Saint Steps In by Leslie Charteris Page A

that crude disguise even helped the identification, by re peating a remembered pattern. The man’s silhouette
was clear enough. He looked tall, and
the outlines and carriage of his broad square shoulders were freshly
etched onthe Saint’s mem ory.
    It was one of the
ambitious abductors of Washington.
    “So after
all,” said the Saint reverently, to his immortal soul, “sanctity does have its rewards.”
    The man seemed to be searching, methodically and without haste, as if he felt reasonably
confident that he was not likely to be disturbed.
    Simon drew back,
and circled the other way around the rhododendrons, towards the corner of the
building. The cover grew very low towards the
corner, but by going flat on his stomach
he was able to come up against the next wall, which had no windows in it. A few strides took him to a
second corner; then he had to travel
on his toes and fingertips again, stretched low like a lizard, to pass well
below the front win dows. Then he
was at the door.
    As he was rising, he paused when his eye reached the level of the keyhole. He could see through the
tiny hall, and framed directly beyond
it the man stood at one of the work-benches, facing
towards him and studying something in a test tube.
    Simon waited.
    Presently the man put down the test tube and moved away, passing out of sight into another part of the laboratory.
    The Saint straightened up.
    He took the gun out of his shoulder holster and thumbed off the safety catch with his right
hand while his left turned the
door handle and eased the door open. The hinges re volved without a creak. He crossed the hallway in
three soundless steps, and stood just inside the laboratory.
    “Hullo, Karl,” he said softly.   
     
    3
     
    The man whirled at his voice, and then stood rigidly as the Saint moved his automatic very
slightly to draw attention to its place in the conference.
    “Looking for something?” Simon inquired politely.
    The man didn’t answer. Above the fold of the handkerchief that crossed his nose, his eyes were
cold and ugly. The Saint had no more doubt whatever about one part of his identification. He
wouldn’t forget those eyes. They were the kind that didn’t like anybody, and wanted to show it. They were the kind of eyes that the Saint loved to be disliked by.
    “Suppose you take the awning off your kisser,” Simon sug gested, “and let’s really get acquainted.
    The man finally
spoke.
    “Suppose I don’t.”
    If there had been any doubt left, it would have ended then. That hoarse cavernous voice was recorded in the Saint’s mem ory as accurately as the eyes.
    “If
you don’t,” Simon said definitely, “I’ll just have to shoot it off. Like this.”
    The
gun in his hand coughed once, a crisp bark of power that slammed the eardrums, and the bullet ruffled the cloth over one of the man’s ears before it spanged into the
wall behind him. The man ducked after
the bullet had gone by, and felt the
side of his head with an incredulous hand. His forehead was three shades paler.
    “Please,” said the Saint.
    He
was not particularly concerned about noise any more. The windows were closed, and they were far enough from the house to be alone even for shooting purposes.
    The man put his hands up slowly and untied the handker chief behind the back of his head,
revealing the rest of his face. He had a short
beak of a nose and a square bony chin, and the mouth between them was thin and bracketed with deep ver tical wrinkles. And the Saint knew him that way,
too.
    He had been a silent member of Frank Imberline’s entourage at the Shoreham the night before.
    He certainly got around.
    One of his hands
was moving self-consciously towards his pocket
with the crumpled handkerchief, and the Saint said gently: “No, brother. Just hold it. Because if
you tried a fast draw I might have to
kill you, and then we wouldn’t be able to talk without a medium, and I’m
fresh out of mediums.”
    The movement
stopped; and Simon smiled