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

hand.
    In that instant there was a barely audible fizzle, and an almost microscopic quantity of some gaseous vapour puffed feebly from the centre of the heavily wrought metal of the ring, most of it into the girl’s own eyes.
    “Curse!” she exploded.
    Then she was coughing and squeezing her eyelids tightly shut, and tears were streaming down the freckled, milk-smooth skin of her cheeks.
    Simon was supporting her rather than holding her against her will, and she was making no more effort to get away.
    “What was that supposed to be?” he enquired kindly.
    “Go ahead,” she growled. “Kill me. Get it over with.”
    “That’s a very tempting suggestion, but I need you too much-for the moment.” He tossed the kitchen knife on to a sofa and lifted her left hand so that he could inspect the golden ring. “Is that Renaissance poison-squirter- something you got out of a breakfast-food box?”
    She rubbed her eyes with her free hand.
    “It’s a tear-gas ring,” she answered sullenly. “Or at least it’s supposed to be. It always worked when I was testing it.”
    “It seems like a terribly inefficient form of suicide,” he said. “Something like trying to fold yourself to death in an ironing board. Most people find that shooting themselves with guns works pretty well.”
    One corner of her mouth switched in what suspiciously resembled the germination of a smile.
    “I don’t have a gun!” she snapped, killing the smile. “And if the damn thing had worked you’d have got the tear gas right in your face.”
    “And afterwards you’d have cracked me over the head with a table lamp?” he suggested.
    “Preferably with a poker,” she replied.
    He let her go, and she stepped back rubbing her shoulder to convey the false impression that he had hurt it. In spite of the fiercely belligerent expression on her face he deduced that the war was over and that the next step was to define the conditions of peace.
    “Well, love at first sight is dandy,” he said, “but isn’t it time we got on with more serious things? May I sit down?”
    “Apparently I can’t stop you.”
    He settled on to the sofa, flipped the long kitchen knife up into the air by its point and caught it by its handle, all the while smiling at her in the most dazzlingly benign way imaginable.
    “Well?” she asked, unimpressed.
    “It’s very nice to be here,” he said. “It isn’t every day I meet a fearless girl reporter. They should print your picture along with your articles.”
    “Why?”
    “It would boost circulation, for one thing.”
    Once more a bit of sun threatened to break through her cloudy expression, but she fought it back and with mock symptoms of muscular anguish perched on the arm of an overstuffed chair opposite him. The pretence of pain struck him as a fascinating plea for sympathy beneath her granite outer layers.
    “You may be the Saint,” she said, “but I’ll bet you’re here spying for another newspaper, trying to nose in on all my research.”
    “Even you don’t believe that,” Simon responded casually. “Or else you’re the wildest romantic since Richard Strauss. I’ll tell you why I’m here: you’re an expert on the immigrant-blackmail racket …” He stopped and nodded towards the television set, which had been on the periphery of his mind for some time. “And speaking of racket, couldn’t we cut down the volume of that mayhem?”
    “It’s my telly and I’ll play it as flaming loud as I please!” she retorted defiantly.
    Simon sighed.
    “I’m sure you will. I assume that an obnoxious pugnaciousness is a permanent part of your character?”
    She got up and turned the volume of the television down and-even more unexpectedly-actually smiled.
    “Impertinence is the word,” she said. “I’m impertinent, because my face is impertinent. It’s my nose and mouth.” She prodded those features with her fingertips as if they were made of soft clay. “My nose is too small and my mouth is too big.