Featuring the Saint by Leslie Charteris Page A

flicked some ash from his cigarette and rose to his feet delicately.
    “Benito Mussolini,” he answered mildly. “And you must be one of the corporation scavengers. How’s the trade in garbage?” His gentle eyes swept Shannet from crown to toe. “Archie, there must have been some mistake. The real scavenger has gone sick, and one of his riper pieces of refuse is deputizing for him. I’m sorry.”
    “If you—”
    “I said I was sorry,” the Saint continued, in the same smooth voice, “because I’m usually very particular about the people I fight, and I hate soiling my hands on things like you.”
    Shannet glowered.
    “I don’t know who you are,” he said, “and I don’t care. But if you’re looking for a fight you can have it.”
    “I am looking for a fight, dear one,” drawled the Saint. “In fact, I’m looking for a lot of fights, and you’re the first one that’s offered. ‘Cissy’ is a name I particularly object to being called, O misbegotten of a pig!”
    The last words were spoken in colloquial Spanish, and the Saint made more of them than it is possible to report in printable English. Shannet went white, then red.
    “You—”
    His answering stream of profanity merged into a left swing to the Saint’s jaw, which, if it had landed, would have ended the fight there and then. But it did not land.
    Simon Templar swayed back, and the swing missed by a couple of inches. As Shannet stumbled, momentarily off his balance, the Saint reached round and took the jug of ice water off the table behind him. Without any appearance of effort or haste, he sidestepped and poured most of the contents of the jug down the back of Shannet’s neck.
    Shannet swung again. The Saint ducked, and sent the man flying with a smashing jab to the nose.
    “Look out, Saint!” Sheridan warned suddenly.
    “Naughty!” murmured the Saint, without heat.
    Shannet was getting to his feet, and his right hand was drawing something from his hip pocket.
    The Saint took two steps and a flying leap over Shannet’s head, turning in the air as he did so. Shannet had only got to his knees when the Saint landed behind him and caught his opponent’s throat and right wrist in hands that had the strength of steel cables in their fingers. Shannet’s wrist was twisted behind his back with an irresistible wrench… .
    The gun cluttered to the floor simultaneously with Shannet’s yelp of agony, and the Saint picked up the gun and stepped away.
    “A trophy, Archie!” he cried, and tossed the weapon over to Sheridan. “Guns I have not quite been shot with-there must be a drawer full of them at home… . Let’s start, sweet Shannet!”
    Shannet replied with a chair, but the Saint was ten feet away by the time it crashed into the opposite wall.
    Then Shannet came in again with his fists. Any one of those whirling blows carried a kick that would have put a mule to sleep, but the Saint had forgotten more about ringcraft than many professionals ever learn. Shannet never came near touching him. Every rush Shannet made, somehow, expended itself on thin air, while he always seemed to be running his face slap into the Saint’s stabbing left.
    “Want a rest?” the Saint asked kindly.
    “If you’d come in and fight like a man,” gasped Shannet, his tortured chest heaving, “I’d kill you!”
    “Oh, don’t be silly!” said the Saint in a bored voice, as though he had no further interest in the affair. “Hurry up and get out-I’m going to be busy.”
    He turned away, but Shannet lurched after him.
    “Get out yourself!” snarled the man thickly. “D’you hear? I’m going right down to fetch the police—”
    The Saint sat down.
    “Listen to me, Shannet,” he said quietly. “The less you talk about police when I’m around, the better for you. I’m telling you now that I believe you murdered a man named McAndrew not so long ago, and jumped his claim on a forged partnership agreement. I’m only waiting till I’ve got the proof. And