Free Brighter Buccaneer by Leslie Charteris Page A

correspond with the description he had heard of the Saint in any respect except that of height and build. Then he saw that the Anglo-Indian complexion could be a simple concoction of grease-paint, the hardness of the features and the moustache and eyebrows an elementary problem in make-up.
    The croupier was strolling around the bed, and Kemmler could scarcely control himself as he saw the man touch the pillow underneath which the envelope of notes still lay.
    “Well?”
    Kemmler fought out a battle with himself of which nothing showed on his face. The Saint’s right hand was resting in a side pocket of his coat-there was nothing in that ordinary fact to disturb most people, but to Max Kemmler it had a particular and deadly significance. And his own gun was under the pillow with the money-he had been caught like the veriest greenhorn.
    “What about it?” he demanded as calmly as he could.
    “We want to get him,” the detective said. “If he’s in your room already you can’t do a thing. Why not be sensible? You’re sailing on the Empress of Britain today, and that suits us. We’ll turn a blind eye on your new passport. We won’t even ask why the Saint wants to rob you. All we ask is for you to help us get that man.”
    Max Kemmler swallowed. That knowledge of his secret plans was only the second blow that had come to him. He was a tough guy in any circumstances, but he knew when the dice were loaded against him. He was in a cleft stick. The fact that he had promised himself the pleasure of giving the Saint an unwholesome surprise if they ever met didn’t enter into it.
    “What shall I do?” he asked.
    “Let him get on with it. Let him stick you up. Don’t fight or anything. I’ll have a squad of men outside your door in thirty seconds.”
    “Okay,” said Max Kemmler expressionlessly. “I’ll see to it.”
    He put down the receiver and looked into the muzzle of Simon Templar’s automatic. With the detective’s warning still ringing in his ears, he let his mouth fall open in well-simulated astonishment and wrath.
    “What the hell —”
    “Spare my virginal ears,” said the Saint gently. “It’s been swell helping you to rake in the berries, Max, but this is where the game ends. Stick your hands right up and feel your chest expand!”
    He turned over the pillow and put Kemmler’s gun in a spare pocket. The envelope of notes went into another. Max Kemmler watched the disappearance of his wealth with a livid face of fury that he could hardly control. If he had not received that telephone call he would have leapt at the Saint and chanced it.
    Simon smiled at him benevolently.
    “I’m afraid we’ll have to see that you don’t raise an alarm,” he said. “Would you mind turning around?”
    Max Kemmler turned reluctantly. He was not prepared for the next thing that happened to him, and it is doubtful whether even Chief Inspector Teal could have induced him to submit meekly to it if he had. Fortunately he was given no option. A reverse gun-butt struck him vimfully and scientifically on the occiput, and he collapsed in a limp heap.
    When he woke up a page-boy was shaking him by the shoulder and his head was splitting with the worst headache that he had ever experienced.
    “Is your luggage ready to go, Mr. Kemmler?”
    Kemmler glared at the boy for a few seconds in silence. Then recollection returned to him, and he staggered up with a hoarse profanity.
    He dashed to the door and flung it open. The corridor was deserted.
    “Where’s that guy who was here a minute ago? Where are the cops?” he shouted, and the bellhop gasped at him uncomprehendingly.
    “I don’t know, sir.”
    Max Kemmler flung him aside and grabbed the telephone. In a few seconds he was through to Scotland Yard-and Chief Inspector Teal.
    “Say, you, what the hell’s the idea? What is it, huh? The grand double-cross? Where are those dicks who were going to be waiting for the Saint outside my door? What’ve you done with