Read Online Enter the Saint by Leslie Charteris - Free Book Online
Authors: Leslie Charteris
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Private Investigators, Literary Criticism, Short Stories, Hard-Boiled, Traditional British, Saint (Fictitious Character), Detective and Mystery Stories; American
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about to ring for the Snake to be admitted when there was a tap on the door and Danny entered.
“There are five of them,” said Danny helpfully.
“Five of whom?” said Hayn patiently.
“Five,” said Danny, “including the man who pulled Mr. Braddon’s hat down over his eyes. They said they must see you at once.”
Mr. Hayn felt in the pit of his stomach the dull sinking qualm which had come to be inseparable from the memory of the Saint’s electric personality. Every morning without fail since the first warning he had received, there had been the now familiar envelope, beside his plate at breakfast, containing the inevitable card; and every afternoon, when he reached Danny’s he found a similar reminder among the letters on his desk. He had not had a chance to forget Simon Templar, even if he had wished to do so-as a matter of fact, the Snake and his Boys were at that moment waiting to receive their instructions in connection with a plot which Hayn had formed for disposing of the menace.
But the Saint’s policy was rapidly wearing out Hayn’s nerves. Knowing what he did, the Saint could only be refraining from passing his knowledge along to Scotland Yard because he hoped to gain more by silence, yet there had been no attempt to blackmail-only those daily melodramatic reminders of his continued interest.
Hayn was starting to feel like a mouse that has been tormented to the verge of madness by an exceptionally sportive cat. He had not a doubt that the Saint was scheming and working against him still, but his most frenzied efforts of concentration had failed to deduce the most emaciated shred of an idea of the direction from which the next assault would be launched, and seven days and nights of baffled inaction had brought Edgar Hayn to the borders of a breakdown.
Now the Saint-and the rest of his gang also from all appearances-was paying a second visit. The next round was about to begin, and Hayn was fighting in a profounder obscurity than ever. “Show them in,” he said in a voice that he hardly recognized as his own.
He bent over some writing, struggling to control his nerves for the bluff that was all he had to rely on, and with an effort of will he succeeded in not looking up when he heard the door opening and the soft footsteps of men filing into the room.
“Walk right in, souls,” said the Saint’s unmistakable cheery accents. “That’s right. Park yourselves along that wall in single rank and stand easy.”
Then Hayn raised his eyes, and saw the Saint standing over the desk regarding him affectionately.
“Good morning, Edgar,” said the Saint affably. “How’s Swan?”
“Good morning, Mr. Templar,” said Hayn.
He shifted a gaze to the four men ranged beside the door. They were a nondescript quartet, in his opinion-not at all the sort of men he had pictured in his hazy attempts to visualize Templar’s partners. Only one of them could have been under thirty, and the clothes of all of them had seen better days.
“These are the rest of the gang,” said the Saint. “I noticed that I was followed home from here last time I called, so I thought it’d save you a lot of sleuthing if I brought the other lads right along and introduced them.” He turned. “Squad-shun! Souls, this is dear Edgar, whom you’ve heard so much about. As I call your names, reading from left to right, you will each take one pace smartly to your front, bow snappily from the hips, keeping the eyebrows level and the thumb in line with seam of the trousers, and fall in again… . First, Edgar, meet Saint Winston Churchill. Raise your hat, Winny… . On his left, Saint George Robey. Eyebrows level, George… . Next, Saint Herbert Hoover, President of the United States, and no relation to the vacuum cleaner. Wave your handkerchief to the pretty gentleman, Herb! Last, but not least, Saint Hannen Swaffer. Keep smiling, Hannen-I won’t let anyone slap your face here … That’s the lot, Edgar, except for myself. Meet
“There are five of them,” said Danny helpfully.
“Five of whom?” said Hayn patiently.
“Five,” said Danny, “including the man who pulled Mr. Braddon’s hat down over his eyes. They said they must see you at once.”
Mr. Hayn felt in the pit of his stomach the dull sinking qualm which had come to be inseparable from the memory of the Saint’s electric personality. Every morning without fail since the first warning he had received, there had been the now familiar envelope, beside his plate at breakfast, containing the inevitable card; and every afternoon, when he reached Danny’s he found a similar reminder among the letters on his desk. He had not had a chance to forget Simon Templar, even if he had wished to do so-as a matter of fact, the Snake and his Boys were at that moment waiting to receive their instructions in connection with a plot which Hayn had formed for disposing of the menace.
But the Saint’s policy was rapidly wearing out Hayn’s nerves. Knowing what he did, the Saint could only be refraining from passing his knowledge along to Scotland Yard because he hoped to gain more by silence, yet there had been no attempt to blackmail-only those daily melodramatic reminders of his continued interest.
Hayn was starting to feel like a mouse that has been tormented to the verge of madness by an exceptionally sportive cat. He had not a doubt that the Saint was scheming and working against him still, but his most frenzied efforts of concentration had failed to deduce the most emaciated shred of an idea of the direction from which the next assault would be launched, and seven days and nights of baffled inaction had brought Edgar Hayn to the borders of a breakdown.
Now the Saint-and the rest of his gang also from all appearances-was paying a second visit. The next round was about to begin, and Hayn was fighting in a profounder obscurity than ever. “Show them in,” he said in a voice that he hardly recognized as his own.
He bent over some writing, struggling to control his nerves for the bluff that was all he had to rely on, and with an effort of will he succeeded in not looking up when he heard the door opening and the soft footsteps of men filing into the room.
“Walk right in, souls,” said the Saint’s unmistakable cheery accents. “That’s right. Park yourselves along that wall in single rank and stand easy.”
Then Hayn raised his eyes, and saw the Saint standing over the desk regarding him affectionately.
“Good morning, Edgar,” said the Saint affably. “How’s Swan?”
“Good morning, Mr. Templar,” said Hayn.
He shifted a gaze to the four men ranged beside the door. They were a nondescript quartet, in his opinion-not at all the sort of men he had pictured in his hazy attempts to visualize Templar’s partners. Only one of them could have been under thirty, and the clothes of all of them had seen better days.
“These are the rest of the gang,” said the Saint. “I noticed that I was followed home from here last time I called, so I thought it’d save you a lot of sleuthing if I brought the other lads right along and introduced them.” He turned. “Squad-shun! Souls, this is dear Edgar, whom you’ve heard so much about. As I call your names, reading from left to right, you will each take one pace smartly to your front, bow snappily from the hips, keeping the eyebrows level and the thumb in line with seam of the trousers, and fall in again… . First, Edgar, meet Saint Winston Churchill. Raise your hat, Winny… . On his left, Saint George Robey. Eyebrows level, George… . Next, Saint Herbert Hoover, President of the United States, and no relation to the vacuum cleaner. Wave your handkerchief to the pretty gentleman, Herb! Last, but not least, Saint Hannen Swaffer. Keep smiling, Hannen-I won’t let anyone slap your face here … That’s the lot, Edgar, except for myself. Meet
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