Leslie Charteris - The Saint Bids Diamonds

The muffled crack of a single shot came from outside; and then there was a dull bellow that rose into a shrill wail of terror and then died. There was no other sound, and Simon remembered that the dogs hunted in silence…

It was the last thing he did remember. Aliston was a couple of yards away, with his back turned and his gun dangling in one uncertain hand… As the Saint braced his toes into the pile of the carpet for a spring, something smacked into the back of his head… There was an instant of vivid brain — splitting agony, a sprinkle of jagged lightning across his eyeballs, and then darkness.

"Are you hurt?" said Christine.

"My vanity is suffering," said the Saint sourly. "When I pull two sap boners in an hour it makes me shudder. It's my own fault I got hit — I was concentrating so hard on Aliston that I lost sight of Palermo for a minute."

He was lying on the floor of the attic workroom, which was not the most comfortable couch for a man to lie on and suffer. But for the moment he could do nothing to improve it, because both his hands and feet were securely tied. Christine Vanlinden was just as safely trussed, although she had the slight advantage of being tied in a chair.

The actual physical damage which Simon had sustained was not so serious. As a matter of fact, his mind had started to rise towards the surface of the opaque fog which had swallowed it up while he was being carried into the room, and the shock of being dropped on the floor had completed his return to consciousness in time for him to hear the door closing again. He estimated that he could have been out for only a few minutes.

"I was a fool too," Christine said bitterly; and the Saint smiled up at her encouragingly.

"We all do these things occasionally. But you had more excuse than I had."

"Where have they kept you all this time?"

"They haven't been keeping me — that was a fairy tale. Not that it makes much difference. But this is the second time I've been collected."

He went on to tell her the truth of what had happened.

And while he talked he was starting to see if he could reach his knife. This time he was not being watched, as he had been before. He rolled over and twisted his wrist back, forcing it upwards against the bind of the ropes in the supple corkscrew turn which he had practised so many times in the past. He felt the hilt of the knife under the tips of his long fingers, and began to work it down. It moved slowly at first, then more easily as he was able to improve his grip…

"I told you Graner was clever," she said. "You were clever enough to fool him for a little while, but as soon as he knew what was going on it was hopeless."

"You're not flattering," grunted the Saint.

He had the handle of the knife fully into his fingers now, clear of the sheath; and he was turning it back to saw at the cords around his wrists. The muscles of his forearms were beginning to cramp and ache, but his spirits were taking a new lease of optimism which made the pain seem negligible.

One other thing was troubling him much more. It gnawed irritatingly at a third fraction of his mind which was left unoccupied by what he was saying and what he was doing. As he went on talking almost mechanically, the half-formed fear took firmer shape and made his voice sound self-conscious to himself. But he went on with his story, up to the statement of what had happened downstairs.

"… so Reuben pressed the button and set the dogs loose. I suppose Lauber had forgotten about them in his excitement. There was an excuse for him too — if I'd been in his place I don't know that I should have seen any other way to save my bacon. I banked on him doing what he did, and I hadn't forgotten the dogs. I had a reminder when I came in with Reuben, and I was only hoping Reuben hadn't forgotten them as well. It was the last part of my drama that didn't go according to plan."

"The dogs got him?"

"The last thing I heard, it sounded as if he was getting chewed. I guess Graner let them go on chewing."

The effort of reaching the cords round his wrists in the awkward position in which he had to hold his knife was making him wriggle on the floor in a way that must have been strange and alarming to watch, for the girl was staring at him curiously.

"Are you sure you aren't hurt?"

"Not a bit."

The Saint was smiling. He felt another strand of rope give way, and his movements became easier. He relaxed for a instant and then sawed more quickly.

The third thought in his mind went on. Why, after all, was he in that attic with Christine? Undoubtedly the dogs had gone on making a meal of Lauber, and Reuben wouldn't have ventured out to interfere with them until he was sure that Lauber was no longer dangerous. Undoubtedly, also, Palermo had several grudges to pay off, towards which that bang on the back of the Saint's head would only have looked like a reduced preliminary instalment; undoubtedly it would only have seemed an elementary precaution to tie the Saint up until Lauber had been disposed of and the ticket recovered. But just as undoubtedly the next move would be to ask the Saint some questions about Joris and the other man… So why not leave him in the living room, ready for further treatment?

"What happened to Joris?" said Christine.

Simon had known that that was coming. He said: "I left him at the Orotava."

He winked at her as he said it; and at the same time he felt his wrists coming free. He brought his hands round from behind him and laid one finger warningly on his lips before she could speak.

"I thought they'd never look for him there again, since they'd grabbed him there once before."

A couple of quick slashes set his legs free. She was staring at him, breathlessly, incredulously, with a wild light of amazed hope dawning in her face. He whipped out a pencil and a piece of paper, and scrawled quickly:

Don't say anything to give the show away. This place is full of electrical gadgets.

I've got an idea somebody may be listening in.

She nodded her understanding. She was almost laughing with dazed relief.

"There's an aeroplane from Las Palmas to Sevilla on Monday," he said. "I've booked him a berth on it. He'll leave here for Las Palmas tomorrow night on the local interisland boat."

While he was talking he wrote on his scrap of paper:

Booked both of you on the Alicante Star. Leaves at ten tonight. Joris already on board.

He cut her loose from the chair while she was reading it. She looked at him again, her lips parted, half laughing and half crying. As she stood up, her arms went round his neck. The warm young softness of her pressed against him. She was trembling.

"You've done so much," she breathed. - He shook his head.

"We aren't out of the woods yet," he said.

He disengaged himself gently and went to the window. It was a quarter to eight; and the message he had passed to Julian had told him that he could go away at seven-thirty if nothing had happened. But he knew that Julian had never possessed a watch, and he was praying that the characteristically vague Spanish ideas of time would work for once to his advantage… He could have shouted with triumph when he saw the bootblack leaning patiently on his crutch in the shadows under the wall.

Simon tore off a clean piece of paper and wrote on it in Spanish:

Get a taxi and take this to the Señor Uniatz, at the Hotel Orotava. Have it sent to Room 50. Wait for him and bring him here.

Underneath he wrote in English:

I'm at Graner's and in a jam. Grab a taxi and beat it out here. The bearer is oke and will steer you. Bring your Betsy. Get in and raise hell. If you see any dogs, burn them. They're killers.