[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.Besides, theSaint had taken the incident in his stride: by that time it had probablyslithered through his memory into the dim limbo of distant reminiscence, andhe would probably have been quite astonished to be reminded of it at thatjunc-ture.By some peaceful and lazy fireside, in his doddering old age,possibly.But in the immediate present he was con-cerned only with theimmediate future.He was looking back towards the house.There were lights showing still in someof the windows it might altogether have been a most serene and tranquil scene,but for the jarring background of intermittent firing, which might have beennothing worse than a childish celebration of Guy Fawkes' day if it had beenGuy Fawkes' day.But the Saint wasn't concerned with those reflections,either.He was searching the shadows by the gate, and presently he made out aPage 25ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmldeeper and more solid-looking shadow among the other shadows, a bulky shadow.Crack!A tiny jet of flame licked out of the bulky shadow, and they heard the tinkleof shattered glass; but the escaping car was now only a few yards from themain road.Conway was shaking Simon by the shoulder, babbling: "They're getting away!Saint, why don't you shoot?"Mechanically the Saint raised his automatic, though he knew that the chance ofputting in an effective shot, in that light, was about a hundred to oneagainst anybody and the Saint, as a pistol shot, had never been in thechampionship class.Then he lowered the gun again, with something like a gasp, and his left handclosed on Conway's arm in a vice-like grip."They'll never do it!" he cried."I left the car slap op-posite the lane, andthey haven't got room to turn!"And Roger Conway, watching, fascinated, saw the lean blue shape of theFurillac revealed in the blaze of the flying headlights, and heard, before thecrash, the scream of tortured tyres tearing ineffectually at the road.Then the lights vanished in a splintering smash, and there was darkness and amoment's silence."We've got 'em!" rapped the Saint exultantly.The bulky shadow had left the gate and was lumbering to-wards them up thelane.The Saint was over the hedge like a cat, landing lightly on his toesdirectly in Teal's path, and the detective saw him too late."Sorry!" murmured the Saint, and really meant it; but he crowded every ounceof his one hundred and sixty pounds of , dynamic fighting weight into the blowhe jerked at the pit of Teal's stomach.Ordinarily, the Saint entertained a sincere regard for the police force ingeneral and Chief Inspector Teal in particular, but he had no time that nightfor more than the most laconic courtesies.Moreover, Inspector Teal had a gun,and, in the circumstances, would be liable to shoot first and ask ques-tionsafterwards.Finally, the Saint had his own ideas and plans on the subject ofthe rescue of Vargan from the raiding party, and they did not include eitherthe co-operation or in-terference of the law.These three cogent arguments hesummed up in that one pile-driving jolt to Teal's third waist-coat button: andthe detective dropped with a grunt of agony.Then the Saint turned and wentflying up the lane after Roger Conway.He heard a shout behind him, and again a gun barked savagely in the night.TheSaint felt the wind of the bullet ac-tually stroke his cheek.Clearly, then,there was at least one more police survivor of Marius's raid; but Simon judgedthat further disputes with the law could be momentarily post-poned.He swervedlike a hare and raced on, knowing that only the luckiest or unluckiest ofblind shots could have come so near him in such a light, and having no fearthat a second would have the same fortune.As it happened, the detective who had come out of the garden behind Teal musthave realised the same feeling, for he held his fire.But as the Saint stoppedby the yellow sedan, now locked inextricably with the wreckage of the batteredFurillac, he heard the man pounding on through the darkness towards him.Conway was opening the near-side door; and it was a miracle that his careerwas not cut short then and there by the shot from the interior of the car thatwent snarling past his ear.But there was no report just the throaty plop! ofan efficient silencer and he understood that the only shooting they had heardhad been done by the police guards.The raid-ers had not been so rowdy as theSaint had accused them of being.The next moment Simon Templar had opened a door on the other side of thesedan."Naughty boy!" said Simon Templar reproachfully.His long arm shot over the gun artist's shoulder, and his sinewy hand closedand twisted on the automatic in time to send the next shot through the roof ofPage 26ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlthe car instead of through Conway's brain.Then the Saint had the gun screwed round till it rammed into the man's ownribs."Now shoot, honeybunch," encouraged the Saint; but the man sat quite still.He was in the back of the car, beside Vargan.There was no one in the driver'sseat, and the door on that side was open.The Saint wondered who the chauffeurhad been, and where he had got to, and whether it had been Angel Face himself;but he had little time to give to that speculation, and any pos-sibility ofdanger from the missing driver's quarter would have to be faced if and when itmaterialised.Conway yanked Vargan out into the road on one side; and the Saint, taking agrip on the gun artist's neck with his free hand, yanked him out into the roadon the other side.One wrench disarmed the man, and then the Saint spun himsmartly round by the neck [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]