Free Saint's Getaway by Leslie Charteris Page B

for the second time were somewhat disordered. He insisted
to himself, on purely logical grounds, that he was scared stiff; but the emotion somehow
failed to connect amicably with another
stratum of his immortal soul which was having the time of its life. He began to ask himself whether
perhaps he had been missing something
by steadfastly burying himself in a
respectable existence; and immediately he reflected that the prospect of being hanged by the neck for other
people’s mur ders was a damned good
thing to miss anyway. He solemnly vowed
that the next time he saw a harmless-looking little man being set on by a gang
of thugs, he would raise his hat politely and pass by on the other side; and simultaneously he felt rather pleased with himself for the efficiency with
which he had laid out his opponent.
It was all very difficult; and he pushed
himself and his grisly luggage through the first-floor window with some doubts of whether he was really
the same manwho had been placidly quaffing Pilsener at the Brein ö ssl two
hours ago.
    After a moment’s deliberation, he laid the
little man artistically down beside the overturned chair, rubbed the chair
with his sleeve to remove any fingerprints, and stood back to exam ine his
handiwork. It looked convincing enough… . And it was then that the
Recording Angel shuddered on his throne and upset the inkpot; for Monty Hayward
gazed at his handi work and grinned. …
    Then he switched out the light. He hopped
over the window sill and trotted down the escape with a briskness that
was al most
rollicking. The glorious company of the Apostles held their breath.
    He was three steps from the bottom when he
saw a shadow move in the darkness just below, and a hoarse voice chal lenged
him:
    “Wer da?”
    Monty’s stomach took a short stroll round his
interior.
    Then he stepped down to the ground.
    “Hullo, ole pineapple,” he
hiccoughed. “Ishnit lovely night? Are you the
lighthoushkeeper? Becaush if you are—— ”
    A light was flashed in his face, and he heard
a startled excla mation:
    “Gott im Himmel! Der Engl ä nder, der mich in den Fluss geworfen
hat—— ”
    Monty understood, and gasped.
    And then, even as it had happened earlier to Simon Templar, the
tattered remnants of his virtue were swept into annihilation like chaff before
a fire. If he were destined for the scaffold,
so let it be. His boats had been burned for him.
    He flung up his arm and knocked the light
aside. As it flew into the air, he had a fleeting glimpse of the battered
face of the man he had tackled on the bridge, with his one undam aged eye
bulging and his bruised mouth opening for a shout. He crowded every ounce of
his strength into a left hook to the protruding chin, and heard the man
drop like a poleaxed ox.
    Monty picked him up and carried him into the
sitting room.
Monty was smiling. He considered that that left hook was a beauty.
    “We were only just in time,” he
said. “This hotel is getting unhealthy.”
    The girl looked at him open-mouthed.
    “Where was he?”
    “Standing at the bottom of the fire
escape, waiting for me. He’s one of the blokes we threw into the river. I think I can
guess what happened. If the police were waiting to pinch Stanislaus, they may have been nearly as hot on
the trail of the man upstairs. They
came dashing along here as soon as they’d reported to headquarters and borrowed a change of clothes —you can see this chap’s uniform is too tight for
him. The other two are probably
interviewing the management and prepar ing
to break in the door. This one was posted in the garden to see that their man didn’t make a getaway through
the win dow.”
    Patricia took a cigarette from her case and
lighted it with a steady
hand.
    “If that bloke’s uniform is too tight for
him,” she remarked evenly, “it should just about fit you.”
    Monty raised one eyebrow.
    After a moment’s silence he bent a calculating
eye on the unconscious policeman. When he looked up again