Leslie Charteris: Send for the Saint

Simon sighed.

“Dio,” he began with exemplary surface patience, “a little while ago I explained very clearly that I disliked your approach. I told you I was annoyed. I still am annoyed. You messed up my plans, and I was contemplating various ways of making your life uncomfortable in return. But since this repulsive-looking doppelganger of yours seems to be doing the job pretty well on his own, I’m willing to forego the pleasure of pinning your ears back myself. Now if you’ll just see that I get on the next plane to London, I’ll be generous and forget what a nuisance you’ve been.”

And the Saint pushed through the double doors into the outer office, leaving a seething Patroclos behind him.

He found Ariadne sheafing through some files.

“Darling,” he said, “you arrange things so cleverly. I want a seat on the next flight to London. Mr Patroclos and I have concluded our business, you might say.”

The girl looked up; and not by so much as a flicker of an eyebrow did she acknowledge what she saw beyond the Saint’s dangerous form — her boss’s squarer, squatter physique framed in the doorway as he shook his head at her vigorously.

“There isn’t another flight until the morning, I’m afraid,” she told him with only a fractional hesitation.

“Really?” Simon was bluntly sceptical.

“Really,” she said more firmly. “But since we do have a suite booked for you at the Grande Bretagne tonight...”

“Oh, we do? On the house, I suppose?”

“Naturally.”

The Saint reflected.

“Hmm... I suppose a night in Athens could have its compensations.”

Ariadne looked relieved to have no further argument on her hands.

“The morning flight is at ten-fifteen. I will make the booking now, and you can exchange your existing ticket at the airline desk in the morning. Now I will order the car to take you to the hotel.”

Simon flipped a hand in a goodbye gesture and strolled out, arriving at the front door simultaneously with the Rolls. He had kept his cool composure throughout, but during the drive to the hotel he reflected on the encounter with an obscure feeling of dissatisfaction.

Patroclos was right on one point: it was a fascinating problem, and one that could hardly have failed to arouse the Saint’s professional curiosity. But Simon Templar danced to no man’s tune, but only to the music of his own individual ideals — which mainly concerned justice, and a comfortable living for buccaneers who took on the dangerous task of administering it. It had always been so with him and probably always would. Therefore he had refused the job, exactly as he had meant to do.

And yet he felt an undefined disquiet, as though he had nonetheless been manipulated in some way that eluded his grasp. Somewhere deep in the underlayers of his subconscious mind a tiny premonitory bell was tinkling out the merest ghostly half-echo of a warning; but it was somehow too far off and too subtle to be grasped and interpreted, though the Saint creased his brow with the effort for several minutes.

He had not seen, did not guess, how abruptly the thunderclouds fell from Patroclos’ features as soon as he was alone. Nor had he seen how swiftly those same features formed themselves into an expression of triumphant cunning that would have made Machiavelli look like a dewy-eyed innocent. Nor could he have any knowledge of the brief phone call that Patroclos next made. Had he known of these things, he would also have known at once that Diogenes Patroclos was even more astute than he had supposed.

The Grande Bretagne was one of the institutions of Athens, and there was nowhere Simon would rather have stayed. The reception clerk, a thin sallow youth, was evidently expecting him.

“Ah yes, Mr Templar. One of our best suites. Would you sign, please.”

While the Saint was signing the name whose syllables were known with approximately equal unpopularity to both the underworld and the police forces of several countries, the sallow clerk produced a long envelope.

“This contains your papers, Mr Templar. They were sent from the airport.”

He reached down and handed the Saint a second smaller envelope. “And this was left for you a short while ago.”

Simon opened the second envelope, and found inside it an air ticket for London and a handwritten note which said simply:

The girl was lying. A flight leaves at 5.30. You will be well advised to be on it, and not to stay here where you may be tempted to involve yourself in matters that do not concern you.

While he was reading the anonymous message, Simon became aware of two thickset Greeks wearing off-white suits and dark glasses who had appeared at either side of him.

“You understand?” said the first, flashing a mouthful of gold teeth in the Saint’s general direction. “A car is waiting outside to take you to the airport.”

“How thoughtful,” said the Saint. “But a bit premature. I’m leaving in the morning. Ask the driver to come back then.”

“No. You must leave now. Patroclos may try again, and you may change your mind.”

“So just pick up your bag,” said the other Greek, pressing a gun into Simon’s ribs in a manner that made it difficult to ignore.

The Saint’s eyes narrowed fractionally and the muscles of his jaw tightened. To be abducted at gunpoint twice in one day was coming close to being repetitious; and the Saint found that he was already tired of the game. But Big Spiro was one thing, and two amateurs in an open hotel lobby were quite another. The Saint shrugged, picked up the suitcase, and strode rapidly towards the exit.

“Mr Templar...!” The clerk stared after him in blank puzzlement. But his stare grew more pop-eyed still as he watched the Saint go into action.

Gold-teeth’s gun, if he had one, was not in his hand. That was a mark of amateurism, and a serious mistake. And if Simon Templar knew anything, he knew how to take advantage of the mistakes of the ungodly.

When he began striding towards the door, Gold-teeth and his companion with the gun immediately followed, hurrying to keep up with the Saint’s long strides.

And the Saint suddenly stopped dead.

What happened next was etched into the fascinated hotel clerk’s memory in graphic detail.

There were two “wmph”s in perfect unison as the big suitcase slammed its outer corners symmetrically into the midriffs of Gold-teeth and his colleague; and then five steely fingers fastened with uncanny speed on the wrist attached to the gun-holding hand, and the gun fell to the ground. Simon kicked it away, and in the same instant the outside edge of his right hand arched up suddenly from out of nowhere and chopped devastatingly into the narrow target formed by Gold-teeth’s upper lip where it joined his nose. Gold-teeth reeled back gasping from the back-handed blow whose surprising incapacitating power the Saint had learned years before in Shanghai, and with the toe of his left shoe the Saint kicked the other man hard in the shins — a manoeuvre of less exotic provenance which also had its moments of usefulness. The reflex impulse to bend over and clutch at the wounded shin in these circumstances is a strong one, and unfortunately for him the gunman yielded to it. As his head came down, it met Simon’s fist travelling rapidly in the opposite direction in a long looping uppercut that connected with the point of his chin and sent him off into the land of dreams.

As he staggered and began to fall, the Saint steered him towards the crumpling Gold-teeth until a final shove brought their two heads into loud collision, and both slumped to the ground together with no further interest in the proceedings. Simon smoothed back his hair, recovered the gun, and said to the open-mouthed clerk: “Sorry about that. Would you arrange to have them taken away? I suggest the garbage collectors. Oh, and would you have a porter take my bag to my room?”