The Saint Returns by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online Page B

he stepped forward toward
the grim-visaged men.
    “Good evening. Our car broke down on the
lane. We saw your fire.”
    The older man squinted at him for a long
moment, chewing on a splinter of wood. A cap, which looked as if it
might never have been removed since it was first put on years before,
effectively de-emphasized his cranium and eyes, and brought into full
prominence the mushroom effulgence of his scarlet nose.
    “Main road is behind ye,” he said
finally.
    Mildred came to the rescue then. Her face
suddenly went into contortions of pain, and she stood on one foot and clasped
her arms around Simon’s neck, letting him support her.
    “I … was
hurt,” she gasped, “when our car went in the ditch.”
    She tried bravely to get her breath and stand
straight again. Sympathetic glances were exchanged by various members of
the tinker’s party.
    “What ye want, then?” the eldest
woman asked.
    “Somewhere to stay the night,” Simon
answered.
    “This is not a hotel, mister,” she
said.
    Simon went forward another step.
    “We’re nothing to do with the revenue, if
that’s what worries
you,” he said.
    The women closed ranks in front of the pot.
    “We’re just fixin’ ourselves a bit o’
stew,” the eldest said.
    “Shure and why would the revenue care
about that one way or the other?”
    “What are ye, then?” asked the
younger man.
    Mildred took over again, bursting excitedly into rapid speech.
    “Please … we’re running away from my
stepfather to get married! He’s a terrible man. He’s already wasted away my
mother’s fortune, and he wants what little I have left. If he
catches us he’ll … We need your help—desperately!”
    She broke off, sobbing violently.
    “It’s the truth, is it?” asked the
elder man.
    “She’s been under a terrible
strain,” Simon replied, avoiding any direct commitment as to
Mildred’s veracity.
    The lead man had begun shifting uncertainly
from foot to foot.
    “Hould on,” he said.
    His entire group went into a huddle near the
fire.
    “We’ll be glad to pay,” Simon
called, thus probably cutting several minutes off the secret
discussion.
    “Well now, ‘tis all agreed,” the man
said, straightening up and turning. “Ye can stay with pleasure, if ye
don’t mind the company of a tinker and his family.” He held
out his calloused hand and Simon shook it. “Delighted. And
thank you very much.”
    “Me name is Muldoon,” the tinker
said. “And this is me wife. That’s me boy Sean, and these are
Tessa and Genevra.”
    “I’m Rick Fenton,” Simon said, “and this is Mildred Kleinschmidt.”
    They went to the fire, where the boy, Sean,
was stir ring the pulpy liquid again. Mildred half closed her eyes
and stepped back as some of the violently odoriferous steam drifted into her
face.
    “Delicious-looking stew,” the Saint said solemnly.
    “It will be, when it’s finished,”
said Muldoon, winking.
    He pulled out the thermometer, looked, and
dropped it back again.
    “How would ye like a little of the
finished product?”
    “Fine,” answered Simon politely.
Then he added, with concealed relief, “But I’m afraid we won’t be staying
that long.”
    “Oh, we have a sample here from the last
batch.”
    While Muldoon fetched the sample, his wife was ques tioning Mildred with great concern about her
injuries and feeling her ankle for
broken bones.
    “Ye poor little bit of a thing,”
Mrs. Muldoon mur mured, with a reproachful glance at Simon. “Runnin’ away to be
wed, and not even a pair o’ decent shoes for yer feet.”
    Muldoon came around the fire with a large
pickle jar. He unscrewed the cap.
    “See what ye think of that.”
    Simon braced himself, tilted up the jar, and
swallowed as
little as possible. The effect on his tongue and mouth combined various qualities of iodine, gasoline, and molten lava. He was damp-eyed and speechless for a moment. Finally he found that some small remnant of his vocal apparatus had miraculously