Leslie Charteris - The Saint 49 Count On The Saint

Mr. Jonathan Dankin was sitting in the corner of the back seat. He switched on the interior light as the Saint climbed in and settled himself in the other corner. The driver remained outside, but so close that his frame blocked the window. Simon looked from the minder to Dankin.

“I see you don’t believe in taking chances,” he observed approvingly, and the Prof again gave his impression of a smile.

“In our business, Mr. Grondheim, one can’t afford to. Do you have the money?”

“Naturally.”

Simon opened the briefcase, on his knees, and permitted the Prof a glimpse of the neatly packed bundles of currency it contained.

His own gaze rested on the violin case which lay on the seat between them. Understanding the meaning of his look, the Prof flicked up the catches and took out the chalice, handing it across as casually as if he had been offering his guest a cigarette.

The Saint held the chalice in both hands and smiled. He inspected it for a few seconds, just to make sure that it was the genuine article and not a hastily manufactured substitute, and then faced Dankin squarely. “Just what I’ve been looking for,” he stated with absolute honesty.

The Prof smiled.

“Then it’s a deal?”

The Saint slowly shook his head, and when he spoke again there was no longer any trace of his former accent.

“I’m afraid, Prof, my little parasite, that you have been had, well and truly, one hundred per cent taken for the proverbial ride,” he explained softly. “You see, this chalice means a lot to a very dear friend of mine and I’m committed to returning it to him, and I’ve already gone to considerable expense to locate it.”

Dankin stared at his client while the words registered their meaning and then he opened his mouth to shout. The Saint did nothing to stop him. While he was speaking he had released the door catch and at the same time carefully placed the sole of his left shoe flat against the panel halfway between window and floor.

The Prof shouted and the minder outside turned and the Saint straightened his leg. The heavy door flew open and its edge caught the bodyguard flush in the centre of his chest and sent him reeling back. Before he could completely regain his balance the Saint was out of the car.

It is doubtful if the minder ever understood the precise sequence of the events which followed. One instant he felt himself stumbling backwards, his arms flailing as he attempted to remain vertical. Then he stopped retreating as two clamps appeared to fasten themselves on his collar and belt, and then he was flying back towards the car. Very soon afterwards his head made contact with the ground on the far side of the Rolls, and then he slept.

The Prof was still gaping out of the opposite window at his slumbering employee when the Saint leaned in and retrieved his briefcase and the violin case from the seat beside him. Dankin jerked round, instinctively cowering at the movement, but making only a feeble attempt to prevent it.

“You’ll never get away with this,” he said furiously.

The Saint laughed.

“I wish I had a tenner for every time someone has said that to me,” he remarked, and then his tone became serious. “One last thing, Prof, and I’ll be on my way. Who sold you the chalice?”

Simon waited for an answer but Dankin only goggled at him. It was a brace of seconds before the Saint realised that the fence was not looking at him but past him. In that same moment he heard the rustle of grass and spun round just in time to meet the first of the trio of men who had sprung from the bushes beside the kerb.

The pundit who proclaimed that when history repeats itself the first time it is tragedy and the second farce was commenting on weightier matters than an attempt at grievous bodily harm, but that does not make the pronouncement any less applicable.

This adventure had opened with the robber robbed, and the clear intention of the three heavies now bearing down on the Saint was to top it in exactly the same manner. The first occasion had threatened tragedy for Father Bernardo, the mission in general, and Taffy Owen in particular. The second might turn out to be farce but, Simon decided, it would be he who did the laughing.

This time too there was a difference. The Saint saw the attack coming and after the frustrations of the preceding days he would have happily taken on double the opposition purely for the pleasure of the exercise.

They came in a ragged line, the man in the centre a pace ahead of his companions. He wore a precision-tailored dinner jacket and spotless patents, his face was freshly scrubbed, and not one slicked-down hair was out of place. He looked as if he belonged on a dance floor rather than on a battleground, and he could hardly have presented a greater contrast to his companions.

The one to his right was thin-faced, a head shorter, and his rattish features were a day overdue for a shave. The third member of the party towered over them all, with a head like a boulder perched on shoulders like cliffs. They were known to their peers by the handles of Dandy, Slasher, and Bull.

The Saint recognised them; and their presence answered a question that had been bothering him since the previous morning. Now, untroubled, there was nothing else to do but enjoy the fun.

Dandy was within striking distance a fraction of a second after Simon completed his turn, and the two feet of lead pipe he carried was already swishing the air in the direction of the Saint’s cranium. That it dented the roof of the Rolls and not its target was solely due to a co-ordinated flow of reflex actions which sent the Saint earthwards as fast as if a trap door had opened beneath him. When he had descended as far as he could he came up again with the velocity of a howitzer shell.

Having missed at the first attempt, the speed of the Saint’s counter allowed him no margin for a second. The top of the Saint’s forehead exploded beneath his chin, and as Simon continued upwards his attacker began to go down. And that, simply and undramatically, was that.

Bull and Slasher now closed in from either side, but the Saint did not wait to receive them. Instead he went forward, jumping nimbly over the still crumpling Dandy and turning in the air as he went. Confused, both men halted and hesitated; the Saint did not. He sidestepped to his right, so placing the now prone figure of Dandy between himself and Bull. The move gave him invaluable seconds in which to concentrate on the smallest member of the committee.

As a straight opponent, the little man would have been an outside bet if the Saint had had his leg in plaster. But the cutthroat razor which glinted in his hand lowered the odds considerably.

Simon had no desire for what is termed in that locality a “Soho facial,” and there was an experienced air about the way the razor was held which inferred that Slasher was quite accustomed to providing such cosmetic surgery.

With Bull beginning to lumber forward to his left and the razor merchant beginning to advance behind his blade directly ahead, the Saint moved to his right. It was a situation the Marquis of Queensberry had not legislated for, and in such circumstances the Saint considered that the belt should be worn around the knees.

His foot travelled upwards and his leg straightened as his toe thudded into the little man’s groin. Slasher screamed, and the razor slipped from his fingers as he doubled over. The Saint stepped in swiftly and his fist slammed up into the thug’s face with a force that sent him sprawling backwards to land in a writhing heap at Bull’s feet.

Bull carried no weapon simply because he had always found that his physique made them unnecessary. He charged into the attack in a worthy imitation of his namesake. Any of his flailing punches would have ended the fight immediately had it connected, but the Saint was careful to ensure that they did not connect. He was giving away two inches in height and roughly eighty pounds in weight, and if he did not respect the man’s skill as a boxer he respected the physical differences.