The Saint in Action by Leslie Charteris, Robert Hilbert; Page B

behind such a suspicious-looking barricade, and he groped quickly for a pocket in his overalls. But before he could get his gun out the door beside him was open, and another gun levelled at his middle was dimly visible in the reflected light of the head lamps.
    “Would you mind stepping outside?” said a pleasant voice; and the driver set his teeth.
    “Not on your mucking life–-“
    He had got that far when a hand grasped him by the front of his clothing. What followed was something that puzzled him intermittently for the rest of his life, and he would brood over it in his leisure hours, trying to reconcile his own personal impressions with the logical possibilities of the world as he had previously known it. But if it had not been so manifestly impossible he would have said that he seemed to be lifted bodily out of his seat and drawn through the door with such force that he sailed through the air almost to the edge of the road in a graceful parabola comparable to the flight of the cruising flamingo before a large portion of the county of Dorset rose up and hit him very hard in several places at once.
    As he crawled painfully up onto his hands and knees he saw the performer of this miracle standing over him.
    ” ‘Ere,” he protested dazedly, “wot’s the idear?”
    “The idea is that you ought to be a good boy and do what you’re told.”
    The voice was still cool and genial, but there was an undertone of silky earnestness in it which the driver had overlooked before. Staring up in an effort to make out the details of the face from which it came, the driver realized that the reason why it seemed so curiously featureless was that a dark cloth mask covered it from brow to chin, and something inside his chest seemed to turn cold.
    Simon took hold of him again and lifted him to his feet; and as he did so a shrill yelp and a thud came from the other side of the lorry.
    “That will be your mate going to sleep,” said the Saint cheerfully. “Will you have one of our special bedtime stories, or will you just take things quietly?”
    His left hand had been sliding imperceptibly over the man’s clothing while he spoke, and before the driver knew what was happening the automatic which he carried in his overalls had been whisked away from him. All he saw of it was the glint of metal as it vanished into one of the Saint’s pockets, but he clutched at the place where it had been and found nothing there. The Saint’s soft laugh purled on his eardrums.
    “Come along, sonny boy—let’s see what you’ve got in that beautiful covered wagon.”
    With that stifling lump of ice swelling under his ribs the driver felt himself being propelled firmly towards the rear of the van. Simon slipped a tiny flashlight out of his pocket as they went; and as they reached the back of the lorry the masked face of Mr Uniatz swam round from the other side into the bright beam.
    “I heard music,” said the Saint.
    Hoppy nodded.
    “Dat was de udder guy. He tries to make a grab at my mask, so I bop him on de spire wit’ my Betsy, an’ he dives.”
    “That’s what I love about you,” murmured Simon. “You’re so thoughtful. Suppose he’d got your mask off. He might have died of heart failure, and that would have been bloody awkward. You ought to keep that face-curtain on all the time—it suits you.”
    He gave the driver a last gentle push that almost impaled him on the muzzle of Mr Uniatz’s ever-ready Betsy and turned his attention to the rear doors of the van. While he was fumbling with them footsteps sounded on the road behind him, and another flashlight split the darkness and focussed on the lock from over his shoulder.
    “What ho,” said Peter Quentin.
    “Ho kay,” said the Saint. “The operation went off without a hitch, and one of the patients has a bent spire. Keep that light steady a minute, will you?”
    Actually it was not a minute but only a few seconds before the lock surrendered its share of the unequal contest