Лесли Чартерис - The Saint in Trouble

The Saint laughed and placed an arm around her shoulders, drawing her slim body closer as he snaked the Hirondel through the traffic with one hand, which is not an example for other drivers to follow. He pushed his foot nearer the floor, and the big car surged forward towards the lights of Piccadilly.

He felt totally relaxed, but as alert and awake as if he had just slid from between the sheets after a good night’s sleep.

“You just talked me into it,” he said. “How could I disobey the orders of such a lovely officer? Of course you can come along. After all, I did promise to introduce you to some Londoners, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I hope you’re feeling fit, because we’re likely to run into a spot of mayhem before morning.”

The crowded streets and flashing neon of Leicester Square and the Strand were soon left behind, and with the assurance of a captain in familiar waters the Saint plotted a course through the sleeping backwaters of the City until the solid dignified shapes of the banks and insurance offices had disappeared behind them, to be replaced by a bewildering maze of dimly lit side roads lined by darkened shops and warehouses.

Leila watched the changing scenery without comment. She had hardly spoken for some time, and he could feel her tenseness returning.

“What’s worrying you now?” he asked.

She straightened away from him and eyed his profile searchingly.

“It’s just that there are so many questions we don’t know the answers to,” she said restively.

“Such as?”

“We had the picture and your knowledge of London to help us, but how did Masrouf and his men find Yasmina so quickly?”

Simon shrugged.

“Hakim and Masrouf were buddies in arms, remember? So it’s quite possible that Hakim talked about her. Even if Masrouf didn’t already have her address, the Arab community in London is a pretty small one, and he’d know where to go for information.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” she admitted. “But that only makes our task more difficult. We always seem to be one step behind.”

“But Masrouf and Co. won’t see it like that,” explained the Saint patiently, “because they can’t know how far we’ve got already. Masrouf didn’t look surprised to see you, but he didn’t know who I was, and it’s my guess that that’s worrying him. Right now, he’s trying to find out who I am and what my part is — which promises well for future fun and games. Also it’s a complication for him, and the longer we can distract him the more the odds swing in our favour.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said, but she didn’t sound Convinced.

Simon smiled and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze before changing down through the gears.

“So do I,” he said optimistically.

As the car slowed, he spun the wheel in a right turn that took them through an alley between two warehouses and out into a narrow lane running parallel to the major road they had just left. It consisted mainly of tiny shops and derelict houses separated occasionally by fenced-off patches of weed-covered rubble where buildings had been demolished and not replaced. Simon berthed the car in a pool of darkness between two street lamps and cut the engine.

For a moment he sat and carefully took stock of their surroundings, satisfying himself that the lane was temporarily deserted, while he took a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles from the glove compartment and put them on. Then he got out and reached into the back seat for a mackintosh that might once have been a smart sandy beige but had long ago given up the straggle against the city grease and grime, and rammed a trilby of equally hard-worn lineage onto his head. The shabby raincoat covered up the elegant tailoring of Savile Row, and the thick frames of the glasses under the down-turned brim of the battered hat took the finely cut piratical edge off his features.

Leila had been watching the process of transformation with a puzzled frown.

“What is all that for?” she demanded.

“The hostelry I’m headed for is somewhat different from the one we just left,” he explained, “and I don’t want to be specially noticed. Or even recognised, except by the bloke I’m meeting,” he added.

He went around to her side of the car, and she started to open her door, but he firmly closed it again.

“This is one place you can’t come with me,” he said. “It’s a place where women are quite rudely made unwelcome. You’ll just have to wait here. I’ll only be about fifteen minutes. Wind up the window and keep the doors locked, and if anyone comes by, try to keep your pretty face hidden.”

Resentfully, but bereft of any effective argument, she watched him slouch off down the lane at a brilliantly different gait from his normal athletic stride, and was forced to concede to herself, professionally, that his technique of subtle camouflage outpointed anything that could be done with elaborate props of the false-beard school.

The only signs of life in the lane were the lighted windows of the Carpenter’s Arms. Simon pushed open the door of the public bar and entered like a regular, without looking around, ambling directly to the counter.

The interior was as unattractive as the red-tiled Victorian facade. The floor was covered with cracked linoleum and bordered with half a dozen heavy iron tables with marble tops the size of butchers’ slabs, surrounded by hard wooden chairs. The wallpaper was so nicotine-stained that it was almost impossible to discern a pattern, and the decorations consisted chiefly of old photographs of coach outings and fixture lists for the darts team. The air was rank with the smell of stale beer and tobacco smoke. The handful of patrons looked up torpidly as the door opened, but seeing nothing remarkable about the newcomer, returned to their talk or their cribbage.

The Saint leant on the bar and ordered a half pint of best bitter. Only when the required measure had been dispensed and paid for did he appear to take an interest in his surroundings. The man he had come to meet was sitting alone at the far end of the room, and Simon allowed a couple of minutes to elapse before strolling across to join him.

Harry-the-Nose stood out against the seediness of his background like a carnival poster. He was a small, dapper figure who might even have been described as elegant if the check of his cut-price suit had been a trifle less dazzling, his tie a less conflicting array of stripes, or his socks a more harmonious hue. A synthetic diamond the size of a bottle cap sparkled from the centre of his tie, while a heavy gold signet ring weighted the little finger of the small meticulously manicured hand that held his whisky glass. His thinning hair was carefully brushed over the bald top of his head and kept in place by a glossy coating of pomade.

Members of what is popularly called the underworld have a tradition that is otherwise usually found only in barrack rooms and school playgrounds: a legal name is rarely considered sufficient by itself to identify its owner, and some graphic auxiliary is adopted or conferred. The most apparent reason for Harry’s particular cognomen was his outstanding facial feature, a nasal organ of such prominence that it cast the lower part of his face into permanent shadow. An even less flattering connotation of the sobriquet was his insatiable propensity for prying into other people’s business and acquiring information which could be available to interested parties at a price.

Harry-the-Nose knew and accepted the title his peers had bestowed on him, but it was not wise to mention it in his presence. If he had ever heard of Cyrano de Bergerac he would have felt an immediate kinship, for his sensitivity also had caused him to fight duels in honour of the offending appendage, although instead of flashing rapiers at dawn he preferred a dark alley at midnight and a length of bicycle chain.