Free The Saint in Trouble by Leslie Charteris Page B

of the police station cell, and the crispness of a complete change to fresh clothes seemed to pump fresh vitality into his body.
    The room showed signs of having been subjected to a thorough search, but only his passport and personal papers had been removed. The Saint slid his hand along the back of the drawer in the bedside table and carefully freed the knife that he had left taped there.
    He smiled as he strapped the supple leather sheath to his left forearm. Simon Templar disliked guns in principle, considering them crude and noisy. It is relatively easy to kill a man when you cannot see his eyes, almost as simple as sitting behind a desk and ordering the murder of thousands. It is more difficult to throw a knife with the speed and sureness of a bullet, or to use it when so close that you can hear the beat of the other man’s heart. The Saint could perform tricks with that slender blade that would make a circus knife thrower blanch. They had been together for a long time, and in times of peril the Saint felt naked without the reassuring pressure of the leather nestling against his skin.
    He took the assistant manager’s advice and went down to the ground floor in the service elevator, slipping out of the hotel through a side door and cautiously making his way around to the car park.
    Gaby’s taxi stood at the end of the rank, and Simon opened the rear door to slip in, crouching low between the seats.
    Gaby glanced up from his paper but did not look around, simply adjusting the mirror until the Saint came into focus.
    He held the paper so that Simon could see it.
    “I thought you were a guest of our celebrated Inspector Lebeau.”
    The Saint smiled and shook his head.
    “I didn’t like the accommodation, so I decided to leave.”
    Gaby laughed and switched on the engine.
    “Whereto?”
    “The Port Canto. Quick as you can.”
    Already Gaby was heading his Buick towards the Boulevard.
    “You are always in a hurry, n’est-ce pas?”
    “Life is short, and I always have so much to do,” Simon apologised.
    He risked a quick look out of the side windows. There seemed to be police on every corner and he hurriedly sank down again out of sight, pulling a travelling rug over himself.
    The taxi driver intrigued him. The man always seemed to be available, it was almost as if he lived in his cab.
    “Tell me-don’t you ever go home?”
    “I have to make my living.”
    “I hope it will not be endangered because of me.”
    Gaby laughed again.
    “For certain clients,” he said, “it is a pleasure to bend the rules.”
    Gaby drove through the private parking entrance with a familiar wave to the guard, and followed the Saint’s directions to the place where Samantha’s cabin cruiser had been.
    Simon studied the scene with dismay. The quay where Protege had been berthed before was empty. If it was Protege that the launch carrying Maclett had rendezvoused with between the islands, as the Saint had now concluded, the fast cruiser had not returned to port. Was it still out there? Or, much more likely, where was it speeding now?
    The Saint swore, and Gaby turned his head.
    “You want another boat?”
    Simon grinned ruefully.
    “Not unless it has wings.”
    Gaby thought for a moment.
    “I don’t know of any boats with wings, but I have a friend who has them. You would like to meet him?”
    Mystified, the Saint could only say: “I’d be delighted.”
    Gaby explained as he turned the car and drove back along the Croisette.
    “My friend is a helicopter pilot for the sea rescue service.”
    “Will he help us?” The Saint did not try to keep the excitement out of his voice.
    “I do not know, but he owes me a favour, several of them.”
    Gaby followed the coast road from the old port towards La Napoule but turned off at La Bocca, taking the inland route towards Mandelieu, where the Saint remembered that there was a small airfield.
    The Buick finally stopped at the edge of a concrete landing pad. Two bright red helicopters