THE ADVENTURES OF THE SAINT
Enter the Saint (1930), The Saint Closes the Case (1930), The Avenging Saint (1930), Featuring the Saint (1931), Alias the Saint (1931), The Saint Meets His Match (1931), The Saint Versus Scotland Yard (1932), The Saint’s Getaway (1932), The Saint and Mr Teal (1933), The Brighter Buccaneer (1933), The Saint in London (1934), The Saint Intervenes (1934), The Saint Goes On (1934), The Saint in New York (1935), Saint Overboard (1936), The Saint in Action (1937), The Saint Bids Diamonds (1937), The Saint Plays with Fire (1938), Follow the Saint (1938), The Happy Highwayman (1939), The Saint in Miami (1940), The Saint Goes West (1942), The Saint Steps In (1943), The Saint on Guard (1944), The Saint Sees It Through (1946), Call for the Saint (1948), Saint Errant (1948), The Saint in Europe (1953), The Saint on the Spanish Main (1955), The Saint Around the World (1956), Thanks to the Saint (1957), Señor Saint (1958), Saint to the Rescue (1959), Trust the Saint (1962), The Saint in the Sun (1963), Vendetta for the Saint (1964), The Saint on TV (1968), The Saint Returns (1968), The Saint and the Fiction Makers (1968), The Saint Abroad (1969), The Saint in Pursuit (1970), The Saint and the People Importers (1971), Catch the Saint (1975), The Saint and the Hapsburg Necklace (1976), Send for the Saint (1977), The Saint in Trouble (1978), The Saint and the Templar Treasure (1978), Count On the Saint (1980), Salvage for the Saint (1983)
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2014 Interfund (London) Ltd.
Foreword © 2014 Geoffrey Moore
Publication History and Author Biography © 2014 Ian Dickerson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
ISBN-13: 9781477842775
ISBN-10: 1477842772
Cover design by David Drummond, www.salamanderhill.com
To Bobbie,
who went on the picnic
CONTENTS
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
FOREWORD TO THE NEW EDITION
CHAPTER ONE: HOW SIMON TEMPLAR TOOK EXERCISE AND HOPPY UNIATZ QUENCHED HIS THIRST
1
2
3
CHAPTER TWO: HOW SIMON TEMPLAR CONVERSED WITH A PORTER AND A BRACE OF GUARDIAS WERE HAPPILY REUNITED
1
2
3
CHAPTER THREE: HOW SIMON TEMPLAR READ A NEWSPAPER AND REUBEN GRANER PUT ON HIS HAT
1
2
3
CHAPTER FOUR: HOW SIMON TEMPLAR ROSE TO THE OCCASION, AND THE THIEVES’ PICNIC GOT FURTHER UNDER WAY
1
2
3
CHAPTER FIVE: HOW REUBEN GRANER TOOK BACK HIS GUN AND A TAXI DRIVER WAS UNCONVINCED
1
2
3
CHAPTER SIX: HOW SIMON TEMPLAR ATE WITHOUT ENTHUSIASM AND MR UNIATZ WAS ALSO TROUBLED ABOUT HIS BREAKFAST
1
2
3
CHAPTER SEVEN: HOW MR PALERMO CONTINUED TO BE UNLUCKY AND HOPPY UNIATZ OBEYED ORDERS
1
2
3
CHAPTER EIGHT: HOW MR UNIATZ WAS BEWILDERED ABOUT BOPPING AND SIMON TEMPLAR WAS POLITE TO A LADY
1
2
3
CHAPTER NINE: HOW SIMON TEMPLAR ENJOYED A JOKE AND MR LAUBER WAS NOT AMUSED
1
2
3
CHAPTER TEN: HOW SIMON TEMPLAR PAID HIS DEBT AND CHRISTINE VANLINDEN REMEMBERED HERS
1
2
3
PUBLICATION HISTORY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WATCH FOR THE SIGN OF THE SAINT!
THE SAINT CLUB
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
The text of this book has been preserved from the original edition and includes vocabulary, grammar, style, and punctuation that might differ from modern publishing practices. Every care has been taken to preserve the author’s tone and meaning, allowing only minimal changes to punctuation and wording to ensure a fluent experience for modern readers.
FOREWORD TO THE NEW EDITION
When I first met the Saint he was tall, good-looking, suave, and had a mischievous sense of humor. He also looked an awful lot like my father.
Now, admittedly, I was born halfway through his run as the Saint, so for me he was as much a Persuader and that Bond fellow as he was Simon Templar, but it is always the Saint that I come back to. Whether it’s watching some of the old episodes or returning to the books, the call of a hero who takes on the ungodly, helps damsels in distress, has style, sophistication, and one hell of a sense of humor is just too much to resist.
The Saint Bids Diamonds is a classic Saint novel. The premise is simple—in Tenerife, the Saint and Hoppy come across an old man and his daughter who are being beaten up. The old man turns out to be a diamond cutter who is a reluctant member of a smuggling ring masterminded by Reuben Graner. Throw in a missing lottery ticket—worth the equivalent of $2 million—and you’ve got all the makings of a classic thriller.
