Free Señor Saint by Leslie Charteris Page A

his hand to Doris Inkler to help her. Her hand was cold, and kept hold of his even after she had joined him on the rickety timbers. Sherman Inkler stumbled on to the pier after them.
    Enriquez seemed to sense the defensiveness of their grouping, for he said reassuringly: “They are all friends of our friend Jalisco. Don’t worry. This village is one of ours.”
    He guided them through the opening ranks and off the dock. It felt good to the Saint to stretch his legs again on solid ground. The dim square outlines of several parked trucks loomed around them; then another man alone, whose face was faintly spotlighted in the darkness by the glow of a cigar. It was Pablo.
    The two brothers talked quickly and briefly in Spanish, and Manuel said mostly “Sí, sí,” and “Está bien.”
    “This way,” Pablo said.
    He led them a little distance from the trucks, to where one of the yellow Cadillacs was parked under a tree, with one of the burly chauffeurs beside it. He went around to the back and unlocked the trunk. An automatic light went on as it opened, illuminating one medium-sized suitcase inside.
    “That is for you,” Pablo said.
    Inkler stepped slowly forward. He opened the suitcase gingerly, as if half expecting it to be booby-trapped. Simon felt Doris tremble a little at his shoulder. Then they saw the neat bundles of green bills that filled the bag.
    “You may count it,” Manuel said.
    Inkler took out one of the packages of currency and thumbed through it methodically. He compared it with the others for thickness. Doris joined him and began to count packages, rummaging to the very bottom of the bag. Sherman pulled out occasional bills and examined them very closely under the light. Most of them were twenties and fifties.
    Simon Templar watched from where he stood, and also let his eyes travel all around and turned his head casually to look behind him. His muscles and reflexes were poised on a hair trigger. But he could neither see nor hear any hint of a closing ambush. The husky chauffeur stood a little apart, like a statue. The Enriquez brothers talked together in low tones, and the only scraps of their conversation that the Saint could catch were concerned entirely with their arrangements for storing and distributing the ordnance that they thought they were buying.
    “I’m satisfied,” Sherman Inkler said at last. Manuel lighted a cigar.
    “Good. Then you will give the signal to your boat?”
    “Of course.”
    Manuel led him back into the gloom, in the direction of the pier.
    Doris Inkler closed and fastened the suitcase and pulled it out of the car trunk. She unbalanced a little as the full weight came on her arm, and put it down on the ground.
    “It’s heavy,” she said with a nervous laugh; and as the Saint stepped up to feel it, out of curiosity, she said: “Give me a cigarette.”
    He gave her one, and Pablo lighted it.
    “It is a lot of money,” Pablo said. “It will buy many pretty things, if you have an appreciative husband.”
    “I’ll feel safer with it when it’s turned into traveler’s checks,” said the Saint.
    Pablo laughed.
    They made forced arid trivial conversation until Simon heard Manuel and Sherman returning.
    Now, if there was to be any treachery on the part of the Enriquez brothers, it would have to show itself. The Saint’s weight was on the balls of his feet, his right hand ready to move like a striking snake; but still the movement that he was alert for did not come.
    “I am afraid it will take several hours to unload everything,” Manuel said. “Would you like to go back on the boat and have some more drinks?”
    Doris looked at her husband.
    “Can’t we go back to the hotel? I’m tired, and famished- and I think some mosquitoes are eating me.”
    “Pablo and I must stay here,” Manuel said. “And we need all our men. Even the chauffeur should be helping. However … Would you like to take the car? One of you can drive. It is an easy road to Vera Cruz. You