Лесли Чартерис - The Saint in Trouble

He turned to Leila.

“Look after the girl and get rid of the sightseers,” he ordered.

“Simon, be careful.”

The words followed him without effect as he went through the door by which the two Arabs had departed.

The narrow frontage of the house belied its depth. The girl’s room was a former attic directly beneath the pitched roof which was the only one visible from the road. The flat area onto which the two men had run and where the picture had been taken was the top of the remainder of the house, which stretched back until it almost joined the rear of the buildings in the next street.

As the Saint stepped outside, he was all too aware of the perfect target he offered. A flicker of movement on his left caught his eye, and he sank to a crouch as he turned, perfectly balanced on his toes and ready to dive for cover at the first sign that the two men had decided to fight it out. The roofs of the adjoining houses were separated only by low brick walls from each of which rose a cluster of chimney pots.

Four houses away, the two terrorists were standing obviously uncertain of their next move. The Saint sprinted for the first dividing wall and cleared it in a flying leap that brought him safely behind the chimney stack of the house next door. The men spun around at the noise, but he was already hidden. Exposing only as much of his head as he needed to peer around the sheltering brickwork, he saw the smaller of the two point to the alley separating Little Claymore Street from the next road, and as his companion headed for a drainpipe, the smaller man ran on towards the end of the terrace.

The Saint flipped a mental coin that landed in favor of the man remaining on the roof. He swung over the next wall and then the one following that, darting from chimney to chimney as he went, without taking his eyes off the man he was pursuing, relying on his speed and sense of timing to ensure that every time the Arab turned he was already out of sight. He held the advantage of not having to worry where the chase led, while the other was constantly searching for a way of escape.

Gradually the gap narrowed until he was only a house away from his quarry.

The terrorist was kneeling at bay in the shadow of the next dividing wall no more than six yards away. The Saint ducked back behind his protective chimney stack, unable to make another move without inviting a bullet. He cursed himself for not bringing a gun, as he scanned the immediate area for anything that might serve as a weapon.

A ladder was propped against the attic roof, a pile of slates at its foot. The Saint slowly slid down until he was below the level of the wall and began to inch his way towards them. He drew level and gingerly reached out his hand. His fingers had touched and gripped the top slate before a shot rang out, kicking brick dust from the wall barely an inch from his thumb.

Simon grabbed up the slate and spun around. With only an instant in which to aim, he sent it hurtling through the air. It sliced into the gunman’s wrist, sending the automatic clattering away across the roof.

Almost casually the Saint rose to his feet and brushed the dust from his hands.

“Why don’t we see how brave you are without a gun or a bomb to rely on?” he drawled.

He placed one hand on top of the wall and vaulted over without taking his eyes off the Arab.

The terrorist stared at him like a snake hypnotised by a mongoose. He looked into two blue eyes that were as cold and passionless as an iceberg, and he felt his blood chill. He may have faced death many times, but always it had spurted from the end of a barrel, instant and acceptable. Clearly he had no stomach for the kind of manual punishment which he could happily dish out himself to a helpless girl, and which he could now see promised in the chiselled lines of this man’s face.

He backed away as the Saint approached, frantically looking in every direction for an escape route. His heel caught against the frame of a skylight set in the roof. For a moment he swayed uncertainly and then he jumped, plunging down to land on the floor of the room below in a shower of glass and splintered wood.

Simon jumped forward and grasped an edge of the skylight frame that was free of jagged glass to swing himself through the opening, but the Arab was already out of the room and racing down the stairs. The noise had alarmed all the other residents of the house, and they crowded out of their rooms onto the stairs, blocking the Saint’s path. Roughly he pushed them aside, but he already knew that the delays would prove long enough to allow the other’s escape.

He reached the ground floor and sprinted out onto the pavement just in time to see the station wagon skid to a halt and the terrorist climb in.

The door had barely closed before the driver was taking the next corner on two wheels, and the Saint had no alternative but to stand and listen to the roaring engine fading into the distance.

The Saint accepted the setback philosophically. There would be a next time, and at least they had found the place they were looking for and knew how close their opponents were.

As he strolled back to the other house, he was glad to see that the crowds had dispersed as quickly as they had formed. No one seemed inclined to loiter at the scene of trouble, which meant that they were even less likely to summon the police.

Leila was bending over the girl, holding her chin in one hand and gently bathing the bruises with a wet cloth. She looked up hopefully as he entered, but he had to shake his head.

“They got away,” he confessed.

“Damn,” she said. “One was Masrouf, the other I think was his henchman Khaldun. At least we know that they too are still looking for Hakim.”

She turned back to the girl, and he made a tour of the room, examining it in detail.

A single bed stood against one wall, a wardrobe and sofa against the other. The far end had been curtained off to hide an ancient gas stove. A single tap stuck out of the plaster above a chipped porcelain sink, beside which was the door leading to the roof. There was a musty damp smell that hung heavy on the air, and the boards beneath the threadbare carpet protested at every step.

The walls had been painted white and decorated with brightly coloured prints and posters. Shelves of books had been fixed above the bed and sofa. Paisley drapes hung by the window. There was something rather pathetic about the personal touches that had been added. Instead of making the room more cheerful, they only served to underline its squalor.

A pile of school exercise books stood on the plain pine table in the centre of the room. Simon flicked through the top one, making a mental note of the name and address of the school.

“You teach mathematics?” he asked the girl they had rescued.

“Yes.”

She tried to twist her head around to look at him, but Leila retained her grip although she had finished tending the injuries.

“There, that should take care of most of the swelling,” Captain Zabin said crisply. “Now, what did you tell them?”

The girl was near to breaking point but managed to choke back her tears as she tried to meet Leila’s piercing gaze.

“What could I tell them? I have never heard of this... this... you see, I don’t even know his name.”

Leila’s voice was as hard as tungsten as she cut the girl short.

“Don’t waste your tears on me.”

“But I swear to you...”

“Nor your lies. Who is this?”

Leila thrust the photograph in front of her face. The girl grabbed at it but Leila drew it away.

“Where did you get that?” cried the girl.

“It was found after a Red Sabbath murder squad raided a village school,” Leila replied coldly. “Thirteen people were slaughtered. Teachers like you, children like the ones you teach. Killed by that man and others like him.”