Лесли Чартерис - The Saint in Trouble

After what seemed an eternity he recognized a white hull racing southeast, towards Corsica, and under his direction the pilot banked his craft on a course that would bring them over her stern.

Despite the cruiser’s power, there was no chance of her outrunning the copter, and the pilot easily countered her turns to stay a steady fifty feet above her.

Samantha was at the wheel, with Demmell beside her. Simon told the pilot to go lower, and quickly broke out the rescue harness.

“I’m going down,” he said. “Tell Gaby how to work this gear.”

They were still fifteen feet above the pitching cruiser when the Saint slid out of the cabin and began to be winched down. As he did so, Demmell ran down into the cabin under the bridge. As Simon prepared for the final descent, Demmell re-emerged with an automatic in his hand. He braced himself against a stanchion and took two-handed aim.

Without sparing the time to calculate the odds, the Saint let everything go and plummeted down towards him.

Demmell’s finger jerked at the trigger. The bullet passed so close that Simon felt the wind of its passage fan his cheek. Frantically Demmell leapt aside, but the Saint twisted his body as he fell and cannoned into him. They crashed to the deck together.

Simon’s breath was momentarily forced from his lungs as he landed on top of Demmell. Every bone jarred with the impact, pain shooting like lightning along his legs and back. Demmell lay still beneath him, spread-eagled against the planking, his eyes staring sightlessly at the sky. A thin trickle of blood was slowly creeping from the crown of his head, and only the slight heaving of his chest showed that he was still alive.

The Saint staggered to his feet. His legs felt like putty, and he held onto the side rail while he regained bis wind and the mastery of his limbs.

Samantha still stood at the wheel, desperately trying to shake off the helicopter, but the pilot matched her move for move. Simon looked up into two eyes as cold and hard as his own.

“Stop the engines.”

The girl ignored him, spinning the wheel and heeling the boat hard to starboard. The Saint felt the deck tilt and grabbed at the rail again to stop himself falling. He groped his way towards the sheer ladder that led from the deck where he was to the flying bridge and pulled himself up it.

Samantha looked around as he arrived beside her.

“You pig!”

He had hardly expected an effusive welcome, but the depth of hatred in her voice surprised him.

Nevertheless, he smiled tolerantly.

“I hope you’ll excuse me dropping in like this.”

He stepped towards the wheel as Samantha released her grip on it. She stood to one side as he cut the engines and the boat shuddered and lost way.

The Saint’s attention was focussed on the helicopter as he signalled to the pilot that he was safe but to remain close, and it was only by chance that he caught the sudden movement to his right. He ducked and turned as a pair of powerful binoculars flashed past his head and hurtled overboard.

Samantha was wearing only shorts and a bikini top of minimal proportions, neither of which was in any way adequate to the task of concealing the perfection of her body, and Simon regretted that she seemed to be so out of tune with the ideas that such a costume would normally be calculated to inspire.

He straightened up, wagging a finger in solemn admonishment.

“Naughty, naughty.”

The girl glared at him.

“I wish I’d killed you.”

The Saint approached cautiously, a slight lingering soreness in his neck reminding him of her ability to fulfill her wish. But she did not make any of the countermoves that he was prepared for as he picked up a lifebelt that hung beside him and suddenly dropped it over her head, and forced it down over her shoulders to where the hole in it, conflicting with her exquisite chest measurement, was a perfect fit to pinion her arms to her sides as effectively as if they had been roped there.

“I think you could do with some time to reflect on your evil ways and the inhospitality you show to unexpected guests,” he murmured, and swung himself nimbly down the ladder which he had scaled only a few moments before.

A stream of expletives culled from a dockside dictionary fol lowed him, but the Saint didn’t stay to appreciate the scope of her vocabulary.

Forward from the open after deck, immediately below the flying bridge, was the small but comfortable saloon-cum-charthouse, and at the other end of that a companionway led down to the forward quarters. Simon was halfway towards it when he heard the shot and the splintering of wood a couple of inches above his head.

He knew he could never reach the opening before the gunman corrected his aim and nailed him, and he was stranded too far into the saloon to spring back out again to safety. The only alternatives were a second more accurate bullet or surrender. The Saint considered both in a fraction of a second, and raised his hands slowly so that his move was clearly visible to the man in the shade below.

The man came up the companionway warily, his gun aimed steadily at the Saint’s stomach. Simon gradually lowered his arms until the palms of his hands rested on top of his head. The fingers of his right hand slid beneath his left cuff, feeling for the handle of his throwing knife.

There was the sound of a heavy bump overhead, which the Saint knew must be connected with Samantha’s efforts to free herself, but it made the sailor look up in alarm. And in that instant of distraction the Saint’s hand flashed forward, the knife flying through the air in a silver blur. The man screamed as the blade sliced across his knuckles and the pistol fell from his fingers.

Simon had started to follow the knife even before it had found its mark. The man was staring stupidly at his blood-covered hand and made no move to fight. Simon kicked the gun aside before unleashing a straight left that contained every gram of his strength to put the unfortunate sailor out of his misery.

He stepped over the body and retrieved his knife, fastidiously wiping it on the sailor’s T-shirt before slipping it back into its sheath. Then he knelt down and inspected the man’s wound. Satisfied that he was in no danger of bleeding to death, Simon left him and went down the companionway.

The steps led to a narrow passageway. The first door on one side opened onto a small cabin that was almost entirely taken up by two bunks and a couple of lockers. The bottom bunk was curtained off, and the Saint stood to one side and swished back the drapes. The crewman he had seen taken by Cartwright and his henchman the previous afternoon lay there in a drugged sleep.

Simon winced at the state of the man’s face. It looked as if someone had used a razor to play noughts and crosses. Bandages were rolled around the top of his head, reaching down over the ears to meet similar repair work around his neck. One eye was hidden beneath a soft pad, while the other was bruised purple and so badly swollen that only a thin slit between the lids showed that there was still a pupil beneath.

The Saint drew the curtain and stepped back into the passage. The slight narrowing of his eyes was the only visible sign of the anger that burned within. He cursed himself for not having prevented Cartwright from taking the man, even though he realised that there was no way he could have guessed the agent’s intention. The scarring of the sailor had been no haphazard affair but a methodically and expertly executed job of torture. He could only guess at the reason for it, but he longed for a chance to let Cartwright experience similar suffering.

Another door opened onto the galley, and there were two guest cabins which were slightly larger than those for the crew, as well as the predictable sanitary facilties. Simon searched every cupboard and even looked under the bunks, also into the tiny engine room and hold.