The Saint and Mr. Teal: Formerly Called "Once More the Saint" by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online Page A

and cobwebs festooning an enormous dingy gilt chandelier.
    “Rented for the job,” he diagnosed. “They wouldn’t bother about the ground floor at all-not with kid-napped prisoners.”
    He flitted up the staircase without so much as a tap from his feather-weight crepe-soled shoes. A strip of cheap carpet had been roughly laid around the gallery which admitted to the first-floor rooms; and the Saint walked softly over it, listening at door after door.
    Then he heard, with startling clarity, a voice that he recognized.
    “You have nothing to be afraid of, Miss Holm, so long as you behave yourself. I’m sorry to have had to take the liberty of abducting you, but you doubtless know one or two reasons why I must discourage your friend’s curiosity.”
    He heard the girl’s calm reply:
“I think you could have invented a less roundabout way of committing suicide.”
    The man’s bass chuckle answered her. Perhaps only the Saint’s ears could have detected the iron core of ruthless menace that hardened the overtones of its full-throated heartiness.
    “I’m glad you’re not hysterical.” A brief pause. “If there’s anything within reason that you want, I hope you’ll ask for it. Are you feeling hungry?”
    “Thanks,” said the girl coolly. “I should like a couple of sausages, some potatoes, and a cup of coffee.”
    Simon darted along the gallery and whipped open the nearest door. Through the gap which he left open he saw a heavily built, grey-haired man emerge from the next room, lock the door after him, and go down the stairs. As the man bent to the key, the Saint had a photographic impression of a dark, large-featured, smooth-shaven face; then he could only see the broad, well-tailored back passing downwards out of view.
    The man’s footsteps died away; and Simon returned to the landing. He stood at the door of Patricia’s room and tapped softly on the wood with his fingernails.
    “Hullo, Pat!”
    Her dress rustled inside the room.
    “Quick work, boy. How did you do it?”
    “Easy. Are you all right?”
    “Sure.”
    “How’s the window in there?”
    “There’s a sort of cage over it-I couldn’t reach the glass. The taxi was the same. There’s a divan bed and a couple of wicker armchairs. The table’s very low-the legs wouldn’t reach through the bars. He’s thought of everything. Washbasin and jug of water on the floor-some towels-cigarettes —”
    “What happened to the taxi driver?”
    “That was Mr. Jones.”
    The Saint drew a thoughtful breath.
    “Phew! And what a solo worker! … Can you hold on for a bit? I’d like to explore the rest of the establishment before I start any trouble.”
    “Go ahead, old chap. I’m fine.”
    “Still got your gun?”
    “Sure.”
    “So long, lass.”
    The Saint tiptoed along the landing and prowled up the second flight of stairs.
    CHAPTER VI
THERE were no lights burning on the tipper gallery, but a dull glimmer of twilight filtered up from the lamps below and relieved the darkness sufficiently for him to be able to move as quickly as he wanted to. With his slim electric flash in his hand he went around the story from room to room, turning the door handles with infinite care and probing the apartments with the dancing beam of his torch. The first one he opened was plainly but comfortably furnished as a bedroom: it was evidently occupied, for the bed had not been made since it was last slept in, and a shaving brush crested with a mound of dried lather stood on the mantelpiece. The second room was another bedroom, tidier than the first, but showing the ends of a suit of silk pyjamas under the pillow as proof that it also was used. The door of the third room was locked; and Simon delved in his pocket again for a skeleton key. The lock was of the same type as that on the back door by which he had entered the house-one of those ponderously useless contraptions which any cracksman can open with a bent pin-and in a second or two it gave way.
    Simon pushed the