Saint's Getaway by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online Page A

even
as the Saint was pulling his. Patricia he knew like his own hand; and Monty Hayward was a veritable tower of
strength. They would find their own solution to the revised problem— even if that solution consisted of nothing more
desperate than a policy of masterly inaction.
    Meanwhile, fully three quarters of his own
talents were taken up with the business of maintaining his present
strate gic position. At the first trial, the roof of the car had seemed most
conveniently proportioned to enable him to curl his toes over the
rear corners and his fingers over the front ones, thereby stabilizing
his equilibrium over a wide base; but after the first five minutes he
discovered that his position was unpleasantly reminiscent of the lunch hour in
a mediaeval torture chamber. If he had been able to talk, he would
have aired his heartfelt sympathy with the venerable sportsmen who allowed
their heights to be increased on the six-inches-while- you-wait machine, while the jailers went
round the corner to get gay with a butt of
mulled sack. The car dodged and bucked round
every available corner, heading eastwards out of the town onto the Salzburg road; and at every corner
he had to exert all his strength to
avoid being flung into the scenery like a pea off a gyroscope. Even when they
were clear of the town he was no better off; for the Inn Valley road, for its
own mys terious reasons, switches
over a series of bridges from one side of
the river to the other at every conceivable opportunity and a few others which only an engineering genius
could have invented. Moreover, it is covered to a depth of three inches with a layer of fine white dust; and as the car
increased its speed the Saint found
himself enveloped in a whirling cloud of pul verized rock which invaded his nostrils and turned the lining of his
throat into a lime kiln—a form of frightfulness which the mediaeval connoisseurs had omitted to include
in their syl labus of entertainment.
The Saint clung on like a limpet, breathing
through his ears, and dreaming wistfully of feather beds and beer.
    After a while he began to get adjusted to the peculiar re quirements of his position—for what that was
worth. At least, he felt
sufficiently secure to try and take a peek at what there was to be seen
in the de luxe quarters of the vehicle. Locating a merciful straight stretch of road in front of them, he let go one
hand and squirmed himself gingerly round to shoot one eyes through the miniature skylight under his belt buckle.
    At the four corners of the rear compartment,
clusters of tiny
frosted bulbs illuminated the interior. By their light Si mon could see the prince reclining in the
sybaritic upholstery with the
portable safe balanced on his knee. He was idly twiddling the wheels of the combination, and a tranquil smile was gliding over his face. Presently he put the
strong-box down on the cushions beside him and rested his chin on his
hand, wrapped in inscrutable contemplation.
    The Saint grabbed for a hold and flattened
himself out again in time to take the next corner. And he also meditated.
    The view he had had of the tableau under his
tummy was definitely encouraging. Pondering it between the racking strains on
his muscles, he elaborated it into a direct and diag nostic confirmation
of his theory. The facts as he knew them so far had to link up
somehow, and the Saint felt that he could do the linking. That
was why he was suffering his present martyrdom.
    He tacked the dues concisely together in his
mind.
    “Emilio was tailing Stanislaus to report
when he made the home base. When I collared Stanislaus, Emilio didn’t try
to rescue him; he knifed him instead. After which, Rudolf tools and lifts
the sardine can. Simple.”
    The big car sped on; and time became nothing
but a mean ingless
succession of aches. They passed through a jolly-sound ing place called Pill, swung right at Schwaz, and began to climb into the mountains. Shortly afterwards, the
so-called “first-class”
road