The Saint in Trouble by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online

else can I find out what game she’s playing? Now I’ve got a room to clear up and a shower to take. I’m interviewing for chambermaids and backscrubbers, if you’d like to apply.”
    “It’s a tempting offer, but I’ve had better. I’ll keep in touch.”
    Simon escorted her to the elevator and returned to repair the havoc in his room. When most of the mess had been straightened out he showered, the needle-thin jets of cold water stinging and revitalising his body. He dressed in a lightweight jacket and slacks and carefully combed his hair back into place. Anyone witnessing his actions would have found it difficult to believe that less than an hour before he had been fighting for his life, and even to the Saint the memory of his clash with Demmell was rapidly fading. There were too few minutes in any day to spend even one of them thinking about what might have been.
    He left the hotel by a back door and cut quickly through a side street until he reached the Croisette. He crossed to the sidewalk on the shore side and headed towards the Palm Beach Casino. There was still an hour to go before he was due to meet Samantha, and he hoped to enjoy some fresh air and leisurely exercise.
    The town seemed to hang in limbo, a no-man’s-time, a long pause in which to reflect or prepare. The beach was deserted except for a handful of diehard sunworshippers soaking up the last rays. In the sidewalk bars and restaurants, waiters were sweeping and laying tables in readiness for the evening trade. There were fewer cars on the road, and fewer people on the esplanade. It was as if a truce had suddenly been agreed, and the Saint welcomed the lull.
    It was cooler now, and the leaves of the palm trees along the Boulevard rustled in a freshening breeze. Simon breathed deeply as he walked, to clear his mind and cleanse his body.
    He turned in at the driveway entrance of the private marina and began to stroll along its quais, choosing a course that showed no conspicuous purpose but which could not fail to bring him eventually in sight of the Protege, wherever it was berthed. As, much sooner than later, it did.
    For a cabin cruiser, Protege looked even more opulent at close range than when he had just spotted it that afternoon. Five noughts’ worth of powered luxury were calculated to gladden the heart of any man whose knowledge of the sea and ships extended past the municipal boating lake. Simon stood on the far side of the wharf behind a stack of barrels, ready to duck out of sight if Demmell appeared, but the only activity came from a crewman leaning over the stern rail and sending a grey pall of smoke into the air from an ancient pipe.
    He was about to retrace his steps when he saw the black Renault turn through the parking lot. He sank down behind the nearest cover as it cruised up to the stern of the Protege.
    Cartwright was sitting in the back, apparently engaged in a heated argument with his driver. A map was produced, and although the conversation was inaudible the gestures of the two men plainly pantomimed their disagreement. The Protege’s crewman watched the scene with a half smile, and when the driver wound down the window and in pidgin French asked for his advice he was happy to leave the boat and walk over.
    It was one of the slickest models of kidnapping that the Saint had ever had the pleasure of watching, and it appealed to the artist in his soul.
    The crewman walked to the car, and as he approached, the driver got out and spread the map on top of the trunk. The sailor bent over to consider it and Cartwright simply opened his door and hoisted the startled man backwards into the car. The driver jumped back in and was slewing the car around even before the rear door was closed. Simon saw Cartwright’s arm rise and fall once, and the sailor gave no further sign of resistance.
    The Saint waited until the car had disappeared before rising from his hiding place and turning back from the port, his brain vibrating with questions