The Saint in Trouble Read Online Free PDF Page B

back to the hotel.”
    Simon shook his head at his own shortcoming in having only looked for one tail. Cartwright must have been behind the Mercedes all the time. He helped himself to a cigar from the box on the table and smiled.
    “It’s been a pleasure meeting you again, Willie. But next time you want a chat, you needn’t send the strong-arm squad. Just call me.”
    He turned to go, and saw Cartwright’s foot move as he passed. Not wishing to pass up such an excuse, he allowed himself to be partly tripped, and stumbled forward without going down.
    “How are you without a fire extinguisher?” Cartwright asked, with some of his former cockiness.
    The Saint turned back, straightening as he did so. His left hand pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose as his right streaked out a stiff-fingered thrust into the gap at the base of Cartwright’s ribs. The man folded backwards onto the sun lounger. The Saint casually swung his foot and tipped it into the pool. Cartwright disappeared beneath the water, and Simon waited for him to surface before replying to his question.
    “Oh, I get by.”
    He removed the clip from the automatic and tossed it into the pool beside Cartwright.
    “You shouldn’t give the children toys like that, Willie- they’re dangerous.”
    Gaby had parked his cab behind the Renault, and the Saint climbed in beside him.
    “You’re beginning to grow on me, Gaby.”
    Simon handed him Curdon’s cigar. The driver accepted it, sniffed it, and put it in his mouth, but made no move to light it.
    “I saw what happened outside the hotel,” was the brief explanation he offered as he sent the car speeding back towards Cannes.
    “But how did you know I was not being arrested? That those men were not the police?”
    “I know the police in Cannes-and they know me.”
    Simon decided it was politic not to enquire too deeply into their relationship. He lapsed into silence as he considered Curdon’s involvement and how it might affect his own plans for Maclett’s safety.
    Presently Gaby said: “The man in the Mercedes, his name is Jacques Demmell.”
    “How do you know that?”
    The Saint did not try to hide his surprise and Gaby’s face split in a rare grin.
    “I recognised the car. It belongs to a hire company I used to drive for, so I made enquiries.”
    “Anything besides the name?”
    “Not a great deal. He often comes here during the season. He has a reputation as a friend of lonely ladies, especially the rich kind. He has a flat in the town but he’s been spending most of his time on a yacht called Protege. It is moored in the Port Canto.”
    “Yes, I’ve seen it. Is it his?”
    “No, it belongs to a woman, and believe me she is quite a woman.” Gaby raised one hand from the wheel long enough to draw a curving outline in the air. “Not the usual type of woman he attracts.”
    The Mercedes was parked outside the hotel when they returned. Simon touched the grill; the engine was cold. There was no sign of Demmell in the lounges and bars, and the Saint was thoughtful as he prudently rode the elevator up to the floor immediately above his own, and walked back down the stairs to his floor.
    4
    The Saint passed silently along the corridor and stood motionless outside his room, his ears straining to identify the muffled sounds that reached him through the door and to fix in his mind the exact location of his uninvited guest. He took the key from his pocket, but before he could move, a room service waiter clattered around the comer pushing a trolley, and immediately the noises ceased. The Saint cursed the unsuspecting man all the way into the elevator.
    Simon stood with his back pressed against the wall, fitting his key into the spring lock with the tips of his fingers, and sent the door crashing inwards the instant the catch was released. He entered the room with a fluid sidestep that removed him from the line of fire, registering the chaos of his surroundings in a single sweeping glance as he