Saint and the Fiction Makers by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online Page B

inquired.
    ‘Oh!’
    Amity looked as a man in uniform stepped from the car and came up the walk. A moment later he knocked at the front door.
    ‘Somebody must have reported the shots,’ Simon said.
    A fat-faced stocky constable stood on the steps when Amity opened the door.
    ‘Good evening, ma’am, sir,’ he said pleasantly. ‘P.C. Jarvis, Burnham police.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘We’ve something peculiar come up,’ said the man. ‘The Inspector asked me to request that you please come down to the station.’
    ‘What for, at an hour like this?’ Simon asked. ‘Does he want someone to sing him to sleep?’
    ‘There’s reason to believe that some kind of attack might be made on this house.’
    ‘What reason?’
    ‘I couldn’t say, sir. I’m only following orders. It seems there’s some funny things going on, and I wouldn’t want to alarm you, but the Inspector says it’s for your own protection.’
    Simon and Amity exchanged glances, and the Saint’s eyes darted back to a ring he had noticed on the officer’s left hand. It was a large golden ring ornately carved in Florentine style.
    ‘That’s very kind of the Inspector,’ he said to the policeman. ‘If we’re in danger, maybe you’d better come inside so we can shut the door.’
    Constable Jarvis held back, protesting that he was not sure of any such great or immediate danger, but the Saint, with fingers very much like steel clamps not yet exerting a tenth of their potential pressure, took the man’s arm and urged him into the hall with firm friendliness. Amity closed the door and bolted it.
    ‘Can we offer you a drink?’ she asked.
    ‘Not on duty, ma’am. Thanks just the same.’ The policeman looked rather longingly over his shoulder at the locked door. ‘It’d be best if you could just come along now, so the Inspector can explain everything to you himself.’
    ‘Is Charlie Huggins with you?’ Simon asked. ‘No, sir.’
    ‘Too bad. I’d like to see old Charlie. Will he be at the station if we come down?’
    ‘Huggins?’ the policeman asked.
    The Saint became openly suspicious.
    ‘Constable Huggins,’ he said.
    Constable Jarvis broke into a broad grin.
    ‘Oh, Huggins! Of course. He’s not on duty this evening, but I’ll give him your regards tomorrow.’
    ‘That’s very good of you. Please do it … as soon as you wake up.’
    On the words ‘wake up’ the Saint’s fist blurred into the tender flab of the other’s jaw like an upswung sledgehammer. Without even a groan the man dropped to the floor.
    Amity was aghast.
    ‘What are you doing?’ she squeaked.
    ‘The ring’s suspicious enough on a country constable, but I know for a fact there’s no such person as Charlie Huggins here, because Charlie Huggins is a bartender friend of mine in Chelsea.’
    ‘So who’s this?’ Amity asked, pointing at the limp plump form on the floor.
    ‘Warlock?’ Simon asked.
    ‘Oh, that’s really too much!’
    ‘I agree. And there may have been somebody with him in that car, so let’s take the other way out and see what we can see. Our friend here will be happy to rest till we get back.’
    They went back to the writing room, turned off the lights, and Simon parted the curtains to peek out of the french windows. A very tall, very brawny figure in a uniform and cap similar to the one worn by P.C. Jarvis appeared in the light of the quarter moon.
    ‘It’s a little crowded out here,’ he murmured. ‘Let’s take the front way after all.’
    ‘What was it?’ Amity asked as he towed her through the hall.
    ‘He looked a bit like one of Dr. Frankenstein’s play toys. I’m afraid we may as well admit to ourselves that your ivory tower is under attack, and that we’re at least temporarily on the defensive. Here’s your gun back, but let’s not start killing people unless it’s absolutely necessary.’
    Amity Little gave a low moan. ‘Killing people?’
    Simon’s hand was on the front door lock preparatory to opening it.
    ‘It