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Authors: Leslie Charteris
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smoothly aside.
“You can put that
away,” he said. “This is a vegetarian party. Fairly vegetarian,
anyway. I’m going to give Pinky beans, and— Oh, don’t go
yet, Pinky!”
Budd had made a dive for
the door. The key was still in the lock, and if he had
brought off the manoeuvre he might have been able to
get outside and lock the door behind him. But the Saint was a shade quicker.
The table was between him and Budd, but he
hurled it aside as if it had been made
of cardboard, and caught Budd’s hand as it went to the lock.
Budd dropped the key with
a scream of pain. He tried to kick, but Simon dodged
neatly.
Then he pushed Budd away
so that the man went reel ing across the room, and the Saint picked up
the key and put it in his trouser pocket.
Then he slipped off his coat.
“And now, Pinky Budd,
we have this fight, don’t we?”
But Budd was coming on
without any encouragement. He was on his toes, too. The fighting game had
not dealt lightly with Pinky’s face, but he
had all the science and experience that he had won at the cost of his disfigure ments.
He led off with a
sledge-hammer left that would have ended the fight then and there if it had
connected. But it did not connect. Simon ducked
and landed a left-right beat to the body that made Budd grunt. Then the Saint was away again, sparring, and he also was on his
toes.
Moreover, he was between
Budd and the door, and he meant to stay there. Budd had asked for the fight,
and he was going to get it. Budd might have been glad of the
chance, or he might have wanted to get out of it, but he wasn’t having the choice, anyway. Simon Templar was seeing to
that. But to a certain extent that tactical neces sity of keeping between Budd and the door was going to cramp his style. He appreciated the disadvantage in
a fight which wasn’t going to be an
easy fight at any moment. But it couldn’t be helped.
Budd’s next lead was
another left, but it was a feint. The Saint divined that and changed his
guard. But he was a little slow in divining
that the right cross which came over
after the left was a second feint, and the half-arm jolt to the short ribs which followed it caught
him unpre pared drove him back gasping against the wall.
Budd came in like a tiger, left and right, and
Simon dropped to one knee.
He straightened up with a
raking uppercut that must have ricked Budd’s neck as
though a horse had kicked him under the chin. That
blow would have been the end of the average man for
some time to come. But Budd had been trained in a tougher
school. He fell into a clinch that the Saint, still rib-bound from the
smashing blow he had taken, was not quick
enough to avoid. There Budd’s weight
told. There was no referee to give them the break away, and the professional was free to use every
dirty trick of holding and heading and
heeling for which a clinch gives
openings. But the Saint also knew a few of those himself, and he broke
the clinch eventually with a blow that would
certainly have got him disqualified in any official contest. As he stepped out he swung up a pendulum left which
should have caught Budd under the jaw. Pinky
got his head back quickly enough, but not quite far enough, and the blow snicked up his nose.
It maddened him, but it
also blinded him. No man, however tough, can have
his nose snicked up in that par ticular way without having
his vision momentarily fogged. And before Budd
could see what was happening the Saint had sent in a
pile-driving right-hander to the heart. Then he turned on
his toes and followed through with a left to the solar
plexus that had every ounce of his weight behind it,
and Budd went smashing down as if a steam hammer had hit
him.
Simon picked up his coat.
“We ought to be just
in time to get that train, Slinky,” he
remarked, and then he turned round to find that Slinky
Dyson had already gone.
With a shrug the Saint went out, locking the
door be hind him.
A taxi took him to Paddington, and he arrived
outside the
“You can put that
away,” he said. “This is a vegetarian party. Fairly vegetarian,
anyway. I’m going to give Pinky beans, and— Oh, don’t go
yet, Pinky!”
Budd had made a dive for
the door. The key was still in the lock, and if he had
brought off the manoeuvre he might have been able to
get outside and lock the door behind him. But the Saint was a shade quicker.
The table was between him and Budd, but he
hurled it aside as if it had been made
of cardboard, and caught Budd’s hand as it went to the lock.
Budd dropped the key with
a scream of pain. He tried to kick, but Simon dodged
neatly.
Then he pushed Budd away
so that the man went reel ing across the room, and the Saint picked up
the key and put it in his trouser pocket.
Then he slipped off his coat.
“And now, Pinky Budd,
we have this fight, don’t we?”
But Budd was coming on
without any encouragement. He was on his toes, too. The fighting game had
not dealt lightly with Pinky’s face, but he
had all the science and experience that he had won at the cost of his disfigure ments.
He led off with a
sledge-hammer left that would have ended the fight then and there if it had
connected. But it did not connect. Simon ducked
and landed a left-right beat to the body that made Budd grunt. Then the Saint was away again, sparring, and he also was on his
toes.
Moreover, he was between
Budd and the door, and he meant to stay there. Budd had asked for the fight,
and he was going to get it. Budd might have been glad of the
chance, or he might have wanted to get out of it, but he wasn’t having the choice, anyway. Simon Templar was seeing to
that. But to a certain extent that tactical neces sity of keeping between Budd and the door was going to cramp his style. He appreciated the disadvantage in
a fight which wasn’t going to be an
easy fight at any moment. But it couldn’t be helped.
Budd’s next lead was
another left, but it was a feint. The Saint divined that and changed his
guard. But he was a little slow in divining
that the right cross which came over
after the left was a second feint, and the half-arm jolt to the short ribs which followed it caught
him unpre pared drove him back gasping against the wall.
Budd came in like a tiger, left and right, and
Simon dropped to one knee.
He straightened up with a
raking uppercut that must have ricked Budd’s neck as
though a horse had kicked him under the chin. That
blow would have been the end of the average man for
some time to come. But Budd had been trained in a tougher
school. He fell into a clinch that the Saint, still rib-bound from the
smashing blow he had taken, was not quick
enough to avoid. There Budd’s weight
told. There was no referee to give them the break away, and the professional was free to use every
dirty trick of holding and heading and
heeling for which a clinch gives
openings. But the Saint also knew a few of those himself, and he broke
the clinch eventually with a blow that would
certainly have got him disqualified in any official contest. As he stepped out he swung up a pendulum left which
should have caught Budd under the jaw. Pinky
got his head back quickly enough, but not quite far enough, and the blow snicked up his nose.
It maddened him, but it
also blinded him. No man, however tough, can have
his nose snicked up in that par ticular way without having
his vision momentarily fogged. And before Budd
could see what was happening the Saint had sent in a
pile-driving right-hander to the heart. Then he turned on
his toes and followed through with a left to the solar
plexus that had every ounce of his weight behind it,
and Budd went smashing down as if a steam hammer had hit
him.
Simon picked up his coat.
“We ought to be just
in time to get that train, Slinky,” he
remarked, and then he turned round to find that Slinky
Dyson had already gone.
With a shrug the Saint went out, locking the
door be hind him.
A taxi took him to Paddington, and he arrived
outside the
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