Leslie Charteris - The Saint in Miami

The flatwoods ended suddenly, cut off in a sharp edge by encroaching grass and palmettos. Still in the shelter of the trees, he redoubled his caution and halted Hoppy and Jennet with a word.

He stared out over a far-flung panorama of flatness baked to a crusty brown by years of relentless sun. A covey of quail zoomed up out of the bushes ahead with a loud whirr of wings, and were specks along the edge of the trees before the startled Hoppy could reach for his gun.

A narrow footpath wound away through the palmettos. The Saint's eyes traced its crooked course to where the unpainted square bulk of a two-storied houseboat broke the emptiness of the barren plain. Boards covered the windows on the side towards him, but a flash of reflected light from the upper deck showed that at least one window remained unboarded at the stern. The palmettos hid any sign of water, giving an illusion that the houseboat rested on land.

Lafe Jennet said: "Come on."

The Saint's arm barred his way.

"Will Gallipolis be there now?"

"He's always there. Most time durin' the afternoon he runs a game."

Simon tramped out his cigarette, conscious of the revealing smoke.

"Keep him here," he instructed Hoppy. "Don't come any closer unless I call for you, or you hear too many guns going off. Keep well hidden. And if I don't get back by dark, give him the works, will you?"

He moved off like a shadow through the trees to a point where the flatwoods bellied out closest to the barge. The rest of it was not going to be so easy, for even that shortened stretch was at least a quarter of a mile without any obvious cover. Evidently Mr Gallipolis had chosen his location with a prevision of unannounced attack that would have done credit to a potential general. A single marksman could have picked off a dozen men between the trees and the boat, even though the invading forces took it at a run; while suitable preparations for any less vigorous visitor could be made on board long before he came within hailing distance.

Simon stopped again at the point of the wood, and slapped a mosquito on his neck. A squirrel chattered rowdily in a nearby tree, protesting against the Saint's intrusion. The sudden noise made the patterned landscape of glaring light and eccentric shadow seem unconscionably still.

He leaned against a tree and let a rapid newsreel of the events of the day run through his mind, trying to pick out of it some guiding inkling of March's campaign; but it was not a profitable delay. He could always appreciate the finer points of an adversary's inventiveness, but the introduction of Lafe Jennet and Gallipolis and the thus far legendary Jesse Rogers formed a kaleidoscope that was hard to fit in to any preconceived pattern. The only apparently comprehensive theory was the one which Peter Quentin had propounded, and yet even that still had one vital flaw It did not take into account the protective letter with which March must credit him with having covered his exposed flank. He couldn't believe that the ungodly would have him killed without first having dealt with that contingency. And yet there was very little sense left in any supposition which could make his projected call on Mr Gallipolis seem foolproof.

The Saint shrugged defeatedly. After all, there was still only one positive way to find out.

He tested the freeness of his gun in his shoulder holster, dropped to the ground, and began to crawl.

The palmetto bushes made a barrier that jabbed stinging points through his light clothing. Saw-edged grass rasped smartingly against his face and neck. His shirt was soaked with perspiration before he had gone fifty yards; and he was cursing artistically under his breath by the time the sandy ground pitched sharply up, barring his way with the dredged-out bank of the canal.

The bank was bare of vegetation. He lay flat and wriggled his way to the top of the ten-foot rise of sand and clay. Working one eye warily over the summit, he took stock again of the houseboat twenty paces away. The boarded windows stared blankly back at him. Except for a pair of grey socks dangling limply from a line on the top deck near the bow, the ancient craft might have been abandoned for years.

A foot from his head, something moved; and the dampness of his shirt turned cold.

It was something that had been so still, blending so well into the baked desolation of its background, that without the movement he might have missed it entirely. The movement brought it to life in mosaic coils of deadly beauty, while he lay rigid and felt his muscles tautening like shrinking leather. Black, unwinking eyes stared impersonally into his, making the skin of his face creep as if cobwebs had touched it. Then the coils straightened fluidly out, and a five-foot cottonmouth moccasin slithered gracefully away.

The Saint used his forearm to wipe clammy dew from his brow. There might not actually be any sniper waiting on the barge for him to show himself, but the dangers of his present method of approach had been unmistakably demonstrated.

In any case, the decision to abandon them was now virtually taken out of his hands. Between the point he had reached, and the sluggish water where the barge floated, there was literally no cover at all. The space had to be crossed, and the only way was to do it quickly.

He raised himself up on to his toes and fingertips, and took off over the top like a sprinter. Bent low to the ground, he shot across those few perilous yards with the sure-footed soundlessness of a fiddler crab scooting for its hole, and boarded the stern with no more uproar than a fragment of rising mist.

There was no shot.

He stood with his back to the bulkhead and got his breath, listening to a clink of chips and a mumble of voices that were audible through a torn screen door. But it seemed that the sounds came from some distance away amidships, and he opened the door and sidled through into dimness. As his eyes adjusted themselves to the gloom, he saw an oil stove, racked-up dishes, a sink, and a stained table. Across from him was another door, and beyond that he found a narrow hall The voices came from an open door which made a rectangle of light in the dark passage. A game seemed to be unconcernedly in progress, and there were no other symptoms at all of an alarm. Unless the stage had been very carefully set for him, his entrance seemed to have been achieved without a hitch.

And once again, there was only one way to find out.

He sauntered noiselessly down the hall and walked into the open room.

Five men sat around a baize-covered table. A tired-looking man in a green eyeshade sat with his back to a window dealing stud. An even more tired-looking cigarette drooped from his lower lip. As he called the bets in a tired monotone, the cigarette wobbled up and down. The five men raised their heads from the cards as the Saint came in. One of them looked horsy; the other three were in shirtsleeves and seemed about as menacing as bookkeepers on a holiday.

The dealer flipped up five cards and said: "King bets." He lowered his eyeshade again and continued in his breath-saving tone: "Five dollar limit stud. The house kitty's fifty cents out of each pot over five dollars. It's an open game. Don't stand around watching. If you want to play, take a chair."

He shoved one out beside him with some pedal jugglery, while he dealt the second round, and Simon sat down because the chair faced the door.

The dealer pushed chips in front of him.

"The yellows are five, the blues one, the reds a half, and the whites a quarter. Fifty bucks, and you pay now."

Simon peeled money off his roll, and looked over the room while the hand was finished. There was nothing much to it. A double gasoline lantern hung over the table. The light from the window, which was on the water side of the barge and open, cut a square shaft of light through a fog of cigarette and cigar smoke. The walls had two or three Petty drawings tacked up on them.