little
tighter.
“We’re going to make some big bangs, Viola,” he said.
“You aren’t frightened of big bangs, are
you? Big bangs like fire works? And
every time we make a big bang we’ll kill one of the wicked men who took
you away.” She shook her head.
“I like big bangs,” she declared;
and the Saint laughed again and put the muzzle of his gun against the
lock.
The shot rocked the room like thunder, and a
heavy thud sounded in the corridor. Simon flung open the door. It
was the scrawny-necked
individual on guard outside who had caused the thud: he was sprawled against
the opposite wall in a gro tesque huddle, and
nothing was more certain than that he would
never stand guard anywhere again. Apparently he had been peering through the keyhole, looking for an
explanation of the disturbance, when
the Saint shot out the lock; and what remained of his face was not
pleasant to look at. The child in Simon’s
arms crowed gleefully.
“Make more bangs,” she commanded;
and the Saint smiled.
“Shall we? I’ll see what can be
done.”
He raced down the passage to the stairs. The
men below were on their way up but he gained the half-landing before them with one flying leap. The leading attacker died in his tracks
and never knew it, and his lifeless body reared over backwards and went bumping
down to the floor below. The others scuttled for cover; and Simon drew a calm
bead on the single frosted bulb in the hall and left only the dim glow from the
bar and the dance room for light.
A tongue of orange fire spat out of the dark,
and the bullet spilled a shower of plaster from the wall a yard over
the Saint’s head. Simon grinned and swung his legs over the banisters. Curiously
enough, the average gangster has standards of marks manship that would
make the old-time bad man weep in his grave: most of his pistol practice is
done from a range of not more than three feet, and for any greater
distances than that he gets out his sub-machine-gun and sprays a couple of
thou sand rounds over the surrounding county on the assumption that one of them must hit
something. The opposition was dan gerous, but
it was not certain death. One of the men poked an eye warily round the door of the bar and leapt back hur riedly as the Saint’s shot splintered the frame
an inch from his nose; and the Saint
let go the handrail and dropped down to the floor like a cat.
The front door was open, as the men had left it when they rushed back into the house. Simon made a rapid
calculation. There were four men left, so far as he knew; and of their num ber one was certainly watching the windows at the
back, and another was probably guarding the parked cars. That left two to be taken on the way; and the time to take them
was at once, while their morale was
still shaken by the divers preposterous calamities that they had seen.
He put the girl down and turned her towards the doorway. She was moaning a little now, but fear would lend
wings to her feet
“Run!” he shouted suddenly.
“Run for the door!”
Her shrill voice crying out in terror, the
child fled. A man sprang up from his knees behind the hangings in the
dance- room entrance; Simon fired once, and he went down with a yell.
Another bullet from the Saint’s gun went crashing down a row of bottles in
the bar; then he was outside, hurdling the porch rail and
landing nimbly on his toes. He could see the girl’s white dress flying through
the darkness in front of him. A man rose up out of the gloom ahead of her
and lunged, and she screamed once as his outstretched fingers clawed at
her frock. Simon’s gun belched flame, and the clutching hand fell limp as a
soft-nosed slug tore through the fleshy part of the man’s forearm. The
gorilla spun round and dropped his gun, bellowing like a bull, and Simon
sprinted after the terrified child. An automatic banged twice behind him, but
the shots went wide. The girl shrieked as he came up with her, but
he caught her into his left arm and held her
tighter.
“We’re going to make some big bangs, Viola,” he said.
“You aren’t frightened of big bangs, are
you? Big bangs like fire works? And
every time we make a big bang we’ll kill one of the wicked men who took
you away.” She shook her head.
“I like big bangs,” she declared;
and the Saint laughed again and put the muzzle of his gun against the
lock.
The shot rocked the room like thunder, and a
heavy thud sounded in the corridor. Simon flung open the door. It
was the scrawny-necked
individual on guard outside who had caused the thud: he was sprawled against
the opposite wall in a gro tesque huddle, and
nothing was more certain than that he would
never stand guard anywhere again. Apparently he had been peering through the keyhole, looking for an
explanation of the disturbance, when
the Saint shot out the lock; and what remained of his face was not
pleasant to look at. The child in Simon’s
arms crowed gleefully.
“Make more bangs,” she commanded;
and the Saint smiled.
“Shall we? I’ll see what can be
done.”
He raced down the passage to the stairs. The
men below were on their way up but he gained the half-landing before them with one flying leap. The leading attacker died in his tracks
and never knew it, and his lifeless body reared over backwards and went bumping
down to the floor below. The others scuttled for cover; and Simon drew a calm
bead on the single frosted bulb in the hall and left only the dim glow from the
bar and the dance room for light.
A tongue of orange fire spat out of the dark,
and the bullet spilled a shower of plaster from the wall a yard over
the Saint’s head. Simon grinned and swung his legs over the banisters. Curiously
enough, the average gangster has standards of marks manship that would
make the old-time bad man weep in his grave: most of his pistol practice is
done from a range of not more than three feet, and for any greater
distances than that he gets out his sub-machine-gun and sprays a couple of
thou sand rounds over the surrounding county on the assumption that one of them must hit
something. The opposition was dan gerous, but
it was not certain death. One of the men poked an eye warily round the door of the bar and leapt back hur riedly as the Saint’s shot splintered the frame
an inch from his nose; and the Saint
let go the handrail and dropped down to the floor like a cat.
The front door was open, as the men had left it when they rushed back into the house. Simon made a rapid
calculation. There were four men left, so far as he knew; and of their num ber one was certainly watching the windows at the
back, and another was probably guarding the parked cars. That left two to be taken on the way; and the time to take them
was at once, while their morale was
still shaken by the divers preposterous calamities that they had seen.
He put the girl down and turned her towards the doorway. She was moaning a little now, but fear would lend
wings to her feet
“Run!” he shouted suddenly.
“Run for the door!”
Her shrill voice crying out in terror, the
child fled. A man sprang up from his knees behind the hangings in the
dance- room entrance; Simon fired once, and he went down with a yell.
Another bullet from the Saint’s gun went crashing down a row of bottles in
the bar; then he was outside, hurdling the porch rail and
landing nimbly on his toes. He could see the girl’s white dress flying through
the darkness in front of him. A man rose up out of the gloom ahead of her
and lunged, and she screamed once as his outstretched fingers clawed at
her frock. Simon’s gun belched flame, and the clutching hand fell limp as a
soft-nosed slug tore through the fleshy part of the man’s forearm. The
gorilla spun round and dropped his gun, bellowing like a bull, and Simon
sprinted after the terrified child. An automatic banged twice behind him, but
the shots went wide. The girl shrieked as he came up with her, but
he caught her into his left arm and held her
Similar Books
