Read Online Saint on Guard by Leslie Charteris - Free Book Online
Authors: Leslie Charteris
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shin.
He pointed to it.
“Were you thinking of going somewhere, or were they moving in?”
She hesitated, fighting another battle with herself before she replied.
“It isn’t mine.”
“Who does it belong to—your new boarders?”
“No. It belongs to—the same person. He left it with me some time ago. He said it was a lot of old books that he’d brought in from the country to give to the USO, but he kept forgetting to do anything about it.” Her eyes went back to him with a weak spark of hope. “Perhaps he just sent those men to fetch it.”
“Perhaps he did,” Simon agreed courteously. “Do you mind if I have a look at these old books?”
She shook her head.
“I suppose I can’t stop you. But the bag’s locked.”
He looked at her humorously.
“I should have known that a bookworm like you would have tried to take a peek before this.”
Her face flamed but she made no retort.
Simon started to pick up the suitcase, and was momentarily taken aback by his own lack of strength. It was a little distressing to discover that old age had caught up with him so quickly—in the space of a mere few minutes, to be exact. For he had handled the two limp gangsters without much difficulty.
He took a fresh grip, and heaved the bag on to the bed. Even for a load of books, it was astonishingly heavy for its size.
It was closed with a three-letter combination lock that surrendered its feeble little secret to the Saint’s sensitive fingers in a few seconds; and he raised the lid and gazed down at two glass jars, about the size of quart milk bottles, solidly embedded in a nest of crumpled newspapers. Each of them was filled to the toj with a greenish powder.
The girl was leaning over to look with him.
“I don’t know whether you know it, darling,” said the Saint; gently, “but you have been taking care of about two hundred’ thousand dollars’ worth of iridium.”
7 If she had had any reactions left he might have sus-pected her again. It would have been too much like an effort to show the right response—however right it was. But now she seemed to have been stunned into a purely mechanical acceptance.
“This is what you were looking for,” she said.
It was a simple statement, almost naive in its tonelessness.
“I imagine it is,” he said. “The shipment that was hijacked in Nashville. Or about two-thirds of it. That would be about right— a third of the shipment must be in black market circulation by this time.”
He squinted down at the suitcase again as he reached for a cigarette, and his eyes settled on the combination of letters at which the lock had opened.
“Do the initials O S M mean anything to you?” he asked.
“No. Why?”
Her face was completely empty. He was watching her. And so much depended on whether he was right, and whether he could see through the beauty of her face and not let it color what he was looking for. “Skip it,” he said. “It was just an idea.”
He lighted his cigarette, while she sat down heavily on the bed and stared at him in that numb kind of bewilderment. Her hands trembled slightly in her lap.
He said: “Your boy friend parked this stuff here with you— safely enough, because this is one of the last places where anybody would look for it. Probably even his best friends don’t know anything about his connection with this place. And even if anybody who knew too much already did know, they’d never expect him to be so dumb as to leave a couple of hundred grand’s worth of boodle lying around in a love-nest. Which is what we call the technique of deception by the obvious… . Yes, it was a good place to cache the swag. But now, apparently, your mysterious meal ticket is getting nervous. Maybe he’s a little afraid of you and what you know. So he sent Humpty and Dumpty here to fetch it away.” The Saint had slipped out of cold cruelty again as impersonally as he had slid into it. He said quietly: “Now what?”
She nodded like a mechanical
He pointed to it.
“Were you thinking of going somewhere, or were they moving in?”
She hesitated, fighting another battle with herself before she replied.
“It isn’t mine.”
“Who does it belong to—your new boarders?”
“No. It belongs to—the same person. He left it with me some time ago. He said it was a lot of old books that he’d brought in from the country to give to the USO, but he kept forgetting to do anything about it.” Her eyes went back to him with a weak spark of hope. “Perhaps he just sent those men to fetch it.”
“Perhaps he did,” Simon agreed courteously. “Do you mind if I have a look at these old books?”
She shook her head.
“I suppose I can’t stop you. But the bag’s locked.”
He looked at her humorously.
“I should have known that a bookworm like you would have tried to take a peek before this.”
Her face flamed but she made no retort.
Simon started to pick up the suitcase, and was momentarily taken aback by his own lack of strength. It was a little distressing to discover that old age had caught up with him so quickly—in the space of a mere few minutes, to be exact. For he had handled the two limp gangsters without much difficulty.
He took a fresh grip, and heaved the bag on to the bed. Even for a load of books, it was astonishingly heavy for its size.
It was closed with a three-letter combination lock that surrendered its feeble little secret to the Saint’s sensitive fingers in a few seconds; and he raised the lid and gazed down at two glass jars, about the size of quart milk bottles, solidly embedded in a nest of crumpled newspapers. Each of them was filled to the toj with a greenish powder.
The girl was leaning over to look with him.
“I don’t know whether you know it, darling,” said the Saint; gently, “but you have been taking care of about two hundred’ thousand dollars’ worth of iridium.”
7 If she had had any reactions left he might have sus-pected her again. It would have been too much like an effort to show the right response—however right it was. But now she seemed to have been stunned into a purely mechanical acceptance.
“This is what you were looking for,” she said.
It was a simple statement, almost naive in its tonelessness.
“I imagine it is,” he said. “The shipment that was hijacked in Nashville. Or about two-thirds of it. That would be about right— a third of the shipment must be in black market circulation by this time.”
He squinted down at the suitcase again as he reached for a cigarette, and his eyes settled on the combination of letters at which the lock had opened.
“Do the initials O S M mean anything to you?” he asked.
“No. Why?”
Her face was completely empty. He was watching her. And so much depended on whether he was right, and whether he could see through the beauty of her face and not let it color what he was looking for. “Skip it,” he said. “It was just an idea.”
He lighted his cigarette, while she sat down heavily on the bed and stared at him in that numb kind of bewilderment. Her hands trembled slightly in her lap.
He said: “Your boy friend parked this stuff here with you— safely enough, because this is one of the last places where anybody would look for it. Probably even his best friends don’t know anything about his connection with this place. And even if anybody who knew too much already did know, they’d never expect him to be so dumb as to leave a couple of hundred grand’s worth of boodle lying around in a love-nest. Which is what we call the technique of deception by the obvious… . Yes, it was a good place to cache the swag. But now, apparently, your mysterious meal ticket is getting nervous. Maybe he’s a little afraid of you and what you know. So he sent Humpty and Dumpty here to fetch it away.” The Saint had slipped out of cold cruelty again as impersonally as he had slid into it. He said quietly: “Now what?”
She nodded like a mechanical
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