Лесли Чартерис - The Saint in Trouble

“Something hit us... We must go down.”

“Just put me as close as you can.”

The pilot wrenched the helicopter to the left so that they were sinking squarely ahead of the approaching plane. The Beechcraft skidded to a sideways stop as its pilot jammed on the brakes.

As the helicopter came to ground, the Saint jumped the last few feet, landing on his toes and sprinting across the tarmac towards the plane, bent almost double against the buffeting air from the flailing rotor blades and zigzagging like a rugby winger as bullets ricocheted off the runway and flew past him.

The plane and helicopter were now in the center of a ring of cars behind which the police were quickly taking up their positions but holding fire for fear of hitting the Saint.

The Saint ducked under the plane’s nose, coming around to the pilot’s side out of Curdon’s line of fire. He reached up and yanked open the door with one hand as his other grasped the pilot’s coat and pulled him bodily out of the plane. Curdon turned and fired as the pilot toppled onto the runway and no longer obstructed his aim, but the Saint had been expecting a shot and ducked below the fuselage.

He had noticed Emma and Gaby in the back of the leading police car as the helicopter had landed. As he flattened himself against the Beechcraft, he saw Emma duck under the taxi driver’s restraining arm and start to run across the no man’s land between the police cordon and the plane.

Maclett, who had been watching from the safety of the cabin, moved with surprising speed as soon as he saw his daughter and recognised the danger she was in. He threw himself forward directly between Curdon and the Saint, shouting to his daughter as he did so.

“Emma, stop!”

But the girl did not hear and was already at the edge of the runway.

Maclett was trying to climb out of the plane, but Curdon grabbed his shoulder and dragged him back into the pilot’s seat with his gun aimed straight at the professor’s chest. He gestured towards the pilot, who was now getting gingerly to his feet on the ground.

“Get him back on board, Templar!”

Simon looked from Maclett to Curdon and shook his head.

“You wouldn’t kill the golden goose, old boy.”

For a moment the three men stared at each other as each sought his own way to break the deadlock.

Emma reached Simon’s side before he could stop her. She came to a halt in front of the open door, suddenly rigid with fear as she realised the danger.

Curdon took a direct aim at her.

“I’ll kill her right enough. Stay right where you are, Miss Maclett.”

The professor stepped forward, but Curdon moved to one side so that he could keep both father and daughter covered. Maclett’s voice shook with despair and surprise.

“What kind of man are you?”

Curdon ignored him.

“Listen to me, Templar. The pilot gets back in and we take off unmolested, or—”

“No!” Maclett sprang forward, clawing at the gun and knocking Curdon off balance.

The automatic fired into the air, the detonation ear-shattering in the confined space.

The two men wrestled in the doorway, half in, half out of the plane, and the Saint took advantage of the diversion to reach the other side of the cabin. He vaulted into the plane, one arm locking around Cordon’s throat, the other pinning his gun hand to his side.

Maclett released his hold and jumped down beside his daughter as the Saint gathered all his strength into one titanic heave that threw Curdon clear out of the plane. The gun flew from his grip as he crashed onto the runway with barely enough wind left to crawl to his knees.

Curdon’s hate-filled eyes blazed up at the Saint, the voice a rasping sob.

“Ten years ago I’d have taken you... you...”

Slowly, almost comically, Curdon pitched forward and lay still, face down on the warm tarmac.

The Saint raised a sardonic eyebrow.

“I always like a gallant loser,” he remarked, to no attentive audience.

He watched as two policemen dragged Curdon to their car, and then turned and walked over to the plane where Maclett, Emma, and Lebeau were waiting.

Simon gave Lebeau a mocking bow, and held out his wrists as if inviting the handcuffs.

“A pleasure to meet you again, Inspector. Am I under arrest?”

Lebeau shook his head.

“Not exactly, but it would not be to your advantage to prolong this stay in Cannes.”

“Forty-eight hours?”

“That is exactly the time it will take me to decide what charges are to be answered. Now if you will excuse me I have some pressing matters to attend to. The British Government has already been making some extraordinary representations to Paris about this affair.”

“Then there’ll surely be a lot of lovely forms to fill out,” Simon prophesied.

When the detective had left them the Saint studied the professor. Maclett’s shoulders drooped and he looked as if he had aged ten years in a few hours. Emma was holding his arm, but he refused to meet her eyes.

“You wouldn’t have been free, Daddy. They were just going to use you and keep your work for themselves.”

“Aye.”

“I think there may be a way to sort things out, Professor,” Simon ventured. “Depending on how you feel.”

Maclett looked up with some of the old fire returning to his eyes.

“I feel like a damn fool.”

“Which is the beginning of wisdom,” said the Saint.

The Palais des Festivals was packed to overflowing, with scientists making up only a part of the audience. News of Maclett’s adventure had made headlines around the world, and photographers and reporters vied with ordinary sensation-seekers for the best seats.

Maclett stood alone in the center of the dais, a lectern before him and a huge blackboard covered with the hieroglyphics of chemical equations behind. He closed his folder of notes and moved aside from the lectern.

“That is the basic premise as it will be published by Her Majesty’s Government. The rest you are free to work out for yourselves — if you can.”

The hall rang with the applause, and in the wings Simon smiled at Emma and nodded towards the exit.

“Let’s leave your father to enjoy his moment of glory alone.”

As they walked away from the Palais, Emma asked: “Why did you rush off from the airfield yesterday?”

“Being a loyal taxpayer and realising that our friend Willie was likely to have a good deal of government expense money in the villa, not to mention whatever the Russians had paid him in advance, I felt it my duty to ensure its safety.”

The girl stopped, looking at him accusingly.

“You mean you stole it?”

The Saint laughed.

“Let’s just say I believe in making sure that good deeds are properly rewarded and so now does Gaby. He’ll probably start up his own fleet of taxis with his share.”

A little farther west he steered her away from the Croisette, up the Rue Commandant Andre.

“Where are we going?”

“To Mere Besson’s, the best Provencal restaurant on this coast, for the best meal she can provide, courtesy of Sir William.”

Emma snuggled against his shoulder.

“I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you for what you did,” she said.

The Saint smiled and put an arm around her.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Between us, we’ll probably think of something.”

Original Teleplay by John Kruse

Adapted by Graham Weaver

A fine drizzle blurred the sharp outlines of the sprawling pile of concrete and glass boxes that is Heathrow Airport. The midday sun was hidden by a low canopy of grey-black cloud. A brisk breeze lifted the litter of empty cigaret packets and assorted paper wrappings that are a feature of most British public places and skimmed them across the desolate expanse of runways and cargo yards.