were
alone with the sniper, who looked at them with understandable moodiness from
beneath his weedy black hair.
“What is your name?” the
intelligence officer snapped.
“Hahn.”
“Tell us what this is all about. And
quickly.”
Hahn closed his eyes and compressed his lips. Fenton glanced
around the room, which obviously had been got ten
up to conform with certain magazine specifications of the ideal seduction chamber, even down to the
drool ing red and orange abstract
painting over the fireplace.
Fenton took up a poker from the cold hearth.
“I’m not going to play around. Who is
doing this, and why?”
Hahn opened his eyes, but did not answer.
“I’ll use this on your shoulder. I’m not
in the least squeamish.”
Hahn shrank back and gasped, “Please. No. A man of fers a job. I take it.”
“What man?” Fenton asked.
“A man in a bar, no doubt,” said the Saint, “whose
face and name you can’t remember.”
“Ja,” Hahn agreed.
“Judging from your inexpert performance
out there,” Simon said, “I’m almost inclined to believe you.”
“Their lot have killed thirteen Russian
intelligence agents in four months,” Fenton put in. “They’re
trained assassins, not casual labor.”
Hahn turned his head away.
“I’ve put him on a skewer already,”
said the Saint good-naturedly. “I’d have no compunctions about roasting
him. After all, he’s a Hahn, and pretty foul to boot.”
“But let’s pluck him first,” Fenton
put in, shamelessly continuing the pun. He grasped the man’s lapels and pulled
him wincing to his feet. “If you please, Simon.”
A brief but expert frisk revealed only one thing of in terest: a two way transistor radio about the size
of a cig arette box.
“Standard Russian equipment,” Fenton
said, dropping Hahn back onto the sofa.
“Where’d you get it?” Simon asked.
“The man, he says when I finish the job I
report back to him, with that.”
“Where is he?”
“I do not know.”
“Then report,” Fenton said, taking
the radio and shov ing it into Hahn’s hand. “Tell him I’m dead.”
Hahn was hesitant.
“Go on,” demanded Fenton.
“Neun zu sieben. Neun zu sieben.
Antworten Sie, bitte.”
“Now if you’ll excuse me for a
second,” Simon mur mured, “I want to take a look through
the door at a pal out here.”
He had felt sure that the police would not let
the bar tender wander far, and he was right. Without even leav ing the
doorway of the office, he could see the blond man occupying himself
intently with something just be low the counter. Behind Simon, Hahn was still
intoning his numerical incantation.
“Neun zu sieben. Neun zu sieben.”
But then, as the bartender continued his operations, the Saint heard a soft electronic whine in the office
behind him, rising in pitch and volume
like the sound of an irate mosquito.
He spun around.
“Fenton, run!”
He could see Hahn, puzzled, holding the radio
away from his ear. Fenton was already diving for cover.
“Throw it away, man,” he was
yelling. “Into the fire place! Fast!”
Simon escaped the blast with an agile move
which put him just outside the door. The explosion was small in range but
noisy and very effective. It had turned the un fortunate Hahn into
an abstraction with little more recog nizable form than the painting which
now sagged at a rakish angle over the mantelpiece.
William Fenton picked his way through the smoke and debris.
“At last I’ve actually seen it
happen.”
“Something you’ve been looking forward
to?” asked the Saint. “And people say radio’s lost its
punch.”
A policeman shoved his way through the newly
gath ered mob at the door and stared at the wreckage.
“We’re all right,” Fenton said.
“But this man is not.”
“I see,” said the policeman, closing
the door and hur rying to the body. “What happened?”
“When Herr Gratz comes he will
explain.”
“The bartender will already have escaped
in the con fusion, of
alone with the sniper, who looked at them with understandable moodiness from
beneath his weedy black hair.
“What is your name?” the
intelligence officer snapped.
“Hahn.”
“Tell us what this is all about. And
quickly.”
Hahn closed his eyes and compressed his lips. Fenton glanced
around the room, which obviously had been got ten
up to conform with certain magazine specifications of the ideal seduction chamber, even down to the
drool ing red and orange abstract
painting over the fireplace.
Fenton took up a poker from the cold hearth.
“I’m not going to play around. Who is
doing this, and why?”
Hahn opened his eyes, but did not answer.
“I’ll use this on your shoulder. I’m not
in the least squeamish.”
Hahn shrank back and gasped, “Please. No. A man of fers a job. I take it.”
“What man?” Fenton asked.
“A man in a bar, no doubt,” said the Saint, “whose
face and name you can’t remember.”
“Ja,” Hahn agreed.
“Judging from your inexpert performance
out there,” Simon said, “I’m almost inclined to believe you.”
“Their lot have killed thirteen Russian
intelligence agents in four months,” Fenton put in. “They’re
trained assassins, not casual labor.”
Hahn turned his head away.
“I’ve put him on a skewer already,”
said the Saint good-naturedly. “I’d have no compunctions about roasting
him. After all, he’s a Hahn, and pretty foul to boot.”
“But let’s pluck him first,” Fenton
put in, shamelessly continuing the pun. He grasped the man’s lapels and pulled
him wincing to his feet. “If you please, Simon.”
A brief but expert frisk revealed only one thing of in terest: a two way transistor radio about the size
of a cig arette box.
“Standard Russian equipment,” Fenton
said, dropping Hahn back onto the sofa.
“Where’d you get it?” Simon asked.
“The man, he says when I finish the job I
report back to him, with that.”
“Where is he?”
“I do not know.”
“Then report,” Fenton said, taking
the radio and shov ing it into Hahn’s hand. “Tell him I’m dead.”
Hahn was hesitant.
“Go on,” demanded Fenton.
“Neun zu sieben. Neun zu sieben.
Antworten Sie, bitte.”
“Now if you’ll excuse me for a
second,” Simon mur mured, “I want to take a look through
the door at a pal out here.”
He had felt sure that the police would not let
the bar tender wander far, and he was right. Without even leav ing the
doorway of the office, he could see the blond man occupying himself
intently with something just be low the counter. Behind Simon, Hahn was still
intoning his numerical incantation.
“Neun zu sieben. Neun zu sieben.”
But then, as the bartender continued his operations, the Saint heard a soft electronic whine in the office
behind him, rising in pitch and volume
like the sound of an irate mosquito.
He spun around.
“Fenton, run!”
He could see Hahn, puzzled, holding the radio
away from his ear. Fenton was already diving for cover.
“Throw it away, man,” he was
yelling. “Into the fire place! Fast!”
Simon escaped the blast with an agile move
which put him just outside the door. The explosion was small in range but
noisy and very effective. It had turned the un fortunate Hahn into
an abstraction with little more recog nizable form than the painting which
now sagged at a rakish angle over the mantelpiece.
William Fenton picked his way through the smoke and debris.
“At last I’ve actually seen it
happen.”
“Something you’ve been looking forward
to?” asked the Saint. “And people say radio’s lost its
punch.”
A policeman shoved his way through the newly
gath ered mob at the door and stared at the wreckage.
“We’re all right,” Fenton said.
“But this man is not.”
“I see,” said the policeman, closing
the door and hur rying to the body. “What happened?”
“When Herr Gratz comes he will
explain.”
“The bartender will already have escaped
in the con fusion, of
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