Лесли Чартерис - The Saint in Trouble

The Saint spun around to find himself staring up into the face of one of the biggest men he had ever seen.

His lighthearted description of Parton’s bodyguard as a gorilla suddenly seemed too accurate for comfort. The man filled the doorway, completely obscuring the interior of the room, and had to twist his body sideways to allow his shoulders through the opening. The Saint’s sinewy seventy-four inches seemed insignificant compared to the man he faced. Simon guessed he was nearer six feet nine than eight, and on the heavier side of three hundred pounds.

But he did not spare the time to enquire if his estimate was correct. When it came to giving away that kind of weight and reach, Simon Templar’s interpretation of sportsmanship and the Queensberry Rules was uninhibitedly elastic. Without an instant’s hesitation, his foot streaked upwards and buried itself in the other’s midriff.

The man grunted and sagged, his arms folded across his stomach, and as his head bowed forward the Saint moved in to hit him exactly as if he had been a punching bag with a lightning succession of blows — a left to one side of the jaw, a right to the other, and an uppercut to the chin to complete the symmetry.

Demonstrating the verity of the old adage that the bigger they are the harder they fall, the colossus stiffened and fell forward, with a kind of aggrieved expression on his face, hitting the floor with a force that seemed to shake the whole house.

Slowly the Saint came down off his toes, in no doubt that it would be many minutes before his opponent returned to an awareness of the world. He stepped over the body and joined Leila on the stairs.

She leant close to his ear and whispered: “Very efficient.”

“Thank you,” he murmured modestly.

His voice was almost at its normal level, and as they climbed the stairs he made little further effort to mask the sound of their progress, which he felt reasonably sure would now be attributed to movement of the immobilized bodyguard.

Three doors led from the landing above the hall, and the clanking of machinery indicated the one they required.

Sammy Parton turned around as he heard the door open, and froze in startlement as the Saint and Leila entered. Simon switched off the small printing press that had been making the noise and snapped his fingers in front of the forger’s face.

“Wake up, Sammy! Anybody would think you weren’t pleased to see us.”

Parton stepped back, still staring at his two uninvited guests. He was small and fat, with a pointed face and sparse grey hair that brought to mind an ageing, overfed rat.

“ ’Ow did you get in ’ere?” he demanded stupidly.

“We came in through a window,” answered the Saint, as if to any normal question. “Your pet gorilla thought we shouldn’t disturb you, but we managed to persuade him not to interfere.”

Parton finally made a partial recovery.

“Orl right, Templar,” he growled. “Wot d’yer want?”

“So you do remember me,” said the Saint happily. “How very nice. And after all this time, too. How long has it been, Sammy? Three years? Four?”

“Five. And I ain’t likely to forget, am I?”

“I suppose not. But you did get remission?”

Parton drew a packet of cigarets from the pocket of his ink-stained overalls and lit one.

“So wot do yer want?” he repeated. “I’m clean this time.”

Simon smiled as his gaze travelled around the dirty print room and even dirtier printer, but there was no cordiality in his eyes.

“I wouldn’t mind a couple of tickets for the cup final next year,” he replied. “But failing that, just the answer to a simple question.”

“Then you’ve come to the wrong bloke.”

“You can’t say that till you’ve seen the question,” argued the Saint. He turned to Leila. “Show him.”

Leila held up the picture of Yasmina and Hakim, and the forger was too slow to hide the recognition in his eyes.

“So thanks for the answer,” Simon remarked. “Now, where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

The top drawer of the desk that Parton was standing next to was slightly open, and the little man’s hand was slowly edging towards it. The Saint affected not to notice the movement as he pressed on with his interrogation.

“The passport that you are so artistically creating for the gent in the photo,” he said.

“I dunno wot yer talkin’ about,”

Parton insisted stubbornly. His fingers had reached the lip of the drawer. “You come in ’ere... break in ’ere...” Parton stepped forward, putting his body between the drawer and the Saint. It was a perfectly natural move, and it was almost a pity to spoil the performance.

The Saint’s hand landed squarely in Parton’s chest, and as the little man staggered backwards, Simon’s right foot kicked the drawer closed. Parton squealed as his fingers were trapped.

Simon eased the pressure sufficiently to allow the other to remove his hand but not to extract the gun he had been groping for. While Parton massaged his bruised fingers, the Saint retrieved the automatic, removed the magazine, ejected the cartridge in the firing chamber, and tossed the weapon into a wastepaper basket.

“Any more tricks like that, Sammy,” he warned, “and I shall get upset. Now, where’s the passport? Or do I have to tear this rat hole apart and you with it?”

The forger’s eyes burned with hate, but there was a lift of triumph in his voice.

“Go ahead,” he jeered. “Enjoy yourself. It won’t do you a bit of good. It ain’t under this roof.”

“I see,” Simon deduced. “So when a job’s finished, you put it in a safe place where the client can’t come and pick it up with a gun instead of cash.”

Parton puffed sullenly at his cigaret without replying.

“All right,” said the Saint. “The passport’s ready. You’ve said as much. Now I want the place and date of delivery.”

“Templar, some day you’ll get it through your head that I don’t grass on customers.”

Leila stepped forward, and Parton turned to give her his full attention for the first time.

“Suppose I buy this man’s passport from you for double what he would pay?” she asked.

Parton shook his head as if he was genuinely sorry to disappoint her.

“Lady, I do that and I’m a goner. This ain’t the usual run of client.”

The Saint’s voice came low and hard: “Yes, he’s a killer. But then you knew that, didn’t you?”

The little fat man was sweating, torn between fears of what the Saint might do if he refused to answer and what others would certainly do if he did.

“Templar, put yourself in my place. A bloke such as you describe orders a passport. I don’t talk about it. If anything goes wrong at the market tomorrow when I make the drop, I’ll be gettin’ measured for a coffin.”

“Which market, Sammy?” Simon pounced on the word remorselessly.

Parton wiped the sweat from his forehead and lit a new cigaret from the butt of the old one.

“Market? Did I say market? Just leave me alone, will you? Clear off and leave me alone!”

The Saint’s sensitive ears picked up sounds of movement in the hall below that could only have come from one source. Parton obviously heard them too, and his confidence began to return.

“You’d better get out of here, Templar, while yer still can,” he threatened.

The Saint smiled, and his hand reached across and patted the other’s cheek in a mockery of affection.

“Thanks for the help, Sammy,” he responded. “We’ll see you around.”

He turned towards the door, but Leila stood in the way without moving.

“Surely,” she protested. “You’re not...”

Simon shook his head.

“No, I’m not. Staying for Goliath, that is. Not until we can book Wembley Stadium and sell tickets. But here and now, there’s nothing more in it for us. Believe me.”