Leslie Charteris - The Saint in Miami

"Suppose I came here to tell you something?"

"To warn me off?" he said quizzically. "I've been warned off before."

"Damn you!" she flashed. "You wouldn't have to tell me you wouldn't be warned. Anyone would know it You're the Saint — the King of Crime — the magnificent infallible hero! You couldn't be told that you were meddling with something too tough for you. I wouldn't waste my time."

"Then what?" he inquired equably.

She mastered the temper that went so well with her proud fiery head.

"I might be able to tell you where Haskins found the note that brought him here. I might—"

A whining sound like that of a magnified malignant mosquito zipping between them cut her off. From the direction of the driveway a rifle cracked, sending its echo bouncing out to sea. Frozenly she turned her head and stared at the scar where a mushroom bullet had excavated its own grave in the stucco wall.

Bushes crashed at the base of the palms along the driveway. Simon saw the fluttering movement of the foliage, and heard a squeal reminiscent of a frightened rat, and the sound of a heavy fall. Instinctively he reached for Karen Leith, and was ready to swing her out of the way of whatever might be developing. With her soft figure in the curve of his arm, he stood warily watching the shrubbery.

"You can always find some excuse for this sort of thing, can't you?" she remarked, with commendable sangfroid.

"Its a knack I have," he said, without a shift of his keen blue eyes.

The nearer oleanders began to sway. They parted, making way for the passage of Hoppy Uniatz's pithecanthropoid physique.

Mr Uniatz clutched a rifle in one hand, and the neck of a denim-clad figure in the other. His homely face was beatific with the consciousness of work well done as he ploughed towards the patio with both his burdens at trail. The worn heels of the lanky captive in his right hand bumped limply along behind him, kicking up little spurts of dust.

He waded through an intervening bed of assorted petunias, leaving a wide swath of destruction behind him, and dumped his prize at Simon's feet with the pleased and playful air of a spaniel bringing in a bird.

"Dis is de lug," he said. "He shoots at ya once before I can get to him."

He swung his foot at the offender broodingly. "Before you boot him to death," Simon intervened, "let's find out if he's got anything to say."

He released the girl, and inspected the catch with interest. The man was breathing noisily, sucking in gobs of air to replenish the supply which had been temporarily cut off by the clutch of Hoppy's ungentle hand. He stared back up at Simon with sunken rabbit eyes which formed reddish beads in a face of a million lines. The wrinkles converged on loose-hung lips drawn back over snaggly yellow teeth. Topping the face was a dirty thatch of unkempt hair.

"A very pretty creature," said the Saint, and turned to Karen. "Is he a friend of yours?"

Her red lips tightened. "Thanks for the flattery."

"Well, have you ever seen him before?"

"Thank God, no. Why should I have?"

"I just wondered," said the Saint carelessly, "who he was aiming at."

From behind them, Patricia asked anxiously: "What happened, boy? We heard the shot from the beach."

The red-haired girl whirled round and stared at her with detached appraisal. Peter Quentin came up on the run and stopped beside Pat, and did his own staring. As between expert inventories, there was nothing much in it for either side to claim an edge.

"Friends of mine," said the Saint. "Miss Holm and Mr Quentin." He pointed to the bullet hole in the wall. "Miss Leith very kindly came here to tell me something, and she was about to do it when our little playmate took a pot at us."

"I warn't shootin' at nobody," the man broke out in a sullen whine.

"Get up," ordered the Saint coldly.

The man hesitated, and Hoppy prodded him in the stomach with the muzzle of the rifle.

"Giddap, youse! You hoid what de boss said." The man scrambled to his feet, and Hoppy turned to Simon. "Lemme woik him over a bit, boss. I can break him down."

"In the rumpus room," said the Saint Mr Uniatz took hold of the prisoner's collar and moved him off, encouraging his progress by goosing him briskly in the stern with the rifle barrel. Simon followed, and was not surprised to find the others silently entering the play room after him.

He waved them to chairs, and carefully closed the door. The room was spacious and rather bare, an admirable venue for some mildly athletic cross-examination. Best of all, it was well soundproofed with an eye to its normal function; but that features was equally convenient for other things. Mr Uniatz pushed the scowling captive into a seat, and then became aware that in addition to its other advantages the room also contained a bar. It seemed to him that this was a last refining touch of architectural genius. Satisfied that the situation was now under the Saint's adequate command, he eased away on a voyage of exploration…

Simon straddled a chair, leaned on his folded arms, and scrutinised the specimen for dissection for a leisured period which was intended to give it every opportunity to realise its predicament.

"You can make it just as tough as you like, brother," he announced at length. "What were you shooting at us for?"

The man glared back at him with stubborn animosity, wriggling uneasily on the edge of the hard seat which.Hoppy had chosen for him. The overalls he wore were a shade too small. An ungainly stretch of sockless ankle showed white above the tops of his shoes. "What's your name?" asked the Saint patiently. The red eyes squinted.

"None of your goddam—"

The rest of the speech was cut off with a clunking sound as Mr Uniatz tapped him moderatingly on the side of the head with the bottle of Peter Dawson which he had just opened. "'I can make him come t'ru, boss," he volunteered. "I know a guy once in Brooklyn I have to ask questions about some dough he is holdin' out. He talks for two hours straight when I hold matches under his toes."

"You see, brother," Simon explained. "Hoppy gets homesick for the good old days every now and again and wants to play, and I simply haven't the heart to refuse him."

The man's gnarled fingers clasped and unclasped nervously. He ran one hand up the leg of his overalls to remove sweat from the palm.

"My name's Lafe Jennet," he said sulkily. "I was shootin' at a bird. You ain't goin' to kill nobody and you ain't goin' to hurt nobody, and I ain't aimin' to talk none to you."

"Boss," pleaded Mr Uniatz, wanning to the flow of inspiration and Scotch whisky, "I got anudder idea. You get some pliers outa de car an' take hold of de guy's toenails—"

"We may have time to try both," said the Saint cheeringly. "Take off his shoe."

He rose and turned his back and strolled towards a window. He heard Hoppy's frightening voice. "Stick out ya foot or I'll kick ya shins in."

"The other one," Simon said without looking round. "Not the one he stuck out. Take off his other shoe."

"It don't make no difference, boss. It woiks the same."

"The other shoe, Hoppy."

He gazed out at the sunlit scene outside, and waited. The sound of a brief scuffle ended in a grunt of pain. "It's off, boss. Which ja wanna try foist?"

Karen Leith crushed out her cigarette and gave a tiny sigh.

"Take a look at his ankle and tell me what you see," Simon instructed.

"Chees, boss, he's got ringwoim," Hoppy exclaimed admiringly. "Howja know dat?"

"It's the gall of a leg-iron." Simon turned from the window and strode back towards the prisoner. "You've been towing around a ball in a chain gang, Lafe. You ought to have blown yourself to a pair of socks. The mark shows."

"You're pretty damn smart, ain't you?" Jennet spat out. "Well, I been in a chain gang an' I served my time. So what's it to you?"