Leslie Charteris - Vendetta for the Saint

Outside the gate he stopped again, listening for following footsteps, but he did not hear any. He could have profited by his lead to run on down the road in either direction, leaving the Ungodly to guess which way he had chosen; but that would also have left them one avenue of escape where he could not hinder them or see them go. Now if two of them came on foot, he worked it out, he would have to slug the nearest one with his gun barrel and hope he would still have time to fire it at the second; if there were three or more, the subsequent developments would be very dicey indeed. On the other hand, if they came by car, he would have to shoot at the driver and hope that the glass was not tough enough to resist buckshot.

He waited tensely, but it seemed as if the pursuers had paused to lick their wounds, or were maneuvering for something more stealthy.

Then he heard something quite different: a distant sound of machinery rumbling rapidly closer. It was keyed by the throaty voice of the Bugatti, but filled out by an accompaniment of something more high-pitched and fussy. Lights silhouetted the bend from the village and then swept around it. The Bugatti, with Ponti at the wheel and Lieutenant Fusco beside him, was plainly illuminated for a moment by the lights of the following scout car, before its own headlights swung around and blinded him. Simon ran towards them, holding both hands high with the shotgun in one of them, hoping that it would stop any trigger-happy warrior mistaking him for an attacking enemy.

The Bugatti burnt rubber as it slowed, and Simon side-stepped to let it bring Ponti up to him.

“You took long enough,” he said rudely. “Did I forget to show you how to get into top gear?”

“Lieutenant Fusco would not abandon his scout car, and I had to hold back for them to keep up with us,” said the detective. “Did you have any luck?”

“Quite a lot — and in more ways than one.” Simon thought the details could wait. “There are at least six of them in that house behind the wall: four live ones, big shots, a guard whom I may have killed, and a woman who would make a good mother to an ogre.”

Fusco jumped out and shouted back to his detachment: “Report to the Major where we are and that we are going in after them, then follow me.”

“A good thing we’re not trying to surprise them,” Simon remarked. “But they already know they’re in trouble. The only question is whether they will surrender or fight.”

They went through the gate and up the short driveway together. The three soldiers from Fusco’s scout car followed, their boots making the noise of a respectable force before they fanned out across the lawn.

Ponti produced a flashlight and shone it at the front door which Simon had left half open.

“Come out with your hands up,” he shouted from the foot of the steps, “or we shall come in and take you.”

There was no answer, and the beam showed no one in what could be seen of the hall.

“This is my job,” Ponti said, and shoved Simon aside as he ran up the steps.

Fusco ran after him, and Simon had to recover his balance before he could get on the Lieutenant’s heels. But no shots greeted them, and the hall and staircase showed empty to the sweep of Ponti’s flashlight. A flickering yellow luminance came from the door of the dining room, however, and when they reached it they saw Skullface and Scarface lying on the floor groaning, while the woman of the house tried to minister to their bloodstained legs by the light of a candle.

Cirano also lay on the floor, but he was not groaning. There was a single red stain on his shirt, and his eyes were open and sightless. His magnificent nose stood up between them like a tombstone.

Ponti bent over him briefly, and looked up at the Saint.

“Did you do this?”

Simon shook his head.

“No. The others, yes — with this.” He broke the shotgun, extracting one spent and one unused shell. “I didn’t have a pistol. But Destamio did, and so did these two, and so did Florence Nightingale. I broke the light” — he pointed to it — “and they were all blazing away in the dark. It could have been an accident. You will have to try matching bullets to guns. But there is one gun missing.” He turned to the woman. “ Dov’é Destamio?”

She glared at him without answering.

“There must be a back way out,” Simon said. “Or else—”

He turned and pushed two of the bersaglieri who were crowding at the door.

“Go and watch the garage,” he snapped. “And one of you block the driveway with you car.”

He went on across the hall and opened the door on the opposite side. It led to the kitchen, which was lit by a weak electric bulb over the sink. He strode across it to another door, which was ajar. Ponti was following him. They stepped out into darkness and fresh air.

“Your back way,” Ponti said. “We should have looked for it before we came in at the front.”

“If Al used it, he was probably gone before you got here,” said the Saint. “Now, is he holed up somewhere else in the village, or would he try to make it out of here on foot? If Olivetti and his troops catch up soon enough, you might still be able to cordon off the area.”

The detective was shining his flashlight this way and that. They were in a small walled courtyard with an old well in one corner, garbage cans in another, and an opening to a narrow alley in a third. The light swung to the fourth corner, and a brief pungent malediction dropped from Ponti’s lips.

“I think we are already much too late,” he said.

In the fourth corner, a short passage led back to a pair of large wide-open doors, beyond which was a bare-walled emptiness, and at the back of that the inside of another pair of doors, which were closed.

“God damn and blast it, the garage!” Simon gritted. “With doors at both ends, and a back alley to drive out. What every Mafia boss’s home should have. And if there was a boss-grade car in it, he could be twenty kilometers away already.”

They returned through the house, and Simon went on out of the front door and across to the gate. Ponti stayed with him.

“The guard I incapacitated is under those bushes,” Simon said, pointing as he passed them.

“Where are you going?” Ponti asked.

Simon squeezed past the scout car which had been moved into the opening.

“I’m taking back my car and going home, thanking you for a delightful evening,” said the Saint. “There’s nothing more I can do here. But if I happen to run into Al again I will let you know.”

“I think you have an idea where to look for him, and I ought to forbid you to try anything more on your own,” Ponti grumbled. “But since you would only deny it, I can only ask you to let me see him alive if possible. The two whose legs you peppered, I know them, and they will be good to see in the dock, but Destamio would make it still better.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” said the Saint ambiguously. He cranked up the Bugatti and climbed in. “Which is the way to the coast road?”

“Turn to the right on the main street, and take the next fork on the left. It is not very far. Arriverderci.”

“Ciao,” said the Saint, and backed the great car around and gunned it away.

It was in fact less than ten minutes to the coast highway, and it was with a heartfelt sigh of relief that he greeted its firm paving and comparatively easy curves. In spite of his steel-wire stamina, the accumulated exertions and shortage of sleep of the last few days had taken their inevitable toll, and he was beginning to fight a conscious battle with fatigue. Now it was less of a strain to make speed, and in the next miles he broke all the speed limits and most of the traffic laws; but fortunately it was still too early for any police cars or motorcycles to be abroad.