The Saint in Action Read Online Free PDF Page A

was raking the street and surrounding pavements instinctively, before he realized the futility of the effort. He realized a moment afterwards that the shot could only have come from another car, which had crept up alongside the taxi so that some philanthropist could fire at him through the offside window as he boarded the cab from the pavement. As he started to search the scenery for the offending vehicle a bus crashed past, shutting off his field of vision like a moving curtain; and as it went on its bulk effectively obliterated any glimpse he might have had of a car making off in the same direction.
    Fortunately the gun must have been silenced; and the taxi driver must have taken the accompanying sound effects for a combination of the cough of a passing exhaust and the clumsiness of his passenger, for he had not even looked round. As the Saint settled onto the seat and closed the door through which he had entered he grated the gears together and chugged away without any apparent awareness of the sensational episode that had taken place a few inches behind his unromantic back.
    Simon took out a handkerchief and dabbed his chin where it had been nicked by a flying splinter of glass. Then he reached forward, unlatched the damaged door and slammed it again with all his strength. The glass with the bullet hole in it shattered with the impact and tinkled down Into the road.
    This time the driver did look round, jamming on his brakes at the same time.
    “‘Ere,” he protested plaintively, “wot’s all this?”
    “I’m sorry,” said the Saint in distress. “The door wasn’t fastened properly, and I must have banged it a bit too hard. I’ll have to pay you for it.”
    “That you will,” said the driver. “Free pahnds each, them winders cost.”
    “Okay,” said the Saint. “You’ll get your three pounds.”
    “Ar,” said the driver.
    ‘ He ground the gears again and sent the cab spluttering on, slightly mollified by the prospect of collecting double the cost of the repair; and the Saint sat back and took out a cigarette.
    As far as he was concerned it was worth the bonus to dispose of a witness who might have inconvenient recollections of a fare who allowed himself to be shot at fru winders; but there were other points less easy to dispose of, and he was still considering them when he opened the door of his flat in Cornwall House.
    He found Patricia with her feet up on the settee, smoking a cigarette, while Geoffrey Graham, balanced on springs on the edge of a chair as usual, appeared to be expounding the principles of architecture.
    “… You see, it isn’t only functional, but the rhythmic balance of mass has to have a definite harmonic correlation–-“
    “Yippee,” said the Saint gravely. “But what about the unco-ordinated finials?”
    The young man jumped up, turned pink and spilt some beer from the tankard he was clutching. Patricia looked up with a rather wan smile.
    “You haven’t been very long,” she said. “Mr Graham and I were only just getting to know each other.”
    “I should have said you were getting pretty intimate, myself,” murmured the Saint. “When you decide that it isn’t only functional and start to get a spot of harmonic correlation into your rhythmic masses–-“
    “That’s enough,” said Patricia.
    “That’s what I thought,” said the Saint. “However …”
    He grinned and sat down beside her. Even under the mask of irrepressible flippancy which rarely left him she could feel the keyed alertness vibrating within him like a charge of electricity.
    “What’s been happening?” she asked.
    “I’ve been on a party.”
    Graham’s eyes beamed behind his glasses.
    “Did you see Ingleston?”
    “Oh yes. And very handsome he looked. You did a lovely job on the back of his head.”
    “I did a–-“
    “No, I don’t really believe that. But I just wanted to see how you’d take it, to make sure.” Simon reached for the cigarette box. “Somebody else did, though.