Free The Saint in Trouble by Leslie Charteris Page A

car. He jerked the heavy bike onto its stand, and undipped the holster at his side. Holding the pistol in front of him, he cautiously approached the car, his eyes sweeping from side to side as he walked. But the Saint was already behind him.
    Simon closed in with two long strides that took him to within six inches of the man’s back. He leaned forward and spoke softly in his ear.
    “A vez-vous la plume de ma tante?”
    The cop started to turn, but the Saint’s fingers closed around his neck, digging into the somniferic pressure points on each side. The other’s elbow rammed at Simon’s stomach, but the Saint held his grip and the struggle was over in seconds. Simon dragged him behind the prowl car and removed his uniform jacket with the dexterity of a professional quick-change artist. He bundled the unconscious man into the back of the car and pulled on the coat. Fortunately the motard was built on the lines of a healthy barrel, and what the jacket lacked in length, for the Saint’s long, lean frame, it could make up from excess circumference. The eventual compromise was not too grotesque.
    He did not bother with the boots and uniform breeches, which would almost certainly have been less adaptable anyhow. He had to trust that the light blue slacks he was already wearing would blend in well enough to get past any but the most hypercritical eye. The standard crash helmet and its visor covered enough of his face, and with that in place he mounted the motorcycle and rode up the ramp out of the garage.
    He headed directly for the Croisette and back towards the Hotel Bellevue, confident that that was the last place where the frantic search parties would be looking for him. The situation offered endless opportunities for sport, and lie had to fight back the temptation to indulge them, contenting himself with snapping a smart salute to a senior officer addressing a squad of men opposite the Palais des Festivals as he rode past.
    At the hotel, an assistant manager hurried over as he approached the concierge’s desk.
    “What are you doing here? The inspector said he would give strict instructions to his men to use the staff entrance.”
    Simon raised the visor of his crash helmet slightly, which allowed his hand to partly cover his face.
    I was sent to collect some things from Templar’s room. I need the key.”
    “The inspector took it.”
    “Well, he never gave it to me. You’d better let me have a master key.”
    The man dithered, seemed about to quote the rules, and then noticed the looks his guests were giving the Saint. He gave a sign to the concierge, who produced a key with a massive brass tag and put it on the counter.
    “And remember to leave by the staff entrance. We do not want the police in the public rooms.”
    The Saint shrugged.
    “If you don’t want us here, you shouldn’t have people like Templar here either.”
    He turned away towards the elevators, aware that the eyes of everyone in the lobby followed him and breathed a long sigh of relief when the doors closed behind him.
    There was no guard on the door to his room, and no one in the corridor to see him enter it. He peeled off the uniform jacket while he turned on the shower in the bathroom. All things considered it had not been the most satisfactory twenty-four hours of his life, he reflected as he impudently indulged in the luxury of the water.
    His mind roamed back over the events of the previous night: the startled look on Samantha’s face when Emma had announced her father’s disappearance, the slickness of the decoy operation and the fact that the police were waiting for him when he returned empty-handed, the look in Curdon’s eyes during their talk at the police station. The wild theory that had nagged him the night before no longer seemed insane; but there was still one angle that had to be tried, and the Saint realised just how little time he had in which to test it.
    The shower washed away the aches of his body as well as the staleness