She was preparing to come naturally out of her faint when the taxi bumped heavily and swung giddily round in a sharp arc. Then it came to a jerky stop, and Pat heard some doors closing. She sat half forward with a dazed look on her face.
"Take it easy, sister," said Ferret Eyes gratingly. "Nobody's going to hurt that lovely face of yours — yet."
"Where am I? What are you going to do to me?" she gasped, her voice faltering. "I'll pay!" she went on hysterically. "I tried to pay at the Dorchester. You didn't come. I had the money—"
"Tell it to somebody else," he said callously.
He forced her to get out, and she saw that the cab had been driven into an ancient garage and the doors closed on it. There was a ramshackle door at the rear, just against the cab's radiator; and he gripped her by the arm and hustled her through it and down a steep flight of stairs into a low, malodorous cellar. The taxi driver followed. An electric torchlight flashed on her out of the black darkness as she stumbled down to the bottom — and a man who was already down there behind the light drew his breath through his teeth in a long sibilant hiss.
"Who's the damn fool responsible for this?" His harsh voice came from behind the blaze. "This girl is not Beatrice Avery!"
The taxi driver lurched forward.
"You're crazy!" he growled. "I recognized 'er as soon as she came out…" He swung Patricia round and stared into her face with the light full on it; and then he swore savagely. "God, it isn't! But it's just like 'er. I never sore 'er in a light like this…"
Ferret Eyes stiffened and swore also, more fluently. His grip on the girl's arm tightened.
"Well, who is she?" he rasped. "She knows what it's about — she was gabbing about the money as if she knew everything!"
The man behind the torch reached out a clawlike hand and seized Patricia's bag. He opened it. The card she had given to Beatrice Avery was not the only one. She could feel him staring from the card to her face in the silence that followed.
"Patricia Holm!" said the man in the darkness with a dry, sandy grit in his voice. "That's who she is. A fine pair of saps you've turned out to be!" His voice quivered with rising fury. "No wonder she fooled you! Don't you know who she is? Haven't you ever heard of the Saint?"
There was a silence that descended like a fog. It seemed to throb and vibrate through the cellar, filling it with a choking stillness broken only by the heavy breathing of the three men. It was something, Patricia reflected wryly, to know that the Saint's name alone was capable of creating such panic. At that moment it was about the only asset she had.
"You know what he'll say when he finds out that your blasted blundering has brought the Saint down on us!" snapped the man behind the torch. "You'd better do something about it. I'll hold this girl here. You two get straight out and go after Templar. And get him before he gets you. Understand? Don't come back until you've got him!"
"Why bother?" drawled a voice that cut through the air like the thrust of a rapier blade. "I've already invited myself. And just which of you is planning to be the hero?"
Three gasps sounded in unison, and the beam of the electric flashlight jerked round as if it had been snatched by an invisible wire. On the mouldering stairs stood the Saint, immaculate and deadly.
IV
The gun in Simon Templar's hand circled leisurely over the three male occupants of the cellar in a generous expansiveness of invitation. The man who had been doing the talking was still only a vague shape behind the dazzling bulb of his electric torch; but the Saint's uncanny eyes pierced the screen of light enough to see the unoccupied hand which reached round towards a hip pocket.
"That's only one of the many ways of dying, brother," said the Saint instructively. "But of course you can make your own choice…"
The hipwards movement of the hand was arrested, and at the same moment the man switched off his torch. He was disappointed, however, in assuming that this would result in a decrease in the cellar's illumination. The general lighting effect was not only doubled, but he himself stood in the direct glare of a miniature searchlight. The Saint had decided that it was time to take full stock of the situation, and his own flashlight was even better than the one that had gone out.
The man who had stood concealed behind the light was a disappointment. His appearance, after the crisp and authoritative tone of his voice, came as a considerable shock. He was a small skinny bird of about forty, extraordinarily neatly dressed, his ornamentations including a waisted overcoat and fawn spats. His face was small featured with sandy eyebrows just visible over the tops of his highly respectable gold-rimmed pince-nez. His nose and mouth were small; and his chin, after a half-hearted attempt to establish itself, drifted away to hide itself shyly in his neck.
"You ought to be more careful, Andy," Simon admonished him. "Take that gun out of your pocket if you like, but spread it out on the floor where we can all feast our eyes on it."
"My name is not Andy," said the chinless man.
"No? Except for the eye gear and the spats you look exactly like Andy Gump," answered the Saint. "Pat, old darling, if you can spare a moment you might build up our collection of artillery."
Not one of the men attempted to move. They knew the Saint's reputation, and they had an earnest and unanimous desire to continue living. Behind the bantering cadence of the Saint's voice there was a glacial chill that converted the cellar into a refrigerator. His gun was extremely visible, too, and the lean brown fingers that held it had a lively quality that made them look as if they would just as soon start squeezing as keep still.
Patricia relieved the clerkly-looking Mr Gump of his gun, and Ferret Eyes threw his own weapon on the floor before she could even turn to him.
"I ain't got no pistol, miss, swelp me I ain't," swore the taxi driver hoarsely.
She believed him, but she patted his pockets just the same. And Simon descended the stairs.
"Now, boys, you can line yourselves up against that wall over there," he said with an indicative flick of his gun muzzle. "And don't forget where you are… Pat, you take this heater and stand well to the side. Here's the torch, too, and keep the light nicely steady… It will interest you birds to know," he added for the benefit of the obedient trio, "that the lady can hit a microbe's eye at fifty yards. If you don't believe me, you only have to bring on your microbes."
He took Mr Gump's gun from Patricia and picked up Ferret Eyes' weapon from the floor; then he swiftly examined both and thrust them into his pocket. From another pocket he produced a second automatic of his own. He never trusted strange weapons. Holding his gun with careless ease, he briefly inspected the taxi driver and Ferret Eyes; he was not particularly interested in either of them since they definitely came within the dull category of small fry. Mr Gump, however, was probably very close to the Z-Man. Mr Gump needed careful investigation. He looked very meek and inoffensive as the Saint started going through his pockets — except perhaps for the snakelike glitter in his eyes behind the gold-rimmed pince-nez — a glitter which belied the disarming weakness of his chin.
And suddenly Mr Gump gave a demonstration which proved him to be either a very rash fool or a very brave man. As Simon Templar was in the act of insinuating a brown hand into Mr Gump's breast pocket a knee shot up and dug itself into the lower region of his stomach. With a simultaneous cohesion of movement Mr Gump grabbed at the Saint's gun and tore it out of Simon's relaxed fingers. In another instant the muzzle was jammed hard against Simon's chest with Mr Gump's finger on the trigger.