The Saint in Trouble Read Online Free PDF Page A

minutes calculating angles and distances. This task completed, he settled back to enjoy the ride.
    They had zigzagged through on to the main road out of town westwards towards Antibes, but now immediately took a minor side road on the left that wound steeply up into the landscaped terraces of the snob residential section known idolatrously as La Californie. From the car, there were occasional backward glimpses of the sea shimmering in the summer warmth, but the best views were reserved to the expensive properties set back from the road, most of which were established before the upper classes had accepted the practice of sea bathing. To an unobservant observer, Simon Templar might have seemed to have fallen half asleep, his body relaxed, his eyes half closed against the sun’s glare. The driver’s concentration was completely absorbed by the intricate windings of the road, and his colleague was looking out of the side windows in obvious confidence in his control of the situation. The Saint knew that if he was to make a move it would have to be soon.
    He slid the toe of his right shoe under the fire extinguisher and flicked the release catch with his left, sending the cylinder spinning towards him. He caught it on the half turn and smashed down the handle as he completed the maneuver, directing the jet of foam straight into the face of the gun-toter behind him. Suddenly blinded, the victim shot his hands to his eyes as the Saint dived across the back of his seat, one hand reaching for the young man’s gun, the other flinging the spurting extinguisher into the clean-scrubbed face.
    The driver had stamped on the brake as soon as the commotion started, but he was too busy trying to control the resultant skidding to offer any resistance, and too sensible to do anything but leave his hands on the wheel once the motor had stopped. Simon turned to him.
    “Now be a nice boy and give us your toy.” Simon took the gun from under the driver’s armpit and considered the relative merits of the arsenal he had collected. The first was a nickel-plated .22 that, although deadly enough at close range, was more suited to a lady’s handbag. The Saint tossed it out of the window and retained the heavier army issue .38 automatic wMch the aftershave advertisement had provided. He turned off the engine and pocketed the ignition keys before getting out of the car and opening the rear door.
    “Out.”
    The junior kidnapper stumbled out, still trying to clear the foam from his eyes. Simon pushed him into the front passenger seat, got into the back, and returned the keys to the driver.
    “Don’t think I don’t want to go wherever you were going,” he said. “I just don’t like being crowded. Now just carry on as if I hadn’t interrupted.”
    The Saint waved an arm out of the window as a sign to Gaby, who had stopped his taxi a safe twenty metres behind to follow.
    As impassive as before, the hound-faced driver steered the car only a little farther along a high grey stone wall, following its contours until they led to an impressive arched gateway, into wMch he turned.
    Carefully manicured lawns, dotted here and there with geometric flower beds and sculptured bushes, ran down to the drive that curved its way up to the front of a long, low, whitewashed villa that spread itself across a terrace cut into the hillside. Set to one side of the building, in a southern-exposed alcove, was an oval swimming pool. Roman-style mosaics were set into the marble surround; towering columns, entwined with vines and interspersed with classical statues of satyrs and nymphs, embraced a scene that could have come straight from a Hollywood set for a period spectacle.
    In perfect harmony with the decor, there seemed to be girls everywhere, walking across the grass verges, swimming in the pool, or sunbathing beside it. And watching them like some Roman emperor was Sir William Curdon.
    The Saint recognised him at once.
    His heavy frame filled the thronelike chair he