He had made it-hundredweights of it. He was making more.

Simon heard him grousing on in the same cracked querulous voice.

'I don't know why I came here. I could have done better in my own laboratory. Look after me, eh? With the intelligence you've got, you couldn't look after yourself. What use d'you think you are? Why don't you go away and let me do my work? You're worse than that other man, with his stupid questions and his schoolroom tests. Does he think I don't know real gold when I make it ?'

It was all quite clear to the Saint. The only question left was how he should act. He could give very little time now to arguments and discussions-escape from that house had become one of the paramount considera­tions of his life, a thing more vitally important than he had ever thought it could be.

His hand went back to his pocket, his thumb feeling around for the safety catch of his automatic and pressing it gently out of engagement. Under straight dark brows the blue Saintly eyes centred on Quell like spear points.

'Of course not, Professor. But about the notes of your process --'

He was so intent on the scientist that the movement of the door behind him missed his ears. The crack of an automatic fired at close quarters battered and stung his eardrums, and the bullet plucked at his coat. Some­how he was untouched-it is much easier to miss with an automatic than any inexperienced person would believe, and perhaps Mr. Jones's haste made him snatch at the pull-off. The Saint spun round and fired from his pocket; his nerves were steadier, and he scored where he meant to score-on the gun in the big man's hand. The weapon dropped to the floor, and Simon stepped closer.

'Keep still.'

The big man's face was twisted with fury. Behind him, Simon heard Quell's shrill whine.

'What does this mean, sir? Eh? Dammit --'

The Saint smiled.

'I'm afraid you've been taken in, Professor. Our friend no more belongs to the Secret Service --'

'Than you do!' the big man's voice snarled in viciously. His fists were clenched and his eyes murderous-only the Saint's gun held him where he stood. 'This is one of the men I warned you about, Professor -he's trying to steal your secret, that's what it means! The damned traitor!-if I could only get my hands on him. . . . For God's sake, why don't you do something? He's probably one of the gang that killed your brother --'

'Stop that!'

The Saint's voice cracked through the room like a blade of lightning; but he saw where the big man's desperate clatter of words was leading to a fraction of a second too late. Quell leapt at him suddenly with a kind of sob, before Simon had time to turn. The pro­fessor's skinny hand wrestled with his gun wrist, and late-crazed talons clawed at his throat. Simon stumbled sideways under the berserk fury of the scientist's on­slaught, and his aim on the man called Jones was hopelessly lost. They swayed together in the corner. Quell's hysterical breathing hissed and moaned horribly in the Saint's ears; and over the demented man's shoulder he saw Jones stooping with his left hand for the fallen gun.

The Saint saw certain and relentless death blazing across his path like an express train. With a savage gathering of all his muscles he shook the professor off and sent him reeling back like a rag doll. Quell's dread­ful shriek rang in his ears as Simon leapt across the dividing space and kicked away the automatic that the big man's fingers were within an inch of touching. The gun clanged heavily into a piece of metal on the far side of the room, and Simon caught the big man by one lapel of his coat and spun him round. The Saint's gun rammed into the big man's ribs with brutal forcefulness that made the other wince. 'Don't try that again.'

Simon's whisper floated into the other's ears with an arctic gentleness that could not have been driven deeper home by a hundred megaphones. It carried a rasping huskiness of meaning that only a fool could have mistaken. And Mr. Jones was no fool. He stood frozen into stone; but the sweat stood out in glistening beads on his forehead.

The Saint flashed one glance sideways, and saw what Mr. Jones had seen first.

Sylvester Quell was sitting on the floor with his back to the shining dome-like contrivance that Simon had seen in action. One hand still rested on the dome, as if by some kind of spasmic attraction, exactly as it had involuntarily gone out to save himself when the Saint's frantic struggle sent him stumbling back against the machine; but the hand was stiff and curiously black­ened. The professor's upturned face was twisted in a hideous grin. . . . While Simon looked, the head slipped sideways and lolled over on one shoulder. ...

CHAPTER VII A TWITCH of expression tensed over the face of the man who called himself Jones. His eyebrows were drawn down at the bridge of his nose and strained upwards at the outside corners; the eyes under them were swollen and bloodshot.

'You killed him,' he rasped.

'I'm afraid I did,' said the Saint. 'An unfortunate result of my efforts at self-defense-for which you were entirely responsible.'

'You'll have a job to prove it.'

The Saint's gentlest smile plucked for an instant at thin-drawn lips.

'I don't know whether I shall try.'

He grasped the big man's shoulder suddenly and whirled him half round again, driving him back towards the door.

'Move on, comrade.'

'Where are you going?'

'Downstairs. I've got a friend of mine waiting with claustrophobia, and I guess she's been locked up long enough for one day. And if she couldn't eat all those sausages I might find a home for one.'

They went down the stairs step by step, in a kind of tango style that would have been humorous to anyone who