“Look!” she exclaimed.
At the far end, a group of men and women were staring up at a third-floor window. Most were Pakistanis, a few West Indians, and whatever was going on behind the drawn curtains had obviously upset them.
“Don’t raise your hopes, Leila,” he cautioned her. “Lots of things happen every day in an area like this. It could just be an eviction. And if it’s not, we may already be too late.”
She turned to him, her eyes blazing with irrational anger.
“Can you think of a better place to start?”
“No,” he admitted, and eased the car into the kerb.
He had come to find the scene in the photograph and was quite prepared to force his way into every house if necessary. At least this one had its front door already open.
The group of bystanders fell silent and backed away as he and Leila climbed out of the car and ran up the steps and into the hall. The Saint leapt nimbly up the uncarpeted stairs with Leila at his heels. From outside came the prolonged sound of a car horn, and he remembered the new station wagon that had been parked farther along the street and wondered.
As they gained the top landing a woman screamed. Simon reached the door in a single stride and did not bother trying the handle but launched his whole body forward, twisting as he did so. His shoulder smashed into the worm-eaten wood, shattering the lock and sending the door crashing open. His momentum carried him a yard into the room before he could recover his balance. He straightened and stopped in his tracks, his arms held out from his sides to prevent Leila from passing.
A girl sat facing him. Her long black hair was dishevelled, her eyes wide with fear. On her cheek the dark skin still showed the imprint of the hand that had slapped it, and there was an ugly swelling on the side of her chin.
Two dark-skinned men stood on either side of her. Both wore roll-necked jumpers and jeans, army flak jackets stretched tight across their shoulders. If it came to a fight they would each concede him a couple of inches in height and reach, but would be at no obvious disadvantage as far as weight and muscle were concerned. The Saint looked down the muzzles of the two automatics levelled at his chest and seemed to find something amusing there.
“If you use those popguns,” he said calmly, “you’ll have to shoot your way out floor by floor. My men are on every landing.”
With no way of checking the bluff, the two men hesitated. And then, as if to underline his warning, came the tramp of feet on the stairs as some of the crowd from outside summoned enough courage to find out what was happening.
The smaller and heavier of the two jerked his head towards an open door at the far end of the room, through which the Saint could see the flat rooftop pictured in the photograph. Still keeping their guns trained on the Saint and Leila, they backed towards it. Simon waited until they had reached the roof and disappeared from view around the corner of the house before moving.
He turned to Leila.
“Look after the girl and get rid of the sightseers,” he ordered.
“Simon, be careful.”
The words followed him without effect as he went through the door by which the two Arabs had departed.
The narrow frontage of the house belied its depth. The girl’s room was a former attic directly beneath the pitched roof which was the only one visible from the road. The flat area onto which the two men had run and where the picture had been taken was the top of the remainder of the house, which stretched back until it almost joined the rear of the buildings in the next street.
As the Saint stepped outside, he was all too aware of the perfect target he offered. A flicker of movement on his left caught his eye, and he sank to a crouch as he turned, perfectly balanced on his toes and ready to dive for cover at the first sign that the two men had decided to fight it out. The roofs of the adjoining houses were separated only by low brick walls from each of which rose a cluster of chimney pots.
Four houses away, the two terrorists were standing obviously uncertain of their next move. The Saint sprinted for the first dividing wall and cleared it in a flying leap that brought him safely behind the chimney stack of the house next door. The men spun around at the noise, but he was already hidden. Exposing only as much of his head as he needed to peer around the sheltering brickwork, he saw the smaller of the two point to the alley separating Little Claymore Street from the next road, and as his companion headed for a drainpipe, the smaller man ran on towards the end of the terrace.
The Saint flipped a mental coin that landed in favor of the man remaining on the roof. He swung over the next wall and then the one following that, darting from chimney to chimney as he went, without taking his eyes off the man he was pursuing, relying on his speed and sense of timing to ensure that every time the Arab turned he was already out of sight. He held the advantage of not having to worry where the chase led, while the other was constantly searching for a way of escape.
Gradually the gap narrowed until he was only a house away from his quarry.
The terrorist was kneeling at bay in the shadow of the next dividing wall no more than six yards away. The Saint ducked back behind his protective chimney stack, unable to make another move without inviting a bullet. He cursed himself for not bringing a gun, as he scanned the immediate area for anything that might serve as a weapon.
A ladder was propped against the attic roof, a pile of slates at its foot. The Saint slowly slid down until he was below the level of the wall and began to inch his way towards them. He drew level and gingerly reached out his hand. His fingers had touched and gripped the top slate before a shot rang out, kicking brick dust from the wall barely an inch from his thumb.
Simon grabbed up the slate and spun around. With only an instant in which to aim, he sent it hurtling through the air. It sliced into the gunman’s wrist, sending the automatic clattering away across the roof.
Almost casually the Saint rose to his feet and brushed the dust from his hands.
“Why don’t we see how brave you are without a gun or a bomb to rely on?” he drawled.
He placed one hand on top of the wall and vaulted over without taking his eyes off the Arab.
The terrorist stared at him like a snake hypnotised by a mongoose. He looked into two blue eyes that were as cold and passionless as an iceberg, and he felt his blood chill. He may have faced death many times, but always it had spurted from the end of a barrel, instant and acceptable. Clearly he had no stomach for the kind of manual punishment which he could happily dish out himself to a helpless girl, and which he could now see promised in the chiselled lines of this man’s face.
He backed away as the Saint approached, frantically looking in every direction for an escape route. His heel caught against the frame of a skylight set in the roof. For a moment he swayed uncertainly and then he jumped, plunging down to land on the floor of the room below in a shower of glass and splintered wood.
Simon jumped forward and grasped an edge of the skylight frame that was free of jagged glass to swing himself through the opening, but the Arab was already out of the room and racing down the stairs. The noise had alarmed all the other residents of the house, and they crowded out of their rooms onto the stairs, blocking the Saint’s path. Roughly he pushed them aside, but he already knew that the delays would prove long enough to allow the other’s escape.
He reached the ground floor and sprinted out onto the pavement just in time to see the station wagon skid to a halt and the terrorist climb in.
The door had barely closed before the driver was taking the next corner on two wheels, and the Saint had no alternative but to stand and listen to the roaring engine fading into the distance.