Saint in New York Read Online Free PDF Page B

debonair
gaze like the flick of a rapier thrust—eyes that held a greater
terror for the Honourable Judge than the steady shape of the automatic.
    He sat there, leaning slightly forward in his
chair, with his heavy body stiffening and his fleshy nostrils dilating,
for a space of ten terrific seconds. The only sound was the thud of his own
heart and the suddenly abnormally loud tick of the clock that stood on
his desk. And then, with an effort which brought the sweat out
in beads on his forehead, he tried to shake off the supernatural fear that
was winding its icy grip around his chest.
    He started to heave himself forward, but he
got no further than that brief convulsive start. With a faint, flippant
smile, the Saint whirled the automatic once around his forefinger by the
trigger guard and came on into the room. After that one derisive gesture
the butt of the gun settled into his hand again, as smoothly
and surely as if there were a socket there for it.
    “Don’t disturb yourself, comrade,”
purred the Saint. “I know the book of rules says that a host should
always rise when receiving a guest, but just for once we’ll forget the
for malities. Sit down, Your Honour—and keep on making your self at
home.”
    The judge shifted his frozen gaze from the
automatic to the Saint’s face. The cadences of that gentle, mocking
voice drummed eerily on through his memory. It was a voice that matched the
eyes and the debonair stance of the intruder— a voice that for some
strange reason reawakened the clammy terror that he had known when he first
looked up and met that cavalier blue gaze. The last of the colour drained
out of his sallow cheeks, and twin pulses beat violently in his throat.
    “What is the meaning of this infernal
farce?” he demanded, and did not recognize the raw jaggedness of his own voice.
    “If you sit down I’ll tell you all about
it,” murmured the Saint. “If you don’t—well, I noticed a
slap-up funeral parlour right around the corner, with some
jolly-looking coffins at bargain prices. And this is supposed to be a lucky
month to die in.”
    The eyes of the two men clashed in an almost
physical en counter, like the blades of two duellists engaging; but
the Saint’s smile did not change. And presently Judge Nather sank back
heavily in his chair, with his face a pasty white and the dew of
perspiration on his upper lip.
    “Thanks a lot,” said the Saint.
    He relaxed imperceptibly, loosening the crook
of his finger fractionally from the trigger. With unaltered elegance he moved himself sideways to the door and turned the key in the lock with a
flick of his wrist. Then he strolled unhurriedly back across the
deep-piled rug towards His Honour.
    He hitched his left hip up onto the corner of
the mahogany desk and settled himself there, with one polished shoe swing ing
negligently back and forth. One challenging blue eye slid over the
fallen heap of bills that lay between himself and his host, and his brows tilted speculatively.
    He poked at the nest egg with the nozzle of
his gun, scatter ing
the bills across the table in a golden cascade.
    “Must be quite a cozy little total,
Algernon,” he remarked. “Almost enough to make me forget my
principles.”
    “So it’s robbery, eh?” grated
Nather; and the Saint thought he could detect a note of relief in the words.
    He shook his head rather sadly, turning wide
innocent eyes on
his victim.
    “My dear Judge—you wrong me, I merely
mentioned that I was struggling against temptation. This really started
to be just a sociable interview. I want to know where you were born and why,
and what penitentiary you graduated from, and what you think about
disarmament, and whether your face was always so repulsive or if somebody
trod on it. I wasn’t thinking of stealing anything.”
    His gaze reverted to the sheaf of bills,
meditatively, as though the thought was nevertheless penetrating slowly
into his mind, against his will; and the judge moistened his dry