Leslie Charteris - The Saint Returns

A waitress was passing, carrying on her tray a gigantic platter of flaming shish kebab. In one, swift, fluid movement, like the blurred attack of a hawk, the Saint leaped forward, snatched up one of the long steel spears, dripping blue flame, and hurled it unerringly across the whole width of the room.

Like a blazing arrow it pierced the velvet curtains. A man screamed. Simultaneously the champagne bottle exploded, showering Fenton with foam and glass.

In the ensuing pandemonium, as the would-be assassin fell forward hopelessly entangled in smoldering draperies, Simon moved through panicking masses to the wine-drenched table. But there he found no gratefully uninjured William Fenton. He found no William Fenton at all — which was clearly impossible. So he lifted the edge of the tablecloth, stooped, and found himself looking straight into the unblinking eye of an automatic.

It was natural that the Saint’s fame as a modern buccaneer should have made him vividly remembered by most of those who had had even transient contact with him. William Fenton hesitated only for a split second.

“Simon Templar! Of all people to be rescued by.”

The former naval officer crawled from under the table and put away his weapon.

“I assume it must have been you who put on the spear-throwing exhibition.”

“Who else?” drawled the Saint. “There’s just one infection I couldn’t save you from, even though you seemed in imminent danger of succumbing.”

“What’s that?” Fenton asked as they made their way past hysterically weeping bunnies to the fallen sniper.

“Tularemia.”

“Tularemia?”

“Rabbit fever.”

Three burly policemen had now arrived, and Simon remained at a discreet distance as they extracted the skewer from his victim’s shoulder and the victim from the heavy velvet curtains. Then one of the officers proceeded to haul the wounded man across the room toward what the manager said was the nearest private place: the business office.

The second cop stayed by the exit, while the third blockaded the main entrance, doubtless in an effort to maintain the status quo until the arrival of higher authorities.

The Saint and Fenton went along to the office, having already been implicated by witness, and when the policeman had deposited his groaning burden on the zebra-skin sofa, he turned to them.

“Nun bitte. One of you is the gentleman who threw the shish kebab at this man?”

“Ridiculous though it sounds,” Simon said in fluent German, “Sie haben recht. I did it.”

At that point Fenton interceded, showing a card.

“I am with the British embassy, and this gentleman saved my life. The situation is more involved than I am free to tell you. I would very much appreciate it if you would call Herr Gratz of your Special Branch and request in my name, as you see here on the card, that he come to this club at once.”

The policeman drew himself up with greater respect.

“Jawohl, Herr Fenton. But both of you gentlemen must remain here, please. No one is allowed to leave the building.”

“Of course,” Fenton said. “But would you ask these other people to leave the room? It seems improper...”

“Understood, Herr Fenton. Naturally.”

A few moments later Simon and Fenton were alone with the sniper, who looked at them with understandable moodiness from beneath his weedy black hair.

“What is your name?” the intelligence officer snapped.

“Hahn.”

“Tell us what this is all about. And quickly.”

Hahn closed his eyes and compressed his lips. Fenton glanced around the room, which obviously had been gotten up to conform with certain magazine specifications of the ideal seduction chamber, even down to the drooling red and orange abstract painting over the fireplace.

Fenton took up a poker from the cold hearth.

“I’m not going to play around. Who is doing this, and why?”

Hahn opened his eyes, but did not answer.

“I’ll use this on your shoulder. I’m not in the least squeamish.”

Hahn shrank back and gasped, “Please. No. A man offers a job. I take it.”

“What man?” Fenton asked.

“A man in a bar, no doubt,” said the Saint, “whose face and name you can’t remember.”

“Ja,” Hahn agreed.

“Judging from your inexpert performance out there,” Simon said, “I’m almost inclined to believe you.”

“Their lot have killed thirteen Russian intelligence agents in four months,” Fenton put in. “They’re trained assassins, not casual labor.”

Hahn turned his head away.

“I’ve put him on a skewer already,” said the Saint good-naturedly. “I’d have no compunctions about roasting him. After all, he’s a Hahn, and pretty foul to boot.”

“But let’s pluck him first,” Fenton put in, shamelessly continuing the pun. He grasped the man’s lapels and pulled him wincing to his feet. “If you please, Simon.”

A brief but expert frisk revealed only one thing of interest: a two way transistor radio about the size of a cigarette box.

“Standard Russian equipment,” Fenton said, dropping Hahn back onto the sofa.

“Where’d you get it?” Simon asked.

“The man, he says when I finish the job I report back to him, with that.”

“Where is he?”

“I do not know.”

“Then report,” Fenton said, taking the radio and shoving it into Hahn’s hand. “Tell him I’m dead.”

Hahn was hesitant.

“Go on,” demanded Fenton.

“Neun zu sieben. Neun zu sieben. Antworten Sie, bitte.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me for a second,” Simon murmured, “I want to take a look through the door at a pal out here.”

He had felt sure that the police would not let the bartender wander far, and he was right. Without even leaving the doorway of the office, he could see the blond man occupying himself intently with something just below the counter. Behind Simon, Hahn was still intoning his numerical incantation.

“Neun zu sieben. Neun zu sieben.”

But then, as the bartender continued his operations, the Saint heard a soft electronic whine in the office behind him, rising in pitch and volume like the sound of an irate mosquito. He spun around.

“Fenton, run!”

He could see Hahn, puzzled, holding the radio away from his ear. Fenton was already diving for cover.

“Throw it away, man,” he was yelling. “Into the fireplace! Fast!”

Simon escaped the blast with an agile move which put him just outside the door. The explosion was small in range but noisy and very effective. It had turned the unfortunate Hahn into an abstraction with little more recognizable form than the painting which now sagged at a rakish angle over the mantelpiece.

William Fenton picked his way through the smoke and debris.

“At last I’ve actually seen it happen.”

“Something you’ve been looking forward to?” asked the Saint. “And people say radio’s lost its punch.”

A policeman shoved his way through the newly gathered mob at the door and stared at the wreckage.

“We’re all right,” Fenton said. “But this man is not.”

“I see,” said the policeman, closing the door and hurrying to the body. “What happened?”

“When Herr Gratz comes he will explain.”

“The bartender will already have escaped in the confusion, of course,” Simon said. “But just in case, why don’t you check on it?”

The policeman gave orders to a comrade as Fenton asked, “The bartender?”

“Yes. He seemed to be twiddling with some gadget over at the bar at just about the time Herr Hahn went up in smoke. Now if you’d explain the background of these fireworks...”

“It’s part of a death campaign,” Fenton said. “The organized assassination of intelligence agents.”