Read Online Saint Steps In by Leslie Charteris - Free Book Online
Authors: Leslie Charteris
Ads: Link
how he could ever have wasted time on them.
For girl reporters in real life do not come as far as the lobby of their victim’s hotel before they
ask for an interview. Nor do they press for ordinary interviews in the middle of the night. Nor do they use a sexy voice and a
faintly suggestive turn of phrase to wheedle their way into the presence of a reluctant subject.
The sublime certainty of his intuition crescendoed around him with the symphonic grandeur of a
happy orchestra. The decision
had been taken out of his hands. He could resist temptation just so long, but there was a limit to how much he could be
pushed. The note he had found in his pocket had been bad enough. The encounter with the aspiring kidnapers had been worse. The episodes of Mr. Angert and Mr.
Imberline had been a bonus of
aggravation. To be potted at in his own win dow by a sniper was almost gross provocation, even if he was broad-minded
enough to admit that it was his own fault for providing the target. But
this—this was positively and finally going
too far.
“Okay,”
he said in a resigned tone. “Come on up.”
He put the
telephone back in its cradle as gently as a mother laying down her first-born, and turned back to the girl with a smile.
“Go
to your room again, Madeline,” he said; and for the first time that evening the full gay carelessness of a
Saintly lilt was alive and laughing in his voice. “Get your things packed. We’re going to Connecticut tonight.”
Her eyes were bewildered.
“But I have to see Mr. Imberline.”
“I’ll get
you back here as soon as we’ve arranged a genuine appointment. But that won’t be tomorrow. Meanwhile, I can’t be in two places at once. And maybe your father
needs looking after too.” He
grinned. “Don’t bother about those private de tectives. I’m sold—if you’ll still buy me.”
She laughed a little through uncertain lips.
“Are you very expensive?
“Not if you buy your Peter Dawson wholesale. Now run along. And the same password applies.
I’ll be after you as soon as I’m
through with this.”
He had her arm
and he was taking her to the door.
“What
was that telephone call?” she asked. “And how do you know you’re going to be all
right?”
“That’s
what I’m going to find out,” he said. “I won’t be any help to you hiding in a cellar.
But I’m firmly convinced that I was not
destined to die In Washington. Not this week, anyhow
… I’ll see you soon, darling.”
She stood in the
doorway for a moment, looking at him; and then,
suddenly and very quickly, she kissed him.
Then she was gone.
Simon
went into the bedroom, opened a suitcase, and took out an automatic already nested in a spring holster.
He slipped his arms through the
harness, shrugged it into comfort, and went back into the living room and put his coat on
again. It seemed like a slightly
melodramatic routine; but the only reason why Simon Templar had lived long enough to become a legend before he was also a name on
a tombstone was that he had never been
coy about taking slightly melodramatic precautions . And in the complex and sinful world where he had spent most of
his life, there were no guarantees that when an alluring feminine voice invited
itself in on the telephone there would be an
alluring feminine person on the doorstep when the doorbell next rang.
He
just had time to light another cigarette and freshen his drink before that potential crisis was with him.
He opened the door with his left hand and swung it wide, standing well
aside as he did so. But it was only a girl who matched the telephone voice who came in.
He risked one arm to reach across the opening and draw the door shut behind her, and he
quietly set the safety lock as he did so.
After
that, without the slightest relaxing of his vigilance, and still with that steady pressure of ghostly bullets
creeping over his flesh, he followed her into the living-room and sur veyed her again in a little more
detail. She was tall, and
For girl reporters in real life do not come as far as the lobby of their victim’s hotel before they
ask for an interview. Nor do they press for ordinary interviews in the middle of the night. Nor do they use a sexy voice and a
faintly suggestive turn of phrase to wheedle their way into the presence of a reluctant subject.
The sublime certainty of his intuition crescendoed around him with the symphonic grandeur of a
happy orchestra. The decision
had been taken out of his hands. He could resist temptation just so long, but there was a limit to how much he could be
pushed. The note he had found in his pocket had been bad enough. The encounter with the aspiring kidnapers had been worse. The episodes of Mr. Angert and Mr.
Imberline had been a bonus of
aggravation. To be potted at in his own win dow by a sniper was almost gross provocation, even if he was broad-minded
enough to admit that it was his own fault for providing the target. But
this—this was positively and finally going
too far.
“Okay,”
he said in a resigned tone. “Come on up.”
He put the
telephone back in its cradle as gently as a mother laying down her first-born, and turned back to the girl with a smile.
“Go
to your room again, Madeline,” he said; and for the first time that evening the full gay carelessness of a
Saintly lilt was alive and laughing in his voice. “Get your things packed. We’re going to Connecticut tonight.”
Her eyes were bewildered.
“But I have to see Mr. Imberline.”
“I’ll get
you back here as soon as we’ve arranged a genuine appointment. But that won’t be tomorrow. Meanwhile, I can’t be in two places at once. And maybe your father
needs looking after too.” He
grinned. “Don’t bother about those private de tectives. I’m sold—if you’ll still buy me.”
She laughed a little through uncertain lips.
“Are you very expensive?
“Not if you buy your Peter Dawson wholesale. Now run along. And the same password applies.
I’ll be after you as soon as I’m
through with this.”
He had her arm
and he was taking her to the door.
“What
was that telephone call?” she asked. “And how do you know you’re going to be all
right?”
“That’s
what I’m going to find out,” he said. “I won’t be any help to you hiding in a cellar.
But I’m firmly convinced that I was not
destined to die In Washington. Not this week, anyhow
… I’ll see you soon, darling.”
She stood in the
doorway for a moment, looking at him; and then,
suddenly and very quickly, she kissed him.
Then she was gone.
Simon
went into the bedroom, opened a suitcase, and took out an automatic already nested in a spring holster.
He slipped his arms through the
harness, shrugged it into comfort, and went back into the living room and put his coat on
again. It seemed like a slightly
melodramatic routine; but the only reason why Simon Templar had lived long enough to become a legend before he was also a name on
a tombstone was that he had never been
coy about taking slightly melodramatic precautions . And in the complex and sinful world where he had spent most of
his life, there were no guarantees that when an alluring feminine voice invited
itself in on the telephone there would be an
alluring feminine person on the doorstep when the doorbell next rang.
He
just had time to light another cigarette and freshen his drink before that potential crisis was with him.
He opened the door with his left hand and swung it wide, standing well
aside as he did so. But it was only a girl who matched the telephone voice who came in.
He risked one arm to reach across the opening and draw the door shut behind her, and he
quietly set the safety lock as he did so.
After
that, without the slightest relaxing of his vigilance, and still with that steady pressure of ghostly bullets
creeping over his flesh, he followed her into the living-room and sur veyed her again in a little more
detail. She was tall, and
Similar Books
