Read Online Saint's Getaway by Leslie Charteris - Free Book Online

business, as the actress was always having
to remind the bishop, and pleasure must come second.” A ray of
carefree mockery came back into the Saint’s inclement gaze.
“What a jolly chat you’ll be able to have with Comrade Krauss after I’ve gone, won’t you? You will find that you have much in common.
When a once brilliant man is passing into his second childhood, it must be
a great relief to be able to exchange sympathy with another who is undergoing
the same unenvi able experience—mustn’t it?”
    The prince inhaled slowly from his cigarette.
    “I did not know you spoke German, Mr,
Templar,” he re marked.
    “Ah, but there are so many things one
never knows till it’s too late,” murmured the Saint kindly.
“For instance, you never knew that I’d be listening in to your
dramatic little scene, did you? And yet there I was, perching outside
your window with the dicky-birds and soaking up knowledge with both
tonsils. … Well, well, well! We all have our ups and downs, as
the bishop philosophically observed when the bull caught him in the thin part
of the pants.”
    “I think I owe you an apology,” said
the prince quietly. “I underrated your abilities—it is a mistake I
have made before.”
    Simon beamed at him.
    “But it was so obvious, wasn’t it? There
was I with that bonny little box of boodle, and no means of opening it.
And there were you announcing yourself as the guy who could open it or get
it opened. At first I was annoyed. I regret to say that for a time
I even contemplated the advantages of your meet ing with a fatal
accident. Since we both coveted the same prize—— ”
    “Spare me,” said the prince, with
faint irony. “The point is already clear.”
    The Saint glanced whimsically at the open
strong-box. Then h is gaze flicked cavalierly back to the prince’s face.
    “Should I say—thank you?”
    Their eyes clashed like crossed rapiers. Each
of them knew the emotions that were scorching through the other’s mind; neither of
them betrayed one scantling of his own thoughts or feelings. The barrage
of intangible steel seethed up between them in an interval of
tautening silence… . And then the prince looked down at the glowing end
of his cigarette.
    “Your half-charged cartridges are very
useful, Mr. Templar. But suppose I were to cry out—you would gain
nothing by killing me—— ”
    “I don’t know. I should gain nothing by
not killing you. And you’d look rather funny if you suddenly felt a piece
of lead taking a walk through your appendix. It’s that element of doubt, Rudolf, which is so
discouraging.”
    The prince nodded.
    “The psychology of these situations has
always interested me,” he said conversationally.
    He had picked the stub of cigarette out of his
holder, and the movement he made was so smooth and natural, so perfectly
timed, that even Simon Templar was deceived. The prince was reaching
languidly for the ash tray while he spoke … and then his hand shot past its
mark. The lid of the open strong-box fell with a slam; and the prince was smiling.
    “By the way,” he said coolly,
“my appendix is in Buda pest”
    He must have known that his life hung by a
hair, but not a muscle of his face flinched. There was sudden death in the Saint’s eyes, cold murder in the tenseness of his trigger finger; but the
prince might have been talking polite trivialities at an Embassy
reception… . And suddenly the Saint laughed. He couldn’t help it. That
exhibition of petrified nerve was the most breath-taking thing he had ever
witnessed. He laughed, and scooped in the box with his left hand.
    “Some day you’ll sit on an iceberg and
boil,” he predicted flintly. “But you don’t want to take
another chance like that this evening, sweetheart. Get back against
that wall and put your hands up!”
    The prince obeyed unhurriedly. With his back
to a bookcase and the Saint’s gun focusing on his waistline, he spoke
in the same passionless tone:
    “My humane little