The Saint and Mr Teal (Once More the Saint)

misunderstanding. I guess you were wise-he wouldn't have been very sympathetic, and you had lots of time to take a second shot at me.'

Their faces gave him confirmation. And then Mr. Trape, who was nearest, brought himself a couple of paces nearer, with his head twisted viciously on one side.

'Why not, Templar?' he said. 'You wouldn't dare to shoot here.'

'Maybe you're right, Eric,' admitted the Saint, with astonishing meekness, and removed his hand from his empty pocket. 'But then it mightn't be necessary-considering the evidence you've got on your ceiling.'

He glanced upwards as he spoke; and Mr. Trape would not have been human if he had not followed that compelling gaze. He also glanced upwards, and in so doing he arranged his chin at an angle that could not have been posed better. Simon's fist shot up to the inviting mark, and impacted with a crisp click. . . .

The Saint had been long enough in the game to know that even a modest two to one is bigger odds than any sane man takes on for his health, and at that mo­ment he was feeling more hurried than heroic. Mr. Trape was sinking limply towards the carpet before his companion realized that he was left to carry the banner alone, and by that time it was a bit late for realizations. The second respectable-looking young man was only beginning to scramble up off the bed when the Saint's flying leap caught him irresistibly round the shoulders and hurled his face mufflingly back into the pillow; then Simon aimed his fist in a scientifically merciless jolt to the nape of the exposed neck.

The Saint returned coolly to the floor and smoothed his hair. The second respectable-looking young man would not recover from the effects of that blow for several minutes; but it was the aggressive Mr. Trape whom Simon selected automatically for his experiment. There was a large gunny sack and a coil of manila under the bed-Simon could not have deduced the plans for his own transportation better if he had been in the know from the beginning like any story-book detective -and in a few seconds he had Mr. Trape inside the sack and the sack fastened. Then he went to the window and looked out. It was only a short drop to a small garden at the rear of the hotel, which was built on a steep slope; and Simon dumped Mr. Trape over the sill unceremoniously. That was the greatest risk he took, but a searching glance round before he did it revealed a landscape apparently bare of watchers. Then he followed himself, and went back to Patricia.

'Let's exercise the donkey,' he said.

The ensacked Mr. Trape was loaded into the cart, and they were moving placidly down towards the har­bour, before Patricia asked the inevitable question.

'I'm giving Abdul a visitor,' said the Saint cheer­fully. 'He's expecting one, and why should he be disappointed ? If you want another reason, write it down as my everlasting love of exasperating the ungodly. I have no other mission in life. . . You'd better stay back here-I'm banking on the sea gang not knowing the land operators, but they'd certainly ask questions about you.'

The girl fell back, and Simon led the donkey out onto the jetty, For a very brief space he wondered if he would be able to locate the tender that awaited him; and then he saw a glistening white speedboat moored by some steps running down to the water. Its crew was dark-complexioned and swarthy, and to remove all doubt it flew a red burgee with the name Luxor woven into it.

Simon hitched the sack onto his shoulder and walked brazenly down the steps.

'Here he is,' he said.

Not one of the crew raised an eyebrow. Simon lowered his burden into the boat, saw the engine started, and went back along the causeway in an anguish of noise­less laughter.

CHAPTER V

IT HAD been a simple gesture of a kind that Simon Templar could never resist, and it gave him exactly the same unfathomably primitive satisfaction that an urchin derives from putting his thumb to his nose and extending his fingers outwards. It was a moral catharsis that touched the well-springs of all unsophisticated human bliss. And if he could have witnessed the re­ception of his jest his pleasure would have been almost too ecstatic to be borne.

Abdul Osman himself came out on deck to supervise the hoisting up of the sack, and the leer on his face did not improve his beauty. Mr. Trape was beginning to recover by that time, and the sack was squirming vigorously to an accompaniment of hoarse grunts and indistinguishable words.

'He must have a head of iron, that Englishman,' muttered Osman. 'He should have slept for many hours.'

The thought crossed his mind that a man with a constitution like that would stand much torture, and his mouth watered at the prospect. He lifted his foot and kicked the sack cold-bloodedly, and it yelped at each thump of his shoe.

'Before you die you shall have much more to shout for,' said Osman gloatingly. 'Take him to the saloon.'

Rough hands dragged the sack below, and Abdul Osman followed. Then it was cut open, and the storm broke.

Osman, it must be admitted, had never been con­sidered even attractively ugly. He was a short, pot­bellied man with a fat sallow face and black hair that covered his head in tight curls. Out of his own hearing, it was said that much of his family tree was as black as his hair, and certainly he had a squat nose and a yellow­ish tinge in the whites of his pig-like eyes that supported the theory. A closely clipped black moustache curved in a broad arch over his thick, pouting lips and gave his face, even in repose, an expression of sensual bestiality that was nauseating.

And his rage at the sight of Mr. Trape emerging from the sack put him right out of comparison with anything human. His face resembled nothing so much as the fat end of a bloated and malignant slug. His eyes almost disappeared in the rolls of unhealthy-looking fat that creased down on them. Clearly marked circles of bright red sprang up and burned on his cheeks, plainly revealing the edges of the skin-grafting oper­ations that had obliterated the Saint's brands; the rest of his jowl was blotched yellow and grey. And out of his distorted mouth flowed a stream of shrill profanity that was horrible to hear.

Nor was his wrath purely vocal. He kicked Trape again, and kicked and tore at the men who had carried in the sack until they fled from the room. And then, with the most lasting and concentrated malignance, he kicked his secretary, who had played no part in the proceedings at all.

But that was nothing unusual. Mr. Clements was there to be kicked. He was kicked whenever anything went wrong, and just as impartially when everything went right. Abdul Osman kicked him, cuffed him, and spat in his face; and his secretary cringed. There was something hideous about his quivering submission.