“Very well,” he said shortly. “But you’ll have to do exactly as I say. And be careful. Parton keeps a tame gorilla on hand to discourage unfriendly callers, and he will consider us very unfriendly indeed.”
He led the way past the shops and down a narrow passage between it and the next building. A seven-foot-high wall broken only by a door with no outside keyhole or handle enclosed what might have been the house’s back garden and hid the ground floor of the building from view.
Bracing his back against the brickwork, he cupped his hands and motioned Leila to climb up, but she ignored his offer of help, took two steps back, and sprang for the top of the wall. He watched in admiration as she pulled herself up by her fingertips and in one flowing movement jumped down on the other side.
A few seconds later he landed beside her. Enough light came through the kitchen window curtains to show that they were in a neglected back yard in which amorphous stacks and mounds of undistinguished rubbish had prevailed over any other cultivation. The Saint stepped over to the kitchen door, and swore silently to himself as the testing pressure of his expert fingers indicated that the mortise lock was reinforced by a bolt which had been securely shot home. He moved along to the kitchen window, and after listening with an ear to the glass for any sound inside he carefully slid the thin blade of a penknife between the sashes until it grated against the catch. Pushing the blade further in he pressed sideways while his ears strained to pick up any warning sound that might mean that their intrusion had been spotted.
Slowly the catch began to move, and he applied more pressure until finally the blade met no resistance and he was able to press both hands against the glass and inch the window up. The rasping of the frame against its surround sounded as loud as a drum roll, and several times he stopped and waited to be sure that the noise had not disturbed the household.
He parted the curtains and listened again for the sound of anyone coming to investigate. Only when he was completely satisfied that his break-in had gone unheard, he swung himself over the sill and turned to help Leila to follow him. The instinctive courtesy was quite superfluous: almost disdainfully, she slid through the opening with hardly a touch on his proffered hand, and he grinned wryly at the remainder of her uncompromising competence.
Signalling her to let him stay in the lead, he moved to the door on the opposite side of the room and inched it open. A hall lit by an unshaded bulb stretched before him. Two doors led off from the left of the passage, while a staircase to the flat above took up most of the space on the right.
He beckoned Leila to follow and stepped into the corridor, treading warily along the edges of the bare boards to reduce the risk of their creaking. Leila followed his example and they had reached the foot of the stairs when the door of the back room was flung open.
The Saint spun around to find himself staring up into the face of one of the biggest men he had ever seen.
His lighthearted description of Parton’s bodyguard as a gorilla suddenly seemed too accurate for comfort. The man filled the doorway, completely obscuring the interior of the room, and had to twist his body sideways to allow his shoulders through the opening. The Saint’s sinewy seventy-four inches seemed insignificant compared to the man he faced. Simon guessed he was nearer six feet nine than eight, and on the heavier side of three hundred pounds.
But he did not spare the time to enquire if his estimate was correct. When it came to giving away that kind of weight and reach, Simon Templar’s interpretation of sportsmanship and the Queensberry Rules was uninhibitedly elastic. Without an instant’s hesitation, his foot streaked upwards and buried itself in the other’s midriff.
The man grunted and sagged, his arms folded across his stomach, and as his head bowed forward the Saint moved in to hit him exactly as if he had been a punching bag with a lightning succession of blows — a left to one side of the jaw, a right to the other, and an uppercut to the chin to complete the symmetry.
Demonstrating the verity of the old adage that the bigger they are the harder they fall, the colossus stiffened and fell forward, with a kind of aggrieved expression on his face, hitting the floor with a force that seemed to shake the whole house.
Slowly the Saint came down off his toes, in no doubt that it would be many minutes before his opponent returned to an awareness of the world. He stepped over the body and joined Leila on the stairs.
She leant close to his ear and whispered: “Very efficient.”
“Thank you,” he murmured modestly.
His voice was almost at its normal level, and as they climbed the stairs he made little further effort to mask the sound of their progress, which he felt reasonably sure would now be attributed to movement of the immobilized bodyguard.
Three doors led from the landing above the hall, and the clanking of machinery indicated the one they required.
Sammy Parton turned around as he heard the door open, and froze in startlement as the Saint and Leila entered. Simon switched off the small printing press that had been making the noise and snapped his fingers in front of the forger’s face.
“Wake up, Sammy! Anybody would think you weren’t pleased to see us.”
Parton stepped back, still staring at his two uninvited guests. He was small and fat, with a pointed face and sparse grey hair that brought to mind an ageing, overfed rat.
“ ’Ow did you get in ’ere?” he demanded stupidly.
“We came in through a window,” answered the Saint, as if to any normal question. “Your pet gorilla thought we shouldn’t disturb you, but we managed to persuade him not to interfere.”
Parton finally made a partial recovery.
“Orl right, Templar,” he growled. “Wot d’yer want?”
“So you do remember me,” said the Saint happily. “How very nice. And after all this time, too. How long has it been, Sammy? Three years? Four?”
“Five. And I ain’t likely to forget, am I?”
“I suppose not. But you did get remission?”
Parton drew a packet of cigarets from the pocket of his ink-stained overalls and lit one.
“So wot do yer want?” he repeated. “I’m clean this time.”
Simon smiled as his gaze travelled around the dirty print room and even dirtier printer, but there was no cordiality in his eyes.
“I wouldn’t mind a couple of tickets for the cup final next year,” he replied. “But failing that, just the answer to a simple question.”
“Then you’ve come to the wrong bloke.”
“You can’t say that till you’ve seen the question,” argued the Saint. He turned to Leila. “Show him.”
Leila held up the picture of Yasmina and Hakim, and the forger was too slow to hide the recognition in his eyes.
“So thanks for the answer,” Simon remarked. “Now, where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
The top drawer of the desk that Parton was standing next to was slightly open, and the little man’s hand was slowly edging towards it. The Saint affected not to notice the movement as he pressed on with his interrogation.
“The passport that you are so artistically creating for the gent in the photo,” he said.
“I dunno wot yer talkin’ about,”
Parton insisted stubbornly. His fingers had reached the lip of the drawer. “You come in ’ere... break in ’ere...” Parton stepped forward, putting his body between the drawer and the Saint. It was a perfectly natural move, and it was almost a pity to spoil the performance.
The Saint’s hand landed squarely in Parton’s chest, and as the little man staggered backwards, Simon’s right foot kicked the drawer closed. Parton squealed as his fingers were trapped.