The Saint could see bis words hitting home as he spoke them, tearing at the last shreds of the other’s self-control. He looked past Cartwright to Emma. She seemed almost hypnotised by his speech, and he thought that his final gamble had failed.
Cartwright moved nearer, using the motion to try to mask the trembling of his muscles. Simon looked into the blackness of the gun muzzle and waited for the crash that heralds oblivion.
It had to happen sometime. There had been too many gambles, too many risks and half chances, and the Saint had always been prepared to die as he had lived, defiant and with a smile on his lips. But now there was a sour taste in his mouth. The scene was wrong, there was something sordid in calmly waiting to die at the hands of a man for whom he felt only contempt.
The Saint tensed himself for the final leap that could have only one outcome, and Cartwright’s knuckle whitened on the trigger.
Cartwright was standing directly in front of the Saint, and neither of them saw Emma move. The statuette slammed into the agent’s shoulder, jerking his arm wide as the shot went off.
The Saint sprang in the same instant, catapulting himself forward as the bullet smacked into the wall behind him. His arms closed around Cartwright’s legs as the automatic coughed again, harmlessly. As Cartwright fell, the Saint released his hold and turned the dive into a somersault, his palms touching the floor just long enough to send him rolling forward.
Cartwright wriggled aside, his gun hand swinging around. But the Saint was already on his feet, and he jumped forward and brought his heel down on the agent’s wrist, pinning it to the floor. Almost casually he bent down and wrenched the gun from Cartwright’s grasp, flicking on the safety catch and sliding it into his hip pocket.
He stepped back to allow Cartwright the freedom to move.
“Stand up.”
The man remained lying on the floor, rubbing his wrist. Simon grabbed his collar and yanked him to his feet. Cartwright was beaten, a whimpering shell of his former self, but the Saint felt no pity. He remembered the face of the sailor and a promise he had made to himself and now intended to keep.
The fight was one-sided and brutal. Cartwright had gone through the standard unarmed combat training, but the instructors had never prepared him to face Simon Templar’s anger. The Saint’s attack was scientific, calculated to inflict the maximum pain without permitting the welcome relief of unconsciousness. Cartwright tried to fight back but his spirit was broken, and finally the Saint’s desire for retribution was appeased. He had found little pleasure in the exercise, only a growing contempt for his victim. His fist travelled at last in a savage uppercut that threatened to separate head and shoulders, and Cartwright collapsed and lay motionless at his feet.
Simon ran a hand through his hair to restore it to some order, and he turned to Emma.
“You throw a mean statue,” he remarked appreciatively. “Only next time don’t leave it quite so late.”
“I’m not as used to this sort of thing as you are,” she said shakily. “Do you really think he would have shot you?”
“I have a feeling he was giving it serious consideration,” said the Saint. “Now we don’t have much time. Phone Inspector Lebeau at the Prefecture and tell him what’s happened.”
He was already at the door before he finished speaking.
“But where are you going?”
“To the aero club. There’s still a chance I can stop them.”
12
Simon ran back through the dining room, the way he had come, and out onto the lawn. He was halfway through the belt of trees when he almost stumbled over the body of Cartwright’s chauffeur. The man lay on his side, one arm across his face where he had tried to defend himself. A red stain was spreading from an ugly gash above his ear.
A movement behind the tree next to him sent the Saint leaping aside, spinning around as he did so, his arms at half stretch in front of his body to meet an attack. He stared in disbelief as Gaby emerged from his hiding place with a heavy spanner still clutched in his hand.
Simon relaxed and came down off his toes. He looked from the sleeping man to the taxi driver.
“You did that?” It was more a complimentary statement than a question.
Gaby nodded.
“I was coming to the villa to see what had happened to you, and I found him spying on the helicopter.”
Simon knelt down and quickly checked that the man still lived.
“You’re lucky he has a thick skull, mon ami, or you might have committed your first homicide.”
“Then he will be all right?” There was genuine relief in the other’s voice.
The Saint grinned reassuringly.
“Yes, I should think so, but I wouldn’t care to have his headache when he wakes up. The police will be here soon. I want you to go to the villa — you’ll find a young lady there. Tell her about this one, and look after her till the flicks arrive.”
Without waiting to see his order obeyed, the Saint sprinted the last twenty yards to the clearing. The pilot started his rotors as soon as he saw the Saint emerge from the trees, and had the craft in the air before asking their destination.
In clipped sentences Simon gave him a rundown on the situation as the pilot headed back towards Mandelieu.
The Saint took the observer’s binoculars from their case and scanned the long columns of cars beneath them as they flew low over Cannes. The streets were choked with traffic, and his hopes began to rise as he calculated the delays the car he was looking for would have encountered.
They were turning inland from La Napoule before he spotted their quarry. The Mercedes was a silver flake in the distance swinging through the gates of the aerodrome.
By the time the helicopter crossed the perimeter fence the car had passed the row of hangars and stopped beside a twin-engine Beechcraft. Curdon and Maclett were already hurrying to board it. Simon pointed the pilot towards the plane, shouting above the clatter of the rotor blades.
“Can you block their take-off?”
The pilot nodded, his face grim with concentration as he put the helicopter into a steep dive aimed directly towards the plane as it turned to taxi along the runway.
The Saint could clearly see Curdon in the copilot’s seat. Maclett’s face was pressed against a cabin porthole, looking up curiously at the swiftly descending helicopter.
The chopper skimmed over the length of the plane, its runners missing it by inches. As they shot past, the pilot banked his machine and brought it lower as he did so, and headed back, flying directly towards the taxiing Beechcraft on a set collision course.
The two machines raced towards each other. The ground flashed beneath the helicopter at fantastic speed only a few feet below, and the Saint paid silent tribute to the pilot’s skill and nerve. He was already bracing himself for the crash when the pilot pushed the stick forward and sent them zooming upwards so close to the plane that Simon could see the terror in the pilot’s eyes.
The Beechcraft slewed to the left a split second before the helicopter started its climb as the pilot desperately tried to avoid a crash, but he was clearly competent for he soon corrected the maneuver and had the plane back on course and halfway towards take-off point before the helicopter could turn and come down again.
The helicopter quickly made up the distance, swooping down on the plane like a falcon onto its prey, hovering directly above it and making lift-off impossible. The plane slowed as the end of the runway drew nearer, weaving left and right across the tarmac strip in a frantic attempt to shake off the pursuit, but the helicopter countered each move with ease.