Лесли Чартерис - The Saint in Trouble

The Borough Market is a mini Covent Garden standing beside Southwark Cathedral in the shadow of London Bridge. Traders conduct their business from open pitches beneath a glass roof supported by thick iron pillars. It is situated in the centre of two access roads leading from the main thoroughfare of Southwark Street. Between the market and the riverside sprawls a web of narrow lanes that twist between towering blocks of warehouses and depositories. The air is thick with the smell of rotting fruit and the distinctive ozone of the Thames. From dawn until midday it is a bedlam of noise and hurrying people.

The Saint looked up at the plaque fixed to the wall on the opposite side of the lane where he had parked, and grinned.

“Clink Street. I can think of quite a few people who think I should have stopped here years ago.”

Leila frowned.

“I do not understand.”

“I’ll explain some other time,” he said hastily.

“Yakovitz, you find a spot on the stairs leading from the front of the cathedral to the bridge. From there you should get a clear view of everything that moves. Leila, you take the viaduct arches so that you can watch the entrance to the cathedral without too much risk of Yasmina spotting you.”

“And you?”

“I’ll go through the market and try and find Parton. Our best chance lies in jumping Hakim when he shows to collect the passport. Yakovitz, you go now. Leila, you follow in a minute. We’ll be too obvious if we keep together. Okay?”

They both nodded, and Yakovitz got out of the car. The events of the night had combined to place the Saint in charge of the operation, and neither of the others thought to question his command.

Yakovitz strolled back into the road that separated the market from the cathedral, and turned in through the wrought-iron gates to cross the precinct immediately in front of the church. Except for Yasmina and her charges standing outside the main doors waiting for their guide, and a couple of tramps asleep on the benches, the area was deserted.

Simon stood at the top of the bridge steps and watched Leila walk past, using the coach to screen her from Yasmina. Behind the coach, Harry was lounging in his van, resuming his studies of the racing columns, apparently oblivious of everything else.

The Saint strode quickly through the back lanes, memorising every twist and turn until he reached the rear entrance to the market.

Two main aisles divide the market into quarters, which are then split into irregular sections by the tall wire pens from which the traders sell. Simon stopped at the junction of the two aisles; from there he had a clear view of the entrance roads on either side. The coach stood opposite the end of the east aisle.

The driver left his seat and climbed down to the pavement. For a while he stood looking across at Yasmina and the children before turning towards the market. As he did so he pushed his peaked cap to the back of his head, and the Saint found himself staring at the face of Abdul Hakim.

Hakim stood beside the coach glancing nervously each way before crossing the road and entering the market. He looked older than in the photograph. The cheeks were more hollow and the forehead more lined. The mass of curly hair was uncombed and he had not shaved for a couple of days. He wore a zipper jacket of black leather and tight black corduroy trousers. He moved with the furtive grace of an outcast cat poised to fight or run at any instant, but his eyes had the shifty look of the hunted rather than the hunter.

Simon stepped back into a narrow passage between some piled-up crates and waited as Hakim walked slowly down the main aisle towards him. All around him the porters and traders continued with their noisy everyday business; a few of them looking curiously at the Saint as they passed. He took a notebook from his pocket and pretended to count the boxes and tick them off on an imaginary list while he listened to the sound of Hakim’s footsteps coming nearer.

He was somewhat surprised by the ease with which the trap was preparing to be sprung. Simply to have to wait until Hakim walked into his arms seemed almost an anticlimax after the events of the preceding twenty-four hours, but he had no wish to quarrel with the Fates for smoothing his path.

The clamour of the market, which had seemed almost deafening at first, had now adjusted itself in his hearing into a permanent background which he could screen out of his consciousness while he followed Hakim’s waxy progress along the aisle. Quite apart from that generalised noise, his ears recorded a sound of footsteps approaching from behind him, but his brain was a split-second slow in reacting to them as a danger signal.

He had only half turned when the massive arms of Parton’s bodyguard closed around his chest in a suffocating bear hug. In the same moment he felt himself lifted clear of the ground and hurled through the air as if he weighed no more than a child’s doll.

He had a fleeting glimpse of the forger running past him towards Hakim, before he crashed backwards into a pile of crates that collapsed with the impact and sent him sprawling against the concrete floor. The air was forced from his lungs in one long gasp, and a kaleidoscope of flashing lights danced before his eyes as his head touched the ground.

He felt every bone in his back and shoulders jar with the impact, and only the responses of a veteran fighter saved him as the giant waded in for the kill. Instinctively he rolled to one side and the kick that should have sent him to join all the historic saints actually parted the top of his hair.

As his vision cleared, he saw the giant poising himself to resume the attack. The sheer bulk of the man made him ponderously slow, but the Saint was all too aware that just one blow squarely landed from those huge fists could prelude the end of the contest.

With one hand flat on the ground, he pushed himself up into a squat and dived sideways at the gorilla’s legs. His arm folded under the man’s knees as his shoulder cannoned into his thighs. The giant swayed for a moment as he tried to maintain his balance, but the Saint’s momentum was too great and he toppled backwards to land flat against the concrete with his arms flailing the air as he tried clumsily to break the force of his fall.

The Saint was on his feet again in an instant. There was no time for the niceties of the brawl that should have followed. Already he could see Hakim and Parton concluding their transaction and in a few seconds the Arab would be beyond his reach.

Parton stared blankly at the Saint as if he could hardly believe that he was still a threat. The forger’s face was disfigured by a strip of sticking plaster that ran from the corner of his right eye to the side of his mouth. Beneath it the skin was puffed and black. The sight raised a large question mark in the Saint’s mind, but he had no spare time just then to spend on speculating about that interesting embellishment.

He started to run past the fallen giant, but the man flung out a wild arm that half tripped him. As he reached out for anything to save him from falling, his hand fastened on the top of a tier of packing cases. As he recovered his balance he yanked the top crate free. The bodyguard stared up in horror as the heavy wooden box plummeted down with the Saint augmenting the force of gravity with his own strength, but there was nothing he could do to break its fall. His whole frame went rigid as it smashed on his head, and his participation in the further proceedings discontinued.

Without waiting to administer first aid, Simon hurdled the obstacle and raced towards the main aisle, roughly shoving aside the gaping spectators who had been attracted to the commotion.

Hakim had turned and fled as soon as he saw the Saint rise, and Parton was not much slower off the mark in sprinting in an opposite direction. Simon ignored the forger and followed Hakim. The terrorist ran back into the road beside the coach. For a moment he wavered, unsure of his next move, and the Saint rapidly closed the gap between them.