The door sprang open eighteen inches-and crashed into a table that was being brought up to reinforce it. The Saint leaped at the gap, made it, wedged his back against the jamb, and set both hands to the door. With one titanic heave he flung the door wide and sent the table spinning back to the centre of the room.
The girl lay on the floor by the doorway. On the other side of the room, beyond the upturned table, the man who had brought her had opened a drawer in a desk, and he turned with an automatic in his hand.
'Schweinhund!" he snarled.
The Saint laughed, took two quick steps, and launched himself headlong into space in a terrific dive. It took him clear over the table, full length, and muddled his objective's aim. The man sighted frantically, and fired; and the Saint felt something like a hot iron sear his right arm from wrist to elbow; then Simon had gathered up the man's legs in that fantastic tackle, and they went to the floor together.
The Saint's left hand caught the gunman's right wrist and pinned it to the floor; then, his own right hand being numb, he brought up his knee. ...
He was on his feet again in a moment, gathering the automatic out of the man's limp hand as he rose.
The girl's eyes fluttered as he reached her, but the Saint reckoned that freight would be less trouble than first aid. He put his captured gun on a chair; and, as the girl started to try to rise, he yanked her to her feet and caught her over his left shoulder before she could fall again.
Quickly he tested his right hand again, and found that his fingers had recovered from the momentary shock. He picked up the gun in that hand.
A faint sound behind him made him turn swiftly, and he saw the gunman crawling towards him with a knife. He had not meant to fire, but the trigger must have been exceptionally sensitive, and the gunman rolled over slowly and lay quite still.
Then the Saint broke down the hall.
A gigantic Negro loomed up out of the twilight. Careful of the trigger this time, the Saint snapped the muzzle of the gun into the man's chest, and the Negro backed away with rolling eyes. Keeping him covered, Simon sidled to the door and set the girl gently on her feet. She was able to stand then; and she it was who, under his directions, unbarred the door and opened it.
"See if there's a taxi," rapped the Saint, and heard her hurry down the steps.
A moment later she called him.
He gave her time to get into the taxi herself; and then, like lightning, he sprang through the door and slammed it behind him.
The chauffeur, turning to receive his instructions through the little window communicating between the inside and the outside of the cab, heard the shout from the house, and looked round with a question forming on his lips. Then something cold and metallic touched the back of his neck, and one of his fares spoke crisply: "Gehen Sie schnell, mein Freund!"
The driver obeyed.
The fact that, having been given no destination to drive to, he was quietly steering his passengers in the direction of the nearest police station, is of no great historical interest. For when he reached the station he was without passengers; and the officials who heard his story were inclined to cast grave doubts upon that worthy citizen's sobriety, until confirmation of some of his statements arrived through another channel.
Stella Domford and the Saint had quietly left him in a convenient traffic block; for Simon had much more to do in the next twenty-four hours, and he was in no mood to be delayed by embarrassing inquiries.
7
"And if that doesn't learn you, my girl," said the Saint, a trifle grimly, "nothing ever will."
They were in a room in the hotel where the girl had parked her luggage before proceeding to the interview with Einsmann. The Saint, with a cigarette between his lips and a glass tankard of dark syrupy Kulmbach on the table beside him, was sitting on the bed, bandaging his arm with two white linen handkerchiefs torn into strips. Stella Domford stood by shame facedly.
"I'm sorry I was such a fool," she said.
Simon looked up at her. She was very pale, but this was not the pallor of anger with which she had begun the day.
"Can I help you with that?" she asked.
"It's nothing," he said cheerfully. "I'm never hurt. It's a gift. . . ."
He secured his effort with a safety pin, and rolled down his sleeve. Then he gave her one of his quick, impulsive smiles.
"Anyway," he said, "you've seen some Life. And that was what you wanted, wasn't it?"
"You can't make me feel worse than I do already."
He laughed and stood up; and she looked round as his hands fell on her shoulders.
"Why worry, old dear?" he said. "It's turned out all right- so what the hell? You don't even have to rack your brains to think of an unfutile way of saying 'Thank you.' I've loved it. The pleasure of shooting Jacob in the tum-tum was worth a dozen of these scratches. So let's leave it at that." He ruffled her hair absently. "And now we'll beat it back to England, shall we?"
He turned away, and picked up his coat.
"Are you leaving now?" she asked in surprise.
Simon nodded.
"I'm afraid we must. In the first place, this evening's mirth and horseplay is liable to start a certain hue and cry after me in this bouncing burg. I don't know that that alone would make me jump for the departure platform; but there's also a man I want to see in England-about a sort of dog. I'm sorry about the rush, but things always seem to happen to me in a hurry. Are you ready?"
They landed for a late meal at Amsterdam; and they had not long left Schiphol behind when the darkness and the monotonous roar of the engine soothed Stella Dornford into a deep sleep of sheer nervous weariness. She awoke when the engine was suddenly silenced, and found that they were gliding down into the pale half-light before dawn.
"I think there's enough light to make a landing here," Simon answered her question through the telephones. "I don't want to have to go on to Croydon."
There was, at least, enough light for the Saint to make a perfect landing; and he taxied up to the deserted hangars and left the machine there for the mechanics to find in the morning. Then he went in search of his car.
In the car, again, she slept; and it is therefore not surprising that she never thought of Francis Lemuel until after the Saint had unloaded her into one of the friendliest sitting rooms she had ever seen, and after he had prepared eggs and bacon and coffee for them both, and after they had smoked two cigarettes together. And then it was Simon who reminded her.
"I want you to help me with a telephone conversation," he said, and proceeded to coach her carefully. A few minutes later she had dialled a number and was waiting for the reply.
Then: "Are you Piccadilly thrrree-eight thrrree-four?" she asked sweetly.
The answer came in a decorated affirmative. "You're wanted from Berlin."
She clicked the receiver hook; and then the Saint took over the instrument.
"Dot vos you Lemuel, no? . . . You vould like to hear about it der business, aind't it? ... Ja! I hof seddled it altogether der business. Der man yill not more trrouble gif, andt der samples I hof also received it, yes. . . ."
A couple of lines of brisk dialogue, this time in German, between the Saint and an excellent impersonator of the Berlin exchange, cut short the conversation with the Saint hurriedly concluding: "Ja! I to you der particulars to-morrow vill wrrrite. ..."
"It's detail that does it," murmured Simon complacently, as he replaced the receiver.
Stella Domford was regarding him with a certain awe. "I'm beginning to understand some of the things I've read about you," she said; and the Saint grinned. Shortly afterwards he excused himself; and when he returned to the sitting room, which was in a surprisingly short space of time, he had changed out of the characteristically conspicuous suit in which he had travelled, and was wearing a plain and unnoticeable blue serge. The Saint's phenomenal speed of dressing would have made the fortune of a professional quick-change artist; and he was as pleased with the girl's unspoken astonishment at his feat as he had been with her first compliment.