Free The Saint and Mr. Teal: Formerly Called "Once More the Saint" by Leslie Charteris Page A

grunted and went back on his heels, dropping his hands to guard; and the Saint shot out a snake-like left for the exposed chin. The big man took it on the side of his jaw, deliberately, and snatched at the flying wrist as the blow landed.
    His fingers closed on it like iron clamps, twisting spitefully. He had every ounce of the strength that his build indicated, and he was as hard as teak all over -the Saint had felt that when he landed with those two staggering blows that would have broken most men in the middle. What was more, he had been trained in a school of fighting that knew its stuff: he never gave the Saint a chance to make a boxing match of it. Simon swerved away from the dome and kicked up his knee, but the big man edged back. The Saint’s left arm was clamped in an agonizing armlock, and he was wrenched ruthlessly round again towards the dome. The leverage of the hold was bearing him down to his knees; then with a swift terrific kick he straightened his legs under him and swung his right fist over in a smashing blow at the back of the man’s neck. The man coughed, and crumpled to his hands and knees; and Simon tore his wrist out of the grip and fell on top of him.
    They rolled over together, with the Saint groping for a toehold. One of the big man’s insteps came under the palm of his hand, and he hauled it up and bent it over with a brutal efficiency that made his victim gasp. But the big man was wise to that one-the hold only hurt him for a couple of seconds, before he flung it off with a mighty squirm of his body that pitched the Saint over on his face. In an instant the big man’s legs were scissoring for a clasp round the Saint’s neck and shoulders, and his hands were clamping again on the Saint’s wrist. Simon heard his muscles creaking as he strained against the backward pressure that was slowly straightening his arm. Once that arm was locked out straight from the shoulder, with the elbow over the big man’s knee joint, he would have to move like a supercharged eel to get away before a bone was snapped like dry wood. He fought it desperately, but it was his one arm against the big man’s two; and he knew he was losing inch by inch. His free hand clawed for a nerve centre under one of the thighs that were crushing his chest: he found it, and saw the big man wince, but the remorseless straightening of his arm went on. In the last desperate moment that he had, he struggled to break the nutcracker grip around his upper body. One of the big man’s shoes came off in his hand, and with a triumphant laugh he piled all his strength into another toetwist. The man squeaked and kicked, and Simon broke away. As he came up on all fours, the other rolled away. They leapt up simultaneously and circled round each other, breathing heavily.
    “Thanks for the fight,” said the Saint shortly. “I never cared for cold-blooded killings.”
    For answer the big man came forward off his toes like a charging bull; but he had not moved six inches before the Saint’s swift dash reached him. Again those pile-driving fists jarred on the weak spot just below the other’s breastbone. Jones grabbed for a stranglehold, but the drumming of iron knuckles on his solar plexus made him stagger backwards and cover up with his elbows. His mouth opened against the protest of his paralyzed lungs, and his face went white and puffy. Simon drove him to the door and held off warily. He knew that the big man was badly hurt, but perhaps his helplessness looked a little too realistic… . The Saint feinted with a left to the head, and in a second the big man was bear-hugging him in a wild rush that almost carried him off his feet.
    They went back towards the gleaming dome in a fighting tangle. Simon looked over his shoulder and saw it a yard away, with its brilliant surface shining like silver around the charred blackness of the professor’s hand. The strip of wire that he had seen melted on it had left streaky trails of smeared metal down