and in the round splash where the beam struck he saw her.
She lay on a canvas cot in one corner of the cellar. Her wrists were strapped to the side members. As he had expected, she was dressed in the grimy shapeless rags in which he had first met her; but most of the beggar-woman make-up had been roughly wiped from her face. Her eyes were closed, but as the light fell on them her eyelids lifted a little as if with an infinite effort.
“No,” she mouthed huskily. “No …”
“Monica,” he said.
He checked the eagerness of his stride as he reached the cot, to come up to her gently.
“It’s me,” he said. “Simon Templar.”
Her eyes sought for him as he touched her, and he could see the pin-point contraction of the pupils. He turned the flashlight on his own face, then back to her.
She knew him—the sound of his voice and the glimpse of him. Even through the mists of the drug he saw the awareness of him struggle into her mind, and saw the tiny smile that lighted her whole face for an instant. She tried to raise her head, and her lips formed his name: “Simon …”
The effort was all she could make. Her head fell back, and the lids closed over that shining look.
And then suddenly there was a blaze of lights that smashed away all shadows and wiped out the beam of his pencil light like a deluge would put out a match.
“Okay,” said the saw-toothed voice of Frankie Weiss. “This is a tommy gun. Don’t try anything, or I’ll blast all three of you.”
The Saint turned.
The stairs behind him had horizontal treads but no solid risers. Thus a man concealed behind them had a good vantage point. The unmistakable nozzle of a submachine gun projected through one of the openings; and behind the Saint, Monica Varing lay directly in the line of fire.
“Drop your guns and reach,” Frankie said.
Simon obeyed.
Hoppy said: “Boss—”
“No,” said the Saint. “You haven’t a chance. Do what Frankie tells you.”
Hoppy’s Betsy clattered ignominiously on the floor.
The gross bulk of Big Hazel Green came out from behind the stairs. She circled around them, kicked their guns out of reach, and searched them with competent hamlike hands. Then she stepped aside again, and Frankie Weiss moved out into the open.
There was a small dew of perspiration on his face, but the weapon he held was perfectly steady.
“How nice to see you, Frankie,” Simon drawled. “You’re looking well, too. That workout we had together must have done you good.”
“You think you’re smart, don’t you?” Frankie bit out of the side of his mouth. “Well, when I get through giving you a workout—”
“The same old dialogue,” sighed the Saint. “I wish I could remember how many times I’ve heard that line. Frankie, you kill me.”
“Maybe you’re not kidding,” Frankie sneered. “Sit down on the bed and keep your hands where I can see ‘em.”
The Saint sat down, and Monica Varing stirred again uneasily. He felt very calm and quiet now. The inward exultation that danger could always ignite in him had steadied down and chilled. He had a cold estimate of all their chances, an equally cold watchfulness for his own first opening, an arrogant confidence that when the time came he would do more than any other human being could do.
“I just want you to know,” he said, “that if you’ve done anything to Monica Varing—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Templar,” said a new voice from the top of the stairs. “We may have to kill Miss Varing, but I would never allow that sort of thing.”
It was Mrs. Laura Wingate.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Saint watched her come down the stairs, while his brain struggled dizzily to recover its balance. It was fantastic, preposterous. In a story, of course, he would have guessed it long ago; but he had been thinking strictly in realities. This was unreal, and yet he was seeing it with his own eyes.
She was still the same fantastic figure out of a Helen Hokinson cartoon. She protruded
She lay on a canvas cot in one corner of the cellar. Her wrists were strapped to the side members. As he had expected, she was dressed in the grimy shapeless rags in which he had first met her; but most of the beggar-woman make-up had been roughly wiped from her face. Her eyes were closed, but as the light fell on them her eyelids lifted a little as if with an infinite effort.
“No,” she mouthed huskily. “No …”
“Monica,” he said.
He checked the eagerness of his stride as he reached the cot, to come up to her gently.
“It’s me,” he said. “Simon Templar.”
Her eyes sought for him as he touched her, and he could see the pin-point contraction of the pupils. He turned the flashlight on his own face, then back to her.
She knew him—the sound of his voice and the glimpse of him. Even through the mists of the drug he saw the awareness of him struggle into her mind, and saw the tiny smile that lighted her whole face for an instant. She tried to raise her head, and her lips formed his name: “Simon …”
The effort was all she could make. Her head fell back, and the lids closed over that shining look.
And then suddenly there was a blaze of lights that smashed away all shadows and wiped out the beam of his pencil light like a deluge would put out a match.
“Okay,” said the saw-toothed voice of Frankie Weiss. “This is a tommy gun. Don’t try anything, or I’ll blast all three of you.”
The Saint turned.
The stairs behind him had horizontal treads but no solid risers. Thus a man concealed behind them had a good vantage point. The unmistakable nozzle of a submachine gun projected through one of the openings; and behind the Saint, Monica Varing lay directly in the line of fire.
“Drop your guns and reach,” Frankie said.
Simon obeyed.
Hoppy said: “Boss—”
“No,” said the Saint. “You haven’t a chance. Do what Frankie tells you.”
Hoppy’s Betsy clattered ignominiously on the floor.
The gross bulk of Big Hazel Green came out from behind the stairs. She circled around them, kicked their guns out of reach, and searched them with competent hamlike hands. Then she stepped aside again, and Frankie Weiss moved out into the open.
There was a small dew of perspiration on his face, but the weapon he held was perfectly steady.
“How nice to see you, Frankie,” Simon drawled. “You’re looking well, too. That workout we had together must have done you good.”
“You think you’re smart, don’t you?” Frankie bit out of the side of his mouth. “Well, when I get through giving you a workout—”
“The same old dialogue,” sighed the Saint. “I wish I could remember how many times I’ve heard that line. Frankie, you kill me.”
“Maybe you’re not kidding,” Frankie sneered. “Sit down on the bed and keep your hands where I can see ‘em.”
The Saint sat down, and Monica Varing stirred again uneasily. He felt very calm and quiet now. The inward exultation that danger could always ignite in him had steadied down and chilled. He had a cold estimate of all their chances, an equally cold watchfulness for his own first opening, an arrogant confidence that when the time came he would do more than any other human being could do.
“I just want you to know,” he said, “that if you’ve done anything to Monica Varing—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Templar,” said a new voice from the top of the stairs. “We may have to kill Miss Varing, but I would never allow that sort of thing.”
It was Mrs. Laura Wingate.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Saint watched her come down the stairs, while his brain struggled dizzily to recover its balance. It was fantastic, preposterous. In a story, of course, he would have guessed it long ago; but he had been thinking strictly in realities. This was unreal, and yet he was seeing it with his own eyes.
She was still the same fantastic figure out of a Helen Hokinson cartoon. She protruded
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