The Saint and the People Importers by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online

creaking stairs. Some species of chaos comparable to a Roman combat between Nubian dwarves and crazed baboons seemed-judging from the auditory indications-to be taking place before a screaming audience of thousands. Simon hoped fervently that the cacophony was not issuing from apartment number 4, but it was.
    The varnished door with its brass numeral was closed firmly, but the sounds of slaughter came clearly from within by way of a crevice next to the floor. Simon listened for a few seconds and then knocked. There was no response. During a lull in the roaring he knocked again, this time more firmly, and a few seconds later he heard a woman’s voice from just inside, as if she had her mouth pressed almost directly against the door.
    “Who is it?” she asked.
    “I’d like to see Mr. Tam Rowan,” Simon said.
    “Who are you?” the female voice enquired with something close to outright hostility.
    “Not the big bad wolf,” Simon told her. “If you’ll open the door you’ll be reassured by my cleancut and well-groomed appearance.”
    There was a pause, and then a key turned in the lock on the other side of the door. The Saint felt that the wariness of the key-turner was completely understandable, considering that Reporter Rowan had been threatened with death by people who had already shown themselves quite capable of carrying out such threats. He was a little surprised, in fact, that he was being let in after such a short period of persuasion. And then, as the door opened three inches, he realised that he had another barrier to get past: there was a chain-lock preventing the door from being pushed any farther.
    A pair of bright turquoise eyes appeared cautiously above the chain, and as little else of a lightly freckled face as the girl could show.
    “What do you want?” she asked.
    “I’ve told you. I want to see the journalist of the house.”
    “What for?” she asked unblinkingly.
    “I sell submarines,” said Simon.
    “Very funny.”
    “Not very,” the Saint said. “I also bargain for information, and I enjoy meeting people who share my interests- in things like smuggled immigrants. Why don’t you let me in so we can swap stories without all the neighbours getting an earful.”
    “Because I don’t know who you are and I don’t trust you,” she said bluntly.
    “My name is Simon Templar, and those who tread the paths of righteousness can trust me from here to the moon. Does that answer your questions?”
    Her cold blue-green eyes narrowed as she looked him up and down and scrutinized his face.
    “You say you’re Simon Templar … the Saint?” she asked.
    “Bingo,” he said. “The very man.”
    She squinted at his face again.
    “I really think you are.”
    “I’d be awfully disappointed to find out I wasn’t,” he replied. “Think of it: getting somebody else’s laundry all these years. And who are you-a Rowan or something else?”
    “I am the Rowan,” she said.
    “Tam Rowan of crime-busting fame?” he asked with a lift of his brows.
    “Right.”
    “Shades of Amos Klein,” said the Saint.
    2
    “What?” she said blankly.
    “She was another lad who turned out not to be a lad,” Simon explained. “I wish you emancipated females would retain some identifying characteristics in your names.”
    “It’s too dangerous,” she said. If there was any relaxation in her tone it was the relaxation of a lion trainer between acts. “Strange men find out a woman is living alone and knock on her door at night.”
    “Well, now that it’s happened what are you going to do about it?” he asked her.
    “I’m going to let you in because I know you are the Saint because now I remember I’ve seen your picture-but if you try to get close to me I’ll yell so loud they’ll have to replace every crystal chandelier in this woodworm palace.”
    “I’ll try to control any romantic impulses and keep my distance,” Simon said with exaggerated regret.
    She slipped the chain free and opened the