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

the curved sides, like the slime of a fantastic snail. The Saint saw them in an instant of photographically vivid vision in which the minutest details of that diabolical apparatus were printed forever on his memory. There must have been tens of thousands of volts pulsing invisibly through that section of the secret process, hundreds of amperes of burning annihilation waiting to scorch through the first thing that tapped them with that crackle of blue flame and hiss of intolerable heat which he had seen once and heard again. His shoes slipped over the floor as he wrestled superhumanly against the momentum that was pressing him back towards certain death: the big man’s face was cracked in a fiendish grin, and he heard Patricia cry out… . Then one of his heels tripped over the professor’s outstretched legs, and he was thrown off his balance. He put all his strength into a frantic twist of his body as he fell, and saw the dome leap up beside him, a foot away. The fall knocked half the wind out of his body, and he fought blindly away to one side. Suddenly his hands grasped empty air, and he heard Patricia cry out again.
    The splitting detonation of a shot racketed in his ears as he rolled up on one elbow. Patricia had missed, somehow, and the big man was grappling for the gun. Simon crawled up and flung himself forward. As he did so, the big man saw his own gun lying in the corner where the Saint had kicked it, and dived for it. Simon caught him from behind in a circling sweep, locking the big man’s arms to his sides at the elbows; but the big man had the gun. The Saint saw it curling round for a backward shot that could not help scoring somewhere: he made a wild grab at the curving wrist and caught it, jerking it up as the trigger tightened, and the shot smashed through the floor. Simon flung his left leg forward, across the big man’s stance. The steel dome was a yard away on his left. He heaved sideways, across the leverage of his thigh, and sprang back… . The man’s scream rang in his ears as he staggered away. Once again that spurt of eye-aching blue flame seared across his eye’s and turned suddenly orange. The big man had hit the dome with his shoulder, and his coat was burning; the smell of singeing cloth stung the Saint’s nostrils, and the crack of cordite sang through his head as the galvanic current clamped a dead finger convulsively on the trigger and held it there rigidly in one last aimless shot… .
    “And we still don’t know his real name,” murmured the Saint.
    He pushed a handkerchief across his brow and looked at Patricia with a crooked grin. Patricia was fingering her wrist tenderly, where the big man’s crushing grip had fastened on it. She looked back at the Saint with a pale face that was still hopelessly puzzled.
    “That’s your fault,” she said.
    “I know.” The Saint’s eyes had a mocking twist in their inscrutable blue that she couldn’t understand. “You see, when you’ve made up your mind about a thing like Brother Jones’s demise, the only way is to get it over quickly. And Claud Eustace will be along soon. But I promise you, Pat, I’ve never hated killing anyone so much-and there was never anyone who’d ‘ve been so dangerous to my peace of mind if he’d stayed alive. If you want any excuses for it, he’d got two deliberate murders on his own hands and one more for which he was deliberately responsible, so he only got what was coming to him.”
    She waited alone in the room of death while the Saint vanished along the landing towards one of the bedrooms. It took the Saint a few minutes to repair the damage which the fight had done to his immaculate elegance, but when he had finished there was hardly a trace of it -nothing but a slight disorder that could have been caused by a brief scuffle. He used the dead man’s hair-brushes and clothesbrush, and wrapped a handkerchief round his hand before he touched anything. Everything went back on the dressing table exactly as