Free The Saint and the People Importers by Leslie Charteris Page A

exhibition of submachine-gun fire in the grandest Chicago tradition.
    But Mahmud only climbed with painful slowness into the taxi and then was driven unspectacularly away. Tammy breathed again and Simon spoke.
    “I’ll be going, then. Thanks very much for the talk -and the exercise.”
    “We’ll be going, and that’s the last time I intend to correct you,” Tammy said. “Let me change into a skirt and grab my purse. Have you got any money? I never do. You didn’t bring your car?”
    “Yes, I do have some money, and no, I didn’t bring my car. Do you have one?”
    “Yes. That’s one reason why I don’t have any money. With my wheels and your cash we should go a long way, though. Ready?”
    “Eminently.”
    “Onward, the Light Brigade,” Tammy said. “Into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell, or whatever the poet said.”
    “Don’t forget, he was also a prophet,” Simon remarked.
    They had just stepped into the hall, and Tammy locked the door behind her.
    “What is that ominous statement supposed to mean?” she asked.
    “I know we made a deal,” Simon answered, “but as the older and possibly more clearheaded member of this partnership I think I ought to remind, you that instead of being the toast of Fleet Street when this expedition is over, you may end up as dead as Ali, and just as uncomfortably.”
    “Rot!” Tammy said defiantly. “We’ll see who’s the most clearheaded. Come on.”
    “I think I’d better remind you of something else,” Simon told her as she started off down the hall.
    “What?”
    “You forgot to put on your shoes.”
    3
HOW SHORTWAVE WAS
RECEPTIVE, AND MAHMUD
LOST HIS COOL
    When Tam Rowan had gone back into her flat and returned to the Saint properly shod, the two of them walked quietly downstairs to the entrance hall.
    “Much more practical,” Simon said with a glance at her low-heeled brown shoes. “And I congratulate you on your presence of mind: they’re both the same colour.”
    She compressed her lips and did not say anything. He stopped her with a touch on her arm as she headed for the door.
    “Is there a back way out of this place?” he asked. “Just in case some of your fans are watching in front.”
    “Of course,” she said haughtily. “This way.”
    She led him down the hall into its dark nether regions and disengaged the bolt which held the rear door shut. They stepped out into a tiny fenced yard where the apartment building’s wastepaper and orange peels overflowed several containers.
    “Through here,” she pointed.
    They went through an opening in the wooden fence and were standing in a narrow cul-de-sac just wide enough to allow a row of cars to park along one side and still leave access for driving in and out.
    “We can walk around and catch a taxi,” Simon said. “My car’s at my flat.”
    “Mine’s right here,” Tammy said. “Let’s take it. There’s no point in wasting time.”
    “Okay.”
    She took him to a long, low, scarlet sports car with gleaming wire-spoke wheels.
    “Very nice,” the Saint said.
    “Thank you. It’ll be mine in another eight hundred and forty-five payments-assuming I can come up with enough dirt on this immigration racket to keep my boss doling out the wherewithal.”
    Simon opened her door for her and went around to jackknife himself into the low bucket seat on the other side.
    “I wonder if you couldn’t have bought something a little more roomy for eight hundred and forty-six payments,” he commented.
    “The littler they are the more fun they are to scoot around in,” she said. “You obviously weren’t designed for overpopulated areas.”
    “I’m strictly designed for wide open spaces,” he agreed. “Shall we try the ignition and see what happens?”
    She reached for the key, then hesitated, looking at him in the dim greenish light of the instrument panel.
    “What do you mean, see what happens?”
    “See if it blows up in our faces,” he elucidated.
    “Are you insulting my car or