Лесли Чартерис - The Saint in Trouble

He could see Yakovitz rushing across the cathedral precincts while Leila moved in from the other end of the street. Yasmina had deserted her children and was running towards her lover, frantically waving her arms and shouting a warning in some language the Saint did not understand.

Hemmed in on three sides, there was only one possible escape route left open and Hakim took it. He turned and tore down the road leading to the river front behind the cathedral.

Simon was about to follow when he heard a shot, and he had dodged for the cover of a parked lorry before he realised that he was not the target. The bullet shattered the glass of a street lamp as Hakim ran beneath it.

The Saint spun around as the blue station wagon screeched to a halt and Masrouf, Khaldun, and the man he had seen outside Yasmina’s flat the previous afternoon, jumped out. It was clear that they had eyes only for Hakim and appeared unaware of either Leila or Yakovitz closing in behind. All three men carried revolvers, and Yakovitz and Leila had also brought their guns into the open.

When the lamp glass shattered, Hakim increased his speed, bending low and swaying from the hips as he ran, but the three terrorists did not fire again. Simon scooted around the lorry and came out on the other side as Hakim disappeared around the corner to where the Hirondel was parked. Masrouf and Khaldun ran after him, leaving their companion to bring up the rear and cover them.

The Saint sprinted back into the market, dodging between the wire cages and following a diagonal route that brought him out into a road running at right angles to the one Hakim had taken. The sound of more shots reached him, but he had no way of knowing who was firing at whom.

He stopped for a moment to get his bearings before crossing the road and entering a lane sloping off to the right. After about fifty yards it opened into a large cobbled square that served as a parking and unloading area for the warehouses that lined it on every side. The only other exit was an alley in the far comer, and the Saint ran towards it.

He was halfway across the square when Hakim emerged from the alley. He stopped as soon as he saw the Saint, and looked desperately in every direction. The sound of shouts and running feet echoed from the passage behind him. Unable to go either forward or back, he jumped onto the loading bay of the nearest warehouse and plunged blindly into the shadowy interior.

The Saint leapt after him and had barely gained the shelter of the platform before Masrouf and Khaldun burst into the square. They stopped just outside the mouth of the alley, uncertain of their next move, but the decision was made for them when a bullet clipped the brickwork above their heads. Masrouf turned and fired a reply without taking aim, and the two men dashed across the cobbles to disappear down the lane from which the Saint had emerged a few seconds before.

Inside the warehouse, Simon turned from watching Yakovitz chase the fleeing Arabs and looked for Hakim.

The loading bay led into a cavernous storeroom stacked almost to the ceiling with wooden crates. At the far end a wide flight of iron steps led up to a gantry that circled the walls. There was no sign of Hakim. The Saint moved soundlessly in a narrow passage between the crates, every nerve taut, his eyes and ears straining to catch any sight or sound that might reveal Hakim’s hiding place. He reached the stairs and slowly began to climb, intending to use the gantry to gain a bird’s-eye view of the storeroom below.

As he reached the first landing the Arab broke cover and ran back towards the loading bay. There was an iron crowbar clutched in his hand, and two workmen who had just climbed in, rapidly backed away as he approached.

Simon cursed the luck with which he had been eluded, and returned to the floor in two leaps.

Hakim must have been in fair condition and had made good use of his few minutes’ rest in the warehouse to recover his breath. He set a fast pace across the square, and doubled back down the alley heading for the river.

The Saint settled his stride and prepared for a lengthy pursuit, content to gradually whittle down the other’s lead and sap his strength. By the time Hakim reached the wider road that separates the warehouses from the wharves Simon was only about thirty yards behind.

The road ran straight until it passed under the arches of Southwark Bridge a quarter of a mile farther on. On the right, a low wall divided the road from the landing stages that serve the barges bringing cargo from the large freighters in the Pool beneath the Tower to the warehouses upriver from London Bridge. On the left was an unbroken line of buildings with not even an alley between them to provide an alternative bolthole.

The river sparkled in the sunlight, distorting the reflection of the trains pulling slowly into Cannon Street Station. In midstream a tug was nursing a flotilla of heavily laden barges. A couple of pleasure boats crammed with camera-clicking tourists chugged sluggishly beneath the arches of London Bridge. The passengers peered and pointed as they listened to the guide’s running commentary on the sights to be seen along the south bank, trying to pinpoint the site of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre while completely unaware of the contemporary drama that was being played under their eyes.

The Saint began to sense an uncertainty in Hakim’s movements. The terrorist’s pace was slowing and his steps faltered as he frantically looked in every direction for a way of escape. Inexorably Simon increased the pressure. Hakim glanced back over his shoulder, and the sight of the Saint so close on his heels made him dredge up the last of his reserves of stamina. He attempted one final spurt, but the strength had left his legs and after a few yards he stumbled and almost fell.

The Saint realised that the chase was over. What for him had been a fairly healthy workout appeared to have reduced Hakim to the semblance of a wet Arabian nightshirt. He reeled against the low wall between the road and the line of jetties, desperately sucking in air and wiping the sweat from his forehead and eyes.

Simon Templar slackened his stride to a walk as Hakim stayed and slumped against the wall, and came up to stand behind him.

“Had enough?” he asked mockingly. “There’s no where to run, Hakim. Nowhere else to hide.”

Hakim did not answer. His back was turned to the Saint and his hand cradled in the crook of his right elbow, the crowbar he had picked up somewhere in the warehouse still slackly held in the same hand. The Saint reached out a hand towards his shoulder and in the same instant Hakim spun round, the crowbar slicing through the air in a murderous arc.

Only the Saint’s whiplash reflexes saved him from a fractured skull. He recoiled instinctively, stepping backwards and arching his body sideways.

The speed and ferocity of Hakim’s attack was too great for his own equilibrium, and he stumbled forward. The Saint straightened, perfectly poised on the balls of his feet and smiled into the Arab’s face.

“Naughty, naughty,” he taunted reprovingly and sent a straight left flicking into the other’s nose.

The terrorist winced at the pain as he quickly backed out of reach of a follow-up punch, and wiped away the trickle of blood with the back of his hand. He glared at the Saint with fear and hatred in his dark eyes. His lips drew tight against his teeth as he sprang forward, again scything the air with the crowbar.

It was a contest between the boxer and the barroom bully, only in slightly different terms, and although he never doubted the inevitable outcome, the Saint did not underestimate the desperation of his cornered opponent. He simply felt entitled to a little sporting exercise in return for the trouble he had been given.