Read Online The Saint Goes On by Leslie Charteris - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Leslie Charteris
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Come along!”
His finger was twitching over the trigger; and the Saint sighed.
He felt rather sorry for Junior Inspector Pryke. While he disliked the man’s face, and his voice, and his clothes, and almost everything else about him, he had not actually plumbed such implacable depths of hatred as to wish him to turn himself into a horrible example which would be held up for the disgusted inspection of students of the Police College for the next decade. But it seemed as if this was the only ambition Desmond Pryke had to fulfil, and he had left no stone unturned in his efforts to achieve it. From permitting himself to be lured into an argument on comparative gastrometry to that final howler of pulling a gun to enforce an ordinary arrest, Junior Inspector Pryke had run doggedly through the complete catalogue of Things A Young Policeman Should Not Do; but it was not Simon Templar’s fault.
The Saint shrugged.
“Okay, Desmond,” he murmured. “If that’s the way you feel about it, I can’t stop you. I’ve done my best. But don’t come around asking me for a pension when they drum you out of the Force.”
He put on his hat, and pulled the brim out to the perfect piratical tilt. There was not a shadow of misgiving in the smile that he gave Patricia, and he saw no reason for there to be a shadow.
“Be seein’ ya, keed,” he said. “Don’t worry-I’ll be back for dinner. But I’m afraid Desdemona is going to have a pain in her little turn-turn before then.”
He sauntered out unhurriedly into Stratton Street, and himself hailed the nearest taxi. Pryke put away his gun and climbed in after him. The cab turned into Piccadilly with a burden of internal silence that was almost broken by the exuberance of its own one-sided rancour.
Simon’s nostrils detected a curious sweet scent in the air he was breathing. Ever the genial optimist, he tried to thaw out the polar obmutescence with a fresh turn of pleasant gossip.
“That perfume you’re using, Desmond,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve come across it before. What’s it called-Pansy’s Promise? Or is it Quelques Tantes?”
“You wait till we get to the station,” said the detective, with sweltering monotony. “Perhaps you won’t feel so funny then.”
“Perhaps I won’t,” Simon agreed languidly. “And perhaps you won’t look so funny.”
He yawned. The cab, with all its windows tightly closed, was warm and stuffy; and the conversational limitations of Inspector Pryke were also conducive to slumber.
The Saint closed his eyes. He felt limp and bored, and his brain was starting to wander in a most remarkable and disjointed manner. It was all rather voluptuous and dreamy, like sinking away in some Elysian hop-joint… . Suddenly he felt faintly sick.
He sat up, with a tremendous effort. A message was trying to get through to his brain, but it seemed to be muffled in layer after layer of cotton-wool. His chest was labouring, and he could feel his heart pounding at a crazy speed. The face of Junior Inspector Pryke stared back at him through a kind of violet haze. Pryke’s chest was heaving also, and his mouth was open: it crossed the Saint’s mind that he looked like an agitated fish… . Then everything within his blurring vision whirled round like a top, and the blood roared in his ears like a thousand waterfalls. The message that had been trying to break through to him flashed in at last, and he made a convulsive lunge towards the window behind the driver’s impassive back; but he never reached it. It seemed as if the bottom fell out of the world, and he went plunging down through fold after fold of numbing silence, down and down through cold green clouds of that curious perfume into an infinity of utter nothingness… .
VII
There was a decanter and three sherry-glasses on the table-and one of the glasses was untouched. They had been set out there more than an hour ago; and the decanter was nearly empty.
Patricia Holm wandered restlessly
His finger was twitching over the trigger; and the Saint sighed.
He felt rather sorry for Junior Inspector Pryke. While he disliked the man’s face, and his voice, and his clothes, and almost everything else about him, he had not actually plumbed such implacable depths of hatred as to wish him to turn himself into a horrible example which would be held up for the disgusted inspection of students of the Police College for the next decade. But it seemed as if this was the only ambition Desmond Pryke had to fulfil, and he had left no stone unturned in his efforts to achieve it. From permitting himself to be lured into an argument on comparative gastrometry to that final howler of pulling a gun to enforce an ordinary arrest, Junior Inspector Pryke had run doggedly through the complete catalogue of Things A Young Policeman Should Not Do; but it was not Simon Templar’s fault.
The Saint shrugged.
“Okay, Desmond,” he murmured. “If that’s the way you feel about it, I can’t stop you. I’ve done my best. But don’t come around asking me for a pension when they drum you out of the Force.”
He put on his hat, and pulled the brim out to the perfect piratical tilt. There was not a shadow of misgiving in the smile that he gave Patricia, and he saw no reason for there to be a shadow.
“Be seein’ ya, keed,” he said. “Don’t worry-I’ll be back for dinner. But I’m afraid Desdemona is going to have a pain in her little turn-turn before then.”
He sauntered out unhurriedly into Stratton Street, and himself hailed the nearest taxi. Pryke put away his gun and climbed in after him. The cab turned into Piccadilly with a burden of internal silence that was almost broken by the exuberance of its own one-sided rancour.
Simon’s nostrils detected a curious sweet scent in the air he was breathing. Ever the genial optimist, he tried to thaw out the polar obmutescence with a fresh turn of pleasant gossip.
“That perfume you’re using, Desmond,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve come across it before. What’s it called-Pansy’s Promise? Or is it Quelques Tantes?”
“You wait till we get to the station,” said the detective, with sweltering monotony. “Perhaps you won’t feel so funny then.”
“Perhaps I won’t,” Simon agreed languidly. “And perhaps you won’t look so funny.”
He yawned. The cab, with all its windows tightly closed, was warm and stuffy; and the conversational limitations of Inspector Pryke were also conducive to slumber.
The Saint closed his eyes. He felt limp and bored, and his brain was starting to wander in a most remarkable and disjointed manner. It was all rather voluptuous and dreamy, like sinking away in some Elysian hop-joint… . Suddenly he felt faintly sick.
He sat up, with a tremendous effort. A message was trying to get through to his brain, but it seemed to be muffled in layer after layer of cotton-wool. His chest was labouring, and he could feel his heart pounding at a crazy speed. The face of Junior Inspector Pryke stared back at him through a kind of violet haze. Pryke’s chest was heaving also, and his mouth was open: it crossed the Saint’s mind that he looked like an agitated fish… . Then everything within his blurring vision whirled round like a top, and the blood roared in his ears like a thousand waterfalls. The message that had been trying to break through to him flashed in at last, and he made a convulsive lunge towards the window behind the driver’s impassive back; but he never reached it. It seemed as if the bottom fell out of the world, and he went plunging down through fold after fold of numbing silence, down and down through cold green clouds of that curious perfume into an infinity of utter nothingness… .
VII
There was a decanter and three sherry-glasses on the table-and one of the glasses was untouched. They had been set out there more than an hour ago; and the decanter was nearly empty.
Patricia Holm wandered restlessly
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