Leslie Charteris - The Saint In Action

Not one of the men attempted to move. They knew the Saint's reputation, and they had an earnest and unanimous desire to continue living. Behind the bantering cadence of the Saint's voice there was a glacial chill that converted the cellar into a refrigerator. His gun was extremely visible, too, and the lean brown fingers that held it had a lively quality that made them look as if they would just as soon start squeezing as keep still.

Patricia relieved the clerkly-looking Mr Gump of his gun, and Ferret Eyes threw his own weapon on the floor before she could even turn to him.

"I ain't got no pistol, miss, swelp me I ain't," swore the taxi driver hoarsely.

She believed him, but she patted his pockets just the same. And Simon descended the stairs.

"Now, boys, you can line yourselves up against that wall over there," he said with an indicative flick of his gun muzzle. "And don't forget where you are… Pat, you take this heater and stand well to the side. Here's the torch, too, and keep the light nicely steady… It will interest you birds to know," he added for the benefit of the obedient trio, "that the lady can hit a microbe's eye at fifty yards. If you don't believe me, you only have to bring on your microbes."

He took Mr Gump's gun from Patricia and picked up Ferret Eyes' weapon from the floor; then he swiftly examined both and thrust them into his pocket. From another pocket he produced a second automatic of his own. He never trusted strange weapons. Holding his gun with careless ease, he briefly inspected the taxi driver and Ferret Eyes; he was not particularly interested in either of them since they definitely came within the dull category of small fry. Mr Gump, however, was probably very close to the Z-Man. Mr Gump needed careful investigation. He looked very meek and inoffensive as the Saint started going through his pockets — except perhaps for the snakelike glitter in his eyes behind the gold-rimmed pince-nez — a glitter which belied the disarming weakness of his chin.

And suddenly Mr Gump gave a demonstration which proved him to be either a very rash fool or a very brave man. As Simon Templar was in the act of insinuating a brown hand into Mr Gump's breast pocket a knee shot up and dug itself into the lower region of his stomach. With a simultaneous cohesion of movement Mr Gump grabbed at the Saint's gun and tore it out of Simon's relaxed fingers. In another instant the muzzle was jammed hard against Simon's chest with Mr Gump's finger on the trigger.

"Drop that gun, Miss Holm, or your friend becomes an angel instead of a Saint," said Mr Gump.

Patricia made no movement. Nobody made any movement. And the Saint chuckled.

"That was careless of me, brother — but not so careless as you think," he murmured. "That gun's the one I didn't load."

He raised his hand almost casually and took hold of Mr Gump's small nose. He gripped it very hard between his finger and thumb and twisted it.

Click!

Mr Gump pulled the trigger in a flurry of blind fury and extreme anguish. And that empty click! was the only result. He pulled again, and nothing happened. Nothing, that is, except that the agonizing torque on his sensitive nose increased. He let out a strangled squeal and dropped his useless weapon; and at the same time the Saint released his grip.

"I told you it wasn't loaded," said the Saint, picking up the automatic by the trigger guard and dropping it into his pocket. "I think I'd better use your gun, Andy. But don't try any more tricks like that, or I might really have to hurt you."

Mr Gump did not reply; except for the baleful glitter in his streaming eyes he seemed unmoved. Patricia., who knew the Saint's twisted sense of humour better than anybody, wondered why he had wasted time by amusing himself so childishly at Mr Gump's expense. There must have been a reason somewhere; for Simon Templar never did strange things without a reason, and it was invariably a good one. It was noticeable that he held the new gun, which was loaded with death, in such a way that Mr Gump would never have a chance of grabbing it.

"So we collect pretty pictures, do we?"

The Saint's voice held nothing but tolerant amusement as he inspected the four glossy photographs of feminine pulchritude which he had abstracted from Mr Gump's breast pocket.

"Why not?" said the other defensively. "I'm a film fan."

"Brother, you certainly know how to pick winners," commented the Saint. "This young lady in the voluminous mid-Victorian attire, complete with bustle, is undoubtedly Miss Beatrice Avery, shining star of Triumph Film Productions Limited. Very charming. Of course it's her you thought you were snatching tonight. Number Two, in the exotic Eastern outfit, is the lovely Irene Cromwell, under contract with Pyramid Pictures. We could use her, Andy. Number Three, in the dinky abbreviated beach suit, is no less a person than Sheila Ireland, now starring with Summit Picture Corporation. I can see I shall have to get out my old water wings. And Number Four—" He paused, and his eyes hardened. "Very sad about Number Four, don't you think, Andy? A couple of months ago Miss Mercia Landon was doing the final scenes of her new film for Atlantic Studios. A couple of months ago… And now?"

"I don't know what you're getting at," said Mr Gump woodenly.

"If you don't the Z-Man is very careless in choosing his assistants," answered the Saint.

"What the hell do you mean?" stammered the chinless man, his inward alarm crashing suddenly through the veneer of calm which he had tried to preserve. "There's no harm in my carrying those photographs. Anybody can get them. I'm a film fan—"

"So you told me," agreed the Saint, slipping the photographs into his own pocket. "And a kidnapper in your spare time, too, by the looks of it," he added casually. "Well, I may as well see what the rest of your hobbies arc — although I'm not likely to find anything half so interesting as your favourite film stars."

He put a cigarette into his mouth, lighted it with a match which he sprung into flame with his thumbnail and set it at a rakish angle. If the men before him had known him better they would have sweated with fear, for that rakish slant was an infallible sign that something was going to happen and that he was personally going to start it. Patricia felt her heart beating a shade faster. Except for that one danger signal there was nothing to give her a clue to what was in his mind.

He completed the search, finding cigarettes, matches, money, keys and all the usual contents of an average man's pockets, but nothing to reveal Mr Gump's real identity and nothing to connect him with the mysterious Z-Man. Even the tailor's label inside his breast pocket had been removed.

"Well, gents, we can call it an evening." The Saint wavered his gun muzzle gently over the three men. "Pat, old thing, sling me the torch and then get up to the garage. We've finished here."

She obeyed at once; and a moment later Simon himself was backing up the stairs, keeping his flashlight flooding downwards. As soon as he reached the top he swung the door to and fastened it. It was not a good door. There were cracks in it, the hinges were old and rusted, and the lock had long since ceased to function; but the Saint overcame these trifling drawbacks by the simple expedient of propping three or four heavy wooden stakes against the door. Since it opened outwards the three musketeers would have to work for some time before they could make their escape.

"We have been having a lot of luck lately, haven't we?" Patricia remarked philosophically.

"Have I grumbled?" asked the Saint, making no attempt to lower his voice — and, indeed, speaking quite close to the barricaded cellar door. "We're going to shoot off to Parkside Court now, old dear, and warn Beatrice Avery that she'd better be packing. After what happened to you it's pretty obvious that the ungodly are likely to put in some fast work, and we're going to be just one move ahead of them. If necessary we'll take the fair Beatrice away by force."