Leslie Charteris - The Saint in Pursuit

There was, however, a slight preliminary delay.

Simon turned from the window, strode to the door of his room, and opened it to find himself looking straight at the open snout of a large black automatic. Just beyond the automatic, and balanced like a man who knew and was ready for the recoil of a large-calibre pistol, was Curt Jaeger.

“Step back and let me in,” he commanded in a low voice, “or I’ll shoot you on the spot.”

He was already on the threshold, and the Saint had no encouragement to doubt that his visitor would carry out the threat with the least reasonable provocation. Simon moved backward into his room as the other man, just slightly shorter than himself, stepped inside and closed and locked the door behind without taking the concentration of either his gun or his cold eyes off the Saint’s face.

“Why, you must be Curt Jaeger!” Simon said cordially. “I was wondering when you’d be dropping in to swap a few war stories.”

“So you know who I am,” Jaeger said, not allowing himself to betray any great surprise. “That will save tiresome questions.”

The Saint had stopped near the middle of the room. Jaeger, keeping a cautious distance, held the automatic aimed steadily at his chest.

“Not entirely,” Simon said. “You must have been on this treasure hunt for a long time, if your dossier reads anything like I think it does. I just haven’t figured why the big shots of the Third Reich would’ve shared their biggest secret with a punk bully-boy like you must have been in 1945.”

“They did not,” Jaeger replied. “All who knew the details died in Berlin or Nuremberg. I happened to be in Portugal at the end, and... But why should I be telling you anything?”

“Because you must be bursting to regale somebody with tales of your exploits after all these years — and because I think you’d love to rub my nose in your colossal brilliance before you rub me out. Unless of course you just dropped in to get my autograph or tell me to be out of town by sunrise.”

Jaeger’s slight nod indicated his appreciation of the Saint’s logic.

“I happened to be in Portugal and to catch up with your Major Kinian, who had killed one of our top agents and taken information from him that was known — until then-only at the highest levels. I was lucky enough to catch Kinian and be the only one to question him — and I have waited too long to use what I learned to let you rob me!”

The Saint was completely relaxed, his hands loose at his sides.

“Apparently you aren’t such a genius at asking questions if you waited this long and still haven’t found the goodies.”

“Kinian was wounded already, and I had to use rather heavy methods to get his cooperation. Unfortunately he died before he could finish talking, but he said enough to tell me that I only had to wait until his daughter was twenty-one, and watch her.”

“Only now you don’t have the exclusive on that,” said Simon.

“In a moment I shall,” Jaeger retorted with grim quietness. “Step back and open the window.”

“It seems cool enough in here to me already,” said the Saint. “In fact the atmosphere is downright chilly.”

“Your comfort is the last thing that interests me at the moment. Do as I tell you. Step backward to the window and open it.”

Simon still stood his ground.

“It’s getting dark in here, and while I don’t want to cast any aspersions on your marksmanship I’d hate you to mess me up with a lousy shot. The light switch is right beside you.”

The harsh line of Jaeger’s lips warped into the trace of a smile.

“Thank you for your kind advice, but I have no intention of giving a shooting exhibition on a floodlit stage. Just open the window.”

The Saint stepped slowly back to the tall window, which reached from knee level almost to the ceiling. Before he reached for the handle which would swing it open he spoke to Jaeger again. He felt sure that nothing he could say would have any effect on the other’s murderous intentions, but as long as he could stall them there was at least a chance that his luck might produce some kind of accident or interruption that would throw Jaeger off guard.

“If you’re really determined to pop off that little cannon, wouldn’t you rather have the window shut so it’ll make less noise outside? I could even draw the curtains.”

“Your thoughtfulness touches me deeply,” said Jaeger. “But you must take me for an idiot.”

“A natural mistake,” Simon said apologetically. “All I really had to judge by was your face.”

Any hint of amusement which might have been on Jaeger’s lips had completely evaporated, and his voice was hard and biting.

“I am not here to waste time talking. Open it!”

The Saint opened it. As the glass swung outward, a breeze sharp with the feel and taste of Alpine ice swept into the room, rustling the heavy drapes. Even in summer the peaks which towered not far from the city let nobody forget their snowy domination. Death and the white glaciers high above clouds in the moonlight seemed brothers at this moment, and the Saint sensed that the dark wind which swept down from them had coursed through his whole life, filling every instant with the crystalline tingle of supernal frost.

The barrel of the black pistol was levelled at his chest.

“Turn around,” Jaeger said softly.

“Maybe we can make a deal,” the Saint said without moving. “Has it occurred to you that I might have some information you could use?”

“No, it has not,” Jaeger answered, “and I don’t believe that anything you say could convince me. I’ve done well enough so far on my own, and I don’t need any deals with anybody. Turn around and face the window.”

“If you shoot,” Simon said calmly, “there’ll be people all over you before you can get out of the door.”

Jaeger’s voice crackled with a tension like static electricity.

“Turn around immediately!”

The Saint obeyed, shifting his position so that he stood facing the open window. Ahead of him, across a wide void of empty air, was the tall apartment building that faced the Hotel Portal from the far side of a traffic circle. Below, just beyond the window ledge but a long way beneath it, were the canopy of the hotel’s marquee, the taxis with headlights like flashlight beams, and foreshortened views of miniature people.

Behind him, Simon could hear Curt Jaeger moving, stepping very quietly across the carpet towards the window. A sensation of warming confidence began to spread through the Saint’s veins.

“You wouldn’t be thinking of saving ammunition, would you, Curt?” he inquired. “Considering something even sneakier than a shot in the back — and less noisy?”

Jaeger, predictably, made no reply, and just as predictably he came on towards Simon’s back. The Saint’s acute hearing measured each step the other man took, plotted his distance, noted the rustle of the material of his jacket as he raised his gun arm above Simon’s head, poising the heavy barrel before smashing it down on the back of his skull.

Then, with a timing that allowed only the shaving of a second’s error, the Saint exploded into action. His whole body ducked and whirled just as Jaeger chopped down with the automatic, and it was only Jaeger’s wrist that landed on Simon’s shoulder — a harmless blunting of the blow that was to have cracked his head with a handful of steel.

In the same tornado of movement that saved him from being knocked out of the window, Simon turned from defence to offence. One of his elbows smashed into Jaeger’s ribs and sent him staggering away. With a speed and balance that left his adversary in total confusion, he continued his pivot, snatched Jaeger’s gun arm, and with a bone-shattering chop of his straightened right hand bashed the pistol out of the man’s fingers to the floor.