Simon handed him Curdon’s cigar. The driver accepted it, sniffed it, and put it in his mouth, but made no move to light it.
“I saw what happened outside the hotel,” was the brief explanation he offered as he sent the car speeding back towards Cannes.
“But how did you know I was not being arrested? That those men were not the police?”
“I know the police in Cannes — and they know me.”
Simon decided it was politic not to enquire too deeply into their relationship. He lapsed into silence as he considered Curdon’s involvement and how it might affect his own plans for Maclett’s safety.
Presently Gaby said: “The man in the Mercedes, his name is Jacques Demmell.”
“How do you know that?”
The Saint did not try to hide his surprise and Gaby’s face split in a rare grin.
“I recognised the car. It belongs to a hire company I used to drive for, so I made enquiries.”
“Anything besides the name?”
“Not a great deal. He often comes here during the season. He has a reputation as a friend of lonely ladies, especially the rich kind. He has a flat in the town but he’s been spending most of his time on a yacht called Protégé. It is moored in the Port Canto.”
“Yes, I’ve seen it. Is it his?”
“No, it belongs to a woman, and believe me she is quite a woman.” Gaby raised one hand from the wheel long enough to draw a curving outline in the air. “Not the usual type of woman he attracts.”
The Mercedes was parked outside the hotel when they returned. Simon touched the grill; the engine was cold. There was no sign of Demmell in the lounges and bars, and the Saint was thoughtful as he prudently rode the elevator up to the floor immediately above his own, and walked back down the stairs to his floor.
4
The Saint passed silently along the corridor and stood motionless outside his room, his ears straining to identify the muffled sounds that reached him through the door and to fix in his mind the exact location of his uninvited guest. He took the key from his pocket, but before he could move, a room service waiter clattered around the comer pushing a trolley, and immediately the noises ceased. The Saint cursed the unsuspecting man all the way into the elevator.
Simon stood with his back pressed against the wall, fitting his key into the spring lock with the tips of his fingers, and sent the door crashing inwards the instant the catch was released. He entered the room with a fluid sidestep that removed him from the line of fire, registering the chaos of his surroundings in a single sweeping glance as he swivelled in a half crouch towards the space behind the slowly closing door.
The edge of the door had caught Demmell near the middle of the face, splitting his nose and lip. A workmanlike .44 Bulldog revolver was held across his body and had he been blessed with faster reflexes he might have followed Bob Ford into the ranks of those who have written finis to the careers of the greatest outlaws of their age, but the Saint gave him no time to achieve such distinction. As Simon turned, pivoting on the ball of his right foot, his left came up in a swinging arc that smashed into Demmell’s gun hand with the speed and force of an unleashed flail. The revolver spun from Demmell’s suddenly lifeless fingers, and he cried out as the searing pain ripped through his arm.
The Saint straightened, and took in the upheaval around him in greater detail. Drawers had been pulled out and their contents spilled onto the floor, his suitcase had been upturned and the few things he had left in it scattered around the room; cushions, pictures, books, ornaments, anything that could conceivably serve as a hiding place had been pulled apart.
The scene angered him not so much because of its untidiness as because it bore all the hallmarks of the amateur, and the Saint disliked dealing with amateurs. Searching a room is both an art and a science. It calls for a lightness of touch, a photographic memory, and the ability to analyse the psychology of the occupier to determine where the objects of the search are most likely to be hidden. An experienced professional investigator will turn over a room, miss nothing, and leave it as tidy as when he entered, aware that the extra care taken will give a valuable margin of time before his intrusion is discovered. Should he not find what he is looking for, he knows that by not making his visit obvious he has left open the probability for a return call. The amateur, on the other hand, blunders about, not only making life more difficult for himself but also causing unnecessary distress to the victim of his attention.
“The maid service here has just gone to hell,” Simon observed, as he picked up a favourite sports jacket and replaced it carefully on its hanger.
He had shown his contempt for Demmell by almost turning his back on him. The revolver still lay in the centre of the room, an equal distance from both of them. Demmell saw his chance and took it, as the Saint had expected him to.
The man moved with creditable speed, but he had covered only half the distance before a strange medley of sensations overwhelmed him. One moment he was in the middle of a diving roll, fingers outstretched towards the butt of the gun; the next, he met an irresistible force coming in the opposite direction with the speed of an express train: for one transfixed instant he felt himself flying backwards, and then the wall hit him and he sank to his knees, with a sickening breathless agony in his stomach eclipsing the pain in his arm.
Simon’s heel came gently to rest and he turned to face the retching man now climbing groggily back to the vertical.
The Saint’s voice was a mocking drawclass="underline" “Enough?”
In answer Demmell catapulted himself off the wall, his shoulder catching Simon in the chest and the momentum sending them both crashing to the floor. The Saint was impressed. He had kicked men in that way before, and they had rarely risen so quickly. It boded well for Demmell’s fitness and the exercise still to come.
Just as his back touched the floor the Saint twisted his whole body, sending them both rolling over. His fist shot upwards towards the other’s head in a vicious right hook that should have ended the fight, but the blow never connected. Demmell broke Its force with his arm and his heel whipped backwards to explode at the base of the Saint’s spine.
The Saint’s body arched like a bow and a freezing numbness seemed to grip every muscle. He relaxed his grip and Demmell wriggled free, aiming a kick at the Saint’s head as he rose. Instinctively Simon’s arms crossed to block the blow, and he rolled away from his opponent and pulled himself to his feet with an effort that was more mental than physical.
Demmell was grinning as he waded in for the next round, and Simon returned his smile. The numbness was passing, to be replaced by the invigorating glow of pumping adrenalin.
Demmell’s arm sped from his shoulder in a straight karate punch to the Saint’s temples. Simon fended it easily with his forearm and replied with a slashing chop to the ribs. Demmell grunted and stepped back, lashing out with a wild kick as he did so. Simon sidestepped and caught the heel of the other’s shoe as it completed its trajectory. For an instant their eyes locked, and for the first time Simon saw fear on his antagonist’s face. The Saint smiled, and pulled.
Demmell fell heavily, and the Saint, keeping hold of the foot, followed him down, twisting the heel and toe as he went. Demmell’s body jackknifed. His hands reached forward to take the strain off his buckled leg, and the Saint’s fist hit him flush on the side of the face, sending his head banging back to the floor. Simon rested his weight on Demmell’s ribs, forcing the air from his body. He released the foot with a final excruciating wrench, and his forearm descended like a guillotine on the other’s throat.