Leslie Charteris - Catch the Saint

Then he saw that fortune had been even kinder than he had imagined: The nearest crate had been reinforced on the outside by binding it with straps of thin flexible metal, whose edges, along the open side of the box, where they had been cut through, stood clear of the wood. The strip of steel, or whatever it was, would not be as sharp as a knife blade by any means, but it could, given enough time, serve the same purpose.

The Saint’s sense of balance had not been helped by the thump he had taken on his head or the drug that had been administered to keep him asleep, but he managed to get himself into a sitting position with his back to the packing case. Then his fingers, numb for lack of circulation, sought the metal strip. The edge was disappointingly dull. He anxiously fumbled for some ragged spot which would speed up the work but found none. All he could do was move the binding of rope patiently up and down against the metal, rocking his body forward and back to increase the motion.

He could hear rather than feel his progress. After about five minutes his wrists were still as immobilised as ever, but his ears could detect the occasional snapping of a taut strand of rope fibre as it gave way to the friction of the metal. Another five minutes, same situation. How much progress had he made? He had no way of telling.

Then there were footsteps outside the door. He hurled himself away from the crate, rolled over so that his back and arms and the partially severed rope could not be seen from the entrance to the room. There was no time to get back to the spot where his captors had originally left him, which meant that he could not pretend to be still unconscious. Momentarily he experienced a sinking feeling of despair. He had come so close.

But the door did not open. The sound of shoes on wood moved away. Now there had to be another inchworm trip to the crate. Once more Simon got himself into a sitting position and resumed the scraping of his bonds against the strip of metal. Now he worked faster, his body pumping forward and back like an engine under a full head of steam. Sweat ran from his forehead into his eyes. Dust tickled his nose and forced him to struggle continually not to sneeze — a sound that might bring the guard hurrying to look in on him.

At last he felt a loosening of the pressure on his wrists. Ferociously he dragged the last strands of rope up and down against the metal until he felt them break completely.

His arms were free. Shaking the rope away, he worked his fingers to restore the warmth and feeling and strength to them. On his wrists were the white, bloodless indentations the bonds had made. In another minute he had untied the rope that had held his ankles together. It was like coming from a black and airless cave out into the light.

But he still had a long way to go. He tossed the wrist rope behind the packing case and got to his feet, testing his unsteady legs as he went back to the place where he had been lying when he regained consciousness. Should he lie down, loosely wrap the rope back round his ankles, and try to take the guard or guards by surprise when they came for him? Or should he wait by the door and launch an attack the instant it opened?

It would have taken him only a few seconds to make the decision; but in even less time than that, without any warning, the door abruptly opened and the huge guard walked into the room.

A direct quotation of what the guard said when he saw Simon Templar untied in the middle of the room is fortunately not essential to the substance of this history. Simon did not bother to reply. All his attention and energy were concentrated on getting to the guard before the guard’s beefy hand could get to the gun that hung in harness over his heart.

The Saint did manage that, but he had not reckoned with the stiffness of his legs after their long confinement, and his movements were comparatively slow and clumsy. The fist he threw at the guard’s Neanderthal jaw was parried by a tree-trunk arm, while the man’s other hand slammed out awkwardly at the Saint’s chest. If the gorilla had not himself been taken aback with startlement, it might have shaped into a counter-punch that could have put Simon out again, but instead of launching a counter-attack against him, Simon’s prognathous opponent was only trying to fend him off, shouting: “Hey, hold on! I come to let you loose!”

“You’re what?” Simon whooped.

“Yeah! I just come to let you loose!”

The big lug was making no effort to go for his gun. Backing off a little, with both hands out in front of him, he could have passed for a professional wrestling villain going through the melodramatics of pleading for mercy.

Simon relaxed just a little.

“You mean I can leave?” he asked.

“Yeah. That’s right. Yeah.”

“Under my own power? I can go where I want?”

The guard nodded. “You can go.”

They stood facing one another in silence.

“Well,” the guard said, “go on and go.”

“Would you mind going ahead of me?”

The guard backed out the door, and Simon followed him into — as he had suspected — the main area of a warehouse. It, like the smaller room, held nothing more interesting than empty crates.

“How did you get untied?” the guard asked.

“Tied?” Simon asked, wickedly. “I never was tied.”

A frown began at the guard’s crew-cut hairline and spread down over the rest of his wide face. “Whatta you mean you wasn’t tied? Sure you was tied.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

The guard pointed at him and said desperately: “Now look, you was tied, and don’t tell me you wasn’t tied.”

“Okay,” Simon said with a smile. “1 was just kidding. But I sure am grateful to whoever it was that untied me.”

The goon had started to relax, but now his face crinkled again, like the face of an extremely large baby about to erupt into squalls.

“You’re tellin’ me somebody untied you? Who do ya think—”

“I don’t know who he was,” Simon said nonchalantly. “Little guy.” He indicated with one palm very near the floor. “About so high. Two or three feet. Green pointed hat and a long white beard. Do you know him?”

“You’re pullin’ my leg,” the guard announced warily, after a moment’s consideration. “Nobody could have gotten in there anyways because I was right out here the whole time.”

“Whatever you say,” Simon murmured. “Now, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me why you’re letting me go.”

“They just come and tole me to let you go. They didn’t give no reason or nothin’ else.”

“Who come?” Simon queried, feeling like part of the cast of a Tarzan movie.

“Never mind who come,” the guard said belligerently. “Never mind anything. Just beat it!”

“I just wondered why anybody would go to all the trouble to give me a room for the night and then kick me out of it before morning. It is before morning, isn’t it? Somebody seems to have mislaid my wristwatch.”

“Probably that little green guy,” the guard said, and grinned with glee at his own wit. He looked at his wrist. “It’s one o’clock in the middle of the night. Now would you beat it so I can get home and get some sleep?”

“I don’t suppose I could have my gun back?” Simon asked.

“I ain’t got your gun or nothin’ else.”

Simon went to the door.

“Could you tell me where I am?” he enquired. “It might help me to get somewhere else.”

“You’re on the River, and you’re lucky you ain’t in it, so get goin’.”

“Well, thanks for the hospitality. Your floor’s very comfortable but your roaches need polishing.”

He glanced back and saw the guard picking up the discarded length of rope, from which he would try to unravel the mystery of the Saint’s escape.