ror. The
Teutonic mixologist had become overly busy polishing glasses, but his narrowing
gaze never left the velvet drapes of the exit.
When Simon whirled from his stool it was
already al most too late. The dance had just ended, and the de parting
couples had opened a clear avenue from the exit door to William Fenton’s table.
Pushing slowly from between the black curtains was the blunt snout of a
silencer.
Until that moment, the wine bunny had
inadvertently shielded Fenton. Now she moved around his table to pour
champagne, and there was no time for the Saint to call out a warning.
In that space of a precious breath or two which an ordinary man would have
wasted staring helplessly, Simon acted.
A waitress was passing, carrying on her tray a gigantic platter of
flaming shish kebab. In one, swift, fluid move ment, like the blurred attack of a hawk, the Saint leaped forward, snatched up one of the long steel spears,
drip ping blue flame, and hurled it unerringly across the whole width of the room.
Like a blazing arrow it pierced the velvet
curtains. A man screamed. Simultaneously the champagne bottle
exploded, showering Fenton with foam and glass.
In the ensuing pandemonium, as the would-be
assas sin fell forward hopelessly entangled in smoldering dra peries, Simon moved through
panicking masses to the wine-drenched table.
But there he found no gratefully uninjured
William Fenton. He found no William Fen ton
at all—which was clearly impossible. So he lifted the edge of the tablecloth, stooped, and found himself
look ing straight into the unblinking
eye of an automatic.
It was natural that the Saint’s fame as a
modern buc caneer should have made him vividly remembered by most of
those who had had even transient contact with him. William Fenton
hesitated only for a split second.
“Simon Templar! Of all people to be
rescued by.”
The former naval officer crawled from under
the table and put away his weapon.
“I assume it must have been you who put on the spear-throwing
exhibition.”
“Who else?” drawled the Saint. “There’s just one
infec tion I couldn’t save you from, even
though you seemed in imminent danger
of succumbing.”
“What’s that?” Fenton asked as they
made their way past hysterically weeping bunnies to the fallen sniper.
“Tularemia.”
“Tularemia?”
“Rabbit fever.”
Three burly policemen had now arrived, and
Simon remained at a discreet distance as they extracted the skewer from
his victim’s shoulder and the victim from the heavy velvet
curtains. Then one of the officers proceeded to haul the wounded man across
the room toward what the manager said was the nearest private place: the business
office.
The second cop stayed by the exit, while the
third blockaded the main entrance, doubtless in an effort to maintain
the status quo until the arrival of higher au thorities.
The Saint and Fenton went along to the
office, having already been implicated by witness, and when the po liceman
had deposited his groaning burden on the zebra- skin sofa, he turned
to them.
“Nun bitte. One of you is the
gentleman who threw the shish kebab at this man?”
“Ridiculous though it sounds,”
Simon said in fluent Ger man, “Sie haben recht. Idid
it.”
At that point Fenton interceded, showing a card.
“I am with the British embassy, and this
gentleman saved my life. The situation is more involved than I am free to
tell you. I would very much appreciate it if you would call Herr Gratz
of your Special Branch and re quest in my name, as you see here on the card,
that he come to this club at once.”
The policeman drew himself up with greater
respect.
“Jawohl, Herr Fenton. But both
of you gentlemen must remain here, please. No one is allowed to
leave the building.”
“Of course,” Fenton said. “But
would you ask these other people to leave the room? It seems improper…”
“Understood, Herr Fenton.
Naturally.”
A few moments later Simon and Fenton
Teutonic mixologist had become overly busy polishing glasses, but his narrowing
gaze never left the velvet drapes of the exit.
When Simon whirled from his stool it was
already al most too late. The dance had just ended, and the de parting
couples had opened a clear avenue from the exit door to William Fenton’s table.
Pushing slowly from between the black curtains was the blunt snout of a
silencer.
Until that moment, the wine bunny had
inadvertently shielded Fenton. Now she moved around his table to pour
champagne, and there was no time for the Saint to call out a warning.
In that space of a precious breath or two which an ordinary man would have
wasted staring helplessly, Simon acted.
A waitress was passing, carrying on her tray a gigantic platter of
flaming shish kebab. In one, swift, fluid move ment, like the blurred attack of a hawk, the Saint leaped forward, snatched up one of the long steel spears,
drip ping blue flame, and hurled it unerringly across the whole width of the room.
Like a blazing arrow it pierced the velvet
curtains. A man screamed. Simultaneously the champagne bottle
exploded, showering Fenton with foam and glass.
In the ensuing pandemonium, as the would-be
assas sin fell forward hopelessly entangled in smoldering dra peries, Simon moved through
panicking masses to the wine-drenched table.
But there he found no gratefully uninjured
William Fenton. He found no William Fen ton
at all—which was clearly impossible. So he lifted the edge of the tablecloth, stooped, and found himself
look ing straight into the unblinking
eye of an automatic.
It was natural that the Saint’s fame as a
modern buc caneer should have made him vividly remembered by most of
those who had had even transient contact with him. William Fenton
hesitated only for a split second.
“Simon Templar! Of all people to be
rescued by.”
The former naval officer crawled from under
the table and put away his weapon.
“I assume it must have been you who put on the spear-throwing
exhibition.”
“Who else?” drawled the Saint. “There’s just one
infec tion I couldn’t save you from, even
though you seemed in imminent danger
of succumbing.”
“What’s that?” Fenton asked as they
made their way past hysterically weeping bunnies to the fallen sniper.
“Tularemia.”
“Tularemia?”
“Rabbit fever.”
Three burly policemen had now arrived, and
Simon remained at a discreet distance as they extracted the skewer from
his victim’s shoulder and the victim from the heavy velvet
curtains. Then one of the officers proceeded to haul the wounded man across
the room toward what the manager said was the nearest private place: the business
office.
The second cop stayed by the exit, while the
third blockaded the main entrance, doubtless in an effort to maintain
the status quo until the arrival of higher au thorities.
The Saint and Fenton went along to the
office, having already been implicated by witness, and when the po liceman
had deposited his groaning burden on the zebra- skin sofa, he turned
to them.
“Nun bitte. One of you is the
gentleman who threw the shish kebab at this man?”
“Ridiculous though it sounds,”
Simon said in fluent Ger man, “Sie haben recht. Idid
it.”
At that point Fenton interceded, showing a card.
“I am with the British embassy, and this
gentleman saved my life. The situation is more involved than I am free to
tell you. I would very much appreciate it if you would call Herr Gratz
of your Special Branch and re quest in my name, as you see here on the card,
that he come to this club at once.”
The policeman drew himself up with greater
respect.
“Jawohl, Herr Fenton. But both
of you gentlemen must remain here, please. No one is allowed to
leave the building.”
“Of course,” Fenton said. “But
would you ask these other people to leave the room? It seems improper…”
“Understood, Herr Fenton.
Naturally.”
A few moments later Simon and Fenton
Similar Books
