As a straight opponent, the little man would have been an outside bet if the Saint had had his leg in plaster. But the cutthroat razor which glinted in his hand lowered the odds considerably.
Simon had no desire for what is termed in that locality a “Soho facial,” and there was an experienced air about the way the razor was held which inferred that Slasher was quite accustomed to providing such cosmetic surgery.
With Bull beginning to lumber forward to his left and the razor merchant beginning to advance behind his blade directly ahead, the Saint moved to his right. It was a situation the Marquis of Queensberry had not legislated for, and in such circumstances the Saint considered that the belt should be worn around the knees.
His foot travelled upwards and his leg straightened as his toe thudded into the little man’s groin. Slasher screamed, and the razor slipped from his fingers as he doubled over. The Saint stepped in swiftly and his fist slammed up into the thug’s face with a force that sent him sprawling backwards to land in a writhing heap at Bull’s feet.
Bull carried no weapon simply because he had always found that his physique made them unnecessary. He charged into the attack in a worthy imitation of his namesake. Any of his flailing punches would have ended the fight immediately had it connected, but the Saint was careful to ensure that they did not connect. He was giving away two inches in height and roughly eighty pounds in weight, and if he did not respect the man’s skill as a boxer he respected the physical differences.
Simon met Bull’s first attack with a barrage of straight jabs to the head that stopped him in his tracks. The tough replied by lashing out with his foot, but the Saint swayed to one side and took advantage of his opponent’s momentary loss of balance to drive home a combination of blows to the ribs that made Bull wince and reel away. The man was so large, and his technique so rudimentary, that for a trained fighter he was an almost impossible target to miss.
The Saint advanced behind a left hand that licked out and stung quicker than a snake’s tongue. Bull’s counters, such as they were, were absorbed by the bunched muscles of the Saint’s arms and shoulders, whose continual ducking and weaving meant that those that did get through were mainly glancing blows with little power left in them.
A final crunching left hook cracked home high on the side of the bruiser’s battered face and he stopped backtracking. His arms sagged and his eyes glazed, and he began to rock unsteadily. It is unlikely that he ever saw the uppercut that finally dropped him in front of the Rolls.
The whole affair was over in far less than the time taken to read about it. The Prof had watched from the safety of the Rolls, as transfixed as a rabbit in the beam of a searchlight. Only when Bull disappeared from his view did he suddenly realise his own danger, and by then it was too late.
The Saint’s hand descended on him before he had covered a dozen yards, and their conversation was resumed.
“I swear, I didn’t know they were there. Honest, you have to believe me,” Dankin blubbered as he was pushed roughly back against the side of the car.
“I’m sure you swear and I’m absolutely certain you’re not honest,” Simon replied. “But I do believe you.”
Relief showed itself by adding a faint tint to the fence’s ashen face, and then he looked into the clear cold blue of the Saint’s eyes and the colour faded again.
“You and your playmates have put me to a great deal of trouble,” said the Saint, and the dispassionate evenness of his voice was more menacing than any threats could have been.
He was about to elaborate on the theme, but the sounds emanating from the razor merchant indicated that the nausea which had rendered him useless was passing, and a low moan from the far side of the car showed that an earlier victim was also returning to an awareness of his surroundings.
The Saint smiled.
“Now you can help me. Open the door.”
The Prof obediently opened the rear door of the Rolls, and the Saint placed one hand on Slasher’s collar and the other on the seat of his pants and tossed him through the opening.
Around the other side, Dankin’s minder was just pulling himself upright but was too groggy to object as the Saint repeated the performance on his person. With the Prof’s help, Simon bundled first Dandy and then Bull into the car. The impact of the two unconscious thugs on top of the two already struggling to untangle their respective arms and legs was sufficiently deadening and confusing to allow the Saint the amount of time he required.
He removed the keys from the ignition and opened the rear compartment. He beckoned to the Prof.
“In.”
Dankin looked from the dark cavern to the Saint.
“But...”
“In,” Simon repeated, and the Prof, because there was nothing else he could do, obeyed.
Simon banged the lid shut and strode quickly to the car that had brought him. Its equipment did not contain the tow rope he had hoped for, but there was a very comprehensive tool kit. He selected a heavy hammer and returned to the Rolls. He opened the near-side rear door, pushed the catch to lock, and then brought the hammer down with the full strength of his arm behind it. The metal sheered off, and the Saint slammed the door and tested that it was secure before repeating the operation on the other three exits.
He stood back and surveyed his handiwork. It was not the most secure of prisons but, as two of its occupants would be sleeping for some time, and as the freedom of movement of the other pair was further restricted by the thick glass which partitioned the front seats from the rear, he judged it would hold long enough.
As he walked back to the other car his foot struck against something metal which on examination proved to be a .38 automatic. It must have fallen from Dankin’s bodyguard’s pocket during his flight, and with a faint smile the Saint thoughtfully slipped it into his own before swinging himself behind the wheel and gunning the engine into life. He swung the saloon in an arc and headed back onto the main road around the park that would bring him out near Marble Arch.
At a call box in Oxford Street he dialled the number of C Division and requested to speak to Detective Inspector Peake. He looked at his watch while he waited to be put through. It needed a few minutes to eleven. Fortunately the detective was still at his desk. He did not, however, sound particularly pleased when his caller identified himself.
“What do you want, Templar?” he demanded gruffly.
“I’m doing my law-abiding citizen act,” Simon told him. “It’s very popular — packs ’em in at the Palladium and the Chipping Gooseberry police ball. Death-defying feats of honesty, breathtaking bouts of truthfulness, dazzling displays of decency. You must catch my next spectacular, all profits to the fund for research into putting brains under policemen’s helmets.”
Peake was unimpressed.
“Very amusing if you happen to like listening to drivel at this time of night. I don’t, so say what you called to say.”
“You have no sense of the absurd, Inspector,” Simon remonstrated sadly. “Me, now, I have got a sense of the absurd, and I find it highly amusing that at this moment four of Vic Reefly’s heavy mob are locked in a Rolls-Royce behind the restaurant in Hyde Park and that their luggage in the back consists of a fence you’ve wanted to nail for years. Are you laughing yet?”
“No, but I’m interested.”
“Well, I advise you to toddle over fairly rapidly before they commit criminal damage to the interior of the said Rolls in trying to get out. Also I’m not sure how much air the poor old Prof has to spare. Personally, I don’t fancy giving him the kiss of life, but if the idea turns you on...”