Free The Saint Meets His Match by Leslie Charteris Page B

more.”
    “Ever beat up a
‘tec?”
    “More than that. I
can’t tell you. They might … Donnell, you’ve got to get
us out of this!”
    Donnell’s eyebrows came
down.
    “What do you mean, get
you out of it? What about me?”
    Weald clutched his arm.
    “You don’t understand.
I’ve got to get away. I’ve got to take the girl with me. Is there any back way
out of this —any bolt hole you’ve prepared?
I’ve got money—— ”
    Donnell thrust him
roughly into a chair and pushed the whisky bottle
towards him. Weald helped himself greedily to
another half-glassful.
    “Now you’re
talking,” said Donnell. “How much?”
    Weald dragged a note case
from his pocket. It bulged. Donnell’s eyes fastened
on it hungrily.
    “A thousand, Donnell.
It’s all I can spare. I’ve got to leave myself some
money to get clear.”
    “Let’s see it.”
    Feverishly Weald counted
out the notes with shaking fingers and put them on the table. Donnell moistened
his thumb and counted them deliberately. Then he put them in his pocket.
    “That cupboard behind
you,” he said. “The back of it’s a
sliding door. You’ll find some stairs. Go right down. There’s
a tunnel under the block and the street, and it comes
up in the cellar of a house on the other side.”
    “But you’ve got to
hold Templar up.”
    Donnell struck his chest
with a huge fist.
    “Me? I’ll hold the
Saint up. I don’t run away from anyone—but you can clear out when you want to.
You’d be more trouble than use, anyway.”
    Weald swallowed the taunt
without a protest.
    “All right. As soon
as the girl comes back you get out and say you’re going to warn your gang. I’ll
look after the rest.”
    Donnell sat down heavily
on a truckle bed in one corner. He took a massive
revolver from his pocket, spilled the cartridges into
his hand, and squinted up the barrel. He spun the
cylinder with his fingers, tested the hammer action to his
satisfaction, and reloaded the gun method ically.
    “What’s the
idea?” he asked laconically. “You sweet on
her?”
    Weald nodded, with the
bottle in his hand.
    “That’s not the half
of it. I’ve been wanting her for months. I thought I’d do it gradually, working
with her and making her like me. But there
isn’t time for any more fooling about. If the police are going to get
me I’m going to get her first. I don’t care
if it’s the last thing I do. Donnell—on
the train—she was sneering at me!”
    “Anyone would,”
said Donnell unemotionally. “A white-livered rat like you!”
    Weald wiped his mouth. The whisky was going to
his head.
    “I’m not a
white-livered rat, Donnell!” he blustered.
    “You’re a
white-livered rat and a yellow cur at the same time,”
said Donnell without heat, testing the sights of his Colt on the whisky
bottle.
    Weald lurched towards him.
    “Donnell, you take
that back!”
    “Don’t be a blasted
nuisance,” said Donnell im patiently.
    He took Weald’s shoulder
in a huge hand and pushed him away. Then Jill
Trelawney came into the room.
    “I’ve seen all I want
to see,” she said. “Donnell, will you
go down and rouse up the boys?”
    “I was just going
to, Miss Trelawney,” said Donnell heavily.
    He went to the door and
leered, behind her back, at Weald. Then he went out, and Weald heard him clump ing heavily
down the stairs.
    “I didn’t say you were
to drink a whole bottle,” re marked Jill, surveying Weald’s unsteady
balance.
    “You don’t understand,
Jill. I’ve been finding a way out.”
    He walked rockily to the cupboard that Donnell
had indicated and dragged open the doors. After some fum bling he was able to open the sliding door at the back, and then he
found a switch. The light showed a flight of steps leading down into a
damp and musty darkness.
    “Our way out!”
declaimed Weald grandiosely.
    “Very
interesting,” said the girl, “but we don’t happen to be going that
way.”
    He stared.
    “Not going that way?”
    “How the Angels