It was first published in May 1937, the result of a winter Leslie Charteris spent in Tenerife with a young lady who would go on to become his second wife and who just happened to be the daughter of a diamond cutter. Perhaps that’s one reason why the Saint stories are still a lot of fun, even nearly eighty years after they were first published—Charteris was never shy about mixing fact with fiction. Sure, the language may have become dated and the world has moved on (several times!) but still, this is a lively, breezy story, a pre-war romp that delivers action, adventure, style, and humor—everything you’d expect from a Saint adventure.
Several years ago I started working with producer William J. MacDonald on developing a new Saint for television, a Saint for the twenty-first century. One reason it’s taken a while is because we wanted to be true to the original character, true to the Saint you’ll find in this book, but also true to life in the twenty-first century. At the time of this writing, Adam Rayner has picked up the halo and done just that. With a bit of luck you’ll soon get to watch a new series of The Saint, as well as read about him in stories such as these.
—Geoffrey Moore
CHAPTER ONE:
HOW SIMON TEMPLAR TOOK EXERCISE AND HOPPY UNIATZ QUENCHED HIS THIRST
1
Simon Templar yanked the handbrake back into the last notch as the huge cream-and-red Hirondel shot past the little knot of struggling men, and stood up while the tires were still screaming for a hold on the cobblestones. The Hirondel rocked to a shuddering standstill just beyond the other car that was pulled in to the side of the road, and Simon sat on the back of the seat and swung long, immaculately trousered legs over the side. From under the jauntily tilted brim of his hat he gazed back at the inspiring scene with a glimmer of reckless delight beginning to dawn in gay blue eyes which should have seemed entirely misplaced in a man who was better known as the Saint than by any other name.
In the seat beside him, Hoppy Uniatz screwed his head round on his thick neck and also surveyed the scenery, with the strain of intense thought creasing its unmistakable contortions into the rugged contours of what, from its geographical situation rather than an
ything else, must reluctantly be called his face. Somewhere inside him an awe-inspiringly lucid deduction was struggling for delivery.
“Boss,” said Mr Uniatz, with growing conviction, “dat looks like a fight.”
“It is a fight,” said the Saint contentedly, and dropped lightly to the ground.
He had made the deduction several seconds earlier than Mr Uniatz, and with much less difficulty. From the moment when the headlights of the Hirondel swept round the bend and caught the group of writhing figures in their sudden blaze of illumination, it had been comparatively obvious that the nocturnal peace of the road up to La Laguna from Santa Cruz de Tenerife was being vigorously disturbed by physical dissension, and all manner of mayhem—so obvious, in fact, that the Saint was treading on the brake pedal and flicking the gear lever into neutral almost as soon as the spectacle met his eyes. He had only paused for that one brief instant to decide whether the fight was merely an ordinary vulgar brawl, or whether it possessed any features which might make it interesting to a connoisseur. And, while he perched up there on the back of his seat, he had seen the vague mass of seething bodies split up into two component nuclei. In one section, two burly males were apparently trying to hammer the insides out of a third whose hair gleamed silver under the dim light, and in the other section, which more or less clinched the matter, a girl who had been trying to help him was being dragged away, fighting like a wildcat, by another of the strong-arm deputation.
Either because the combatants were so absorbed in their own business that they hadn’t noticed the stopping of his car, or else because they proposed to continue operations in defiance of any casual interference, the tempo of the conflict showed no signs of slowing up as the Saint drew nearer, and a gentle and rather speculative smile shaped itself on his lips. The man who was wrestling with the girl had one hand over her mouth, and just at that moment her teeth must have managed to find one of his fingers, for his hand moved quickly and he let out a hoarse profanity which was cut off by her sharp scream for help. The Saint’s smile became even gentler.
“Not so loud, lady,” he murmured. “Help has arrived.”
She had a face which was definitely worth fighting for, Simon realised as the man swung her round as a shield between them, and the artistic perfection of the discovery sent blissful anthems carolling through his soul. That was just as it should be—beauty in distress, and repulsive blackguards to punch firmly in the eye…
The latter ingredient struck Simon’s imagination as being particularly sound. The desire to prove whether it was as satisfactory in practice as in theory became almost simultaneously irresistible. The Saint saw no reason to resist it. He shot out an exploratory fist that whizzed past the girl’s ear like a bullet, and felt his knuckles smash terrifically into something crispy-soft which could have been nothing else but the desired objective in the pan of the man behind her.
The jolt ran up his arm and spread itself throughout his body in a warm tingle of ineffable beatitude.
He had not been mistaken. The sensation left nothing to be improved on. It lifted up the heart and made the world a brighter and rosier place. It was the works.
“Lend me your other eye, brother,” said the Saint.
The man let go the girl and kicked at him viciously, but the Saint had learnt most of his fighting in places where there were no referees, and the savagely rearing foot that would probably have crippled anyone else hissed harmlessly past him as he stepped smoothly aside. The foot swung on upwards under its undischarged momentum, and Simon cupped his hand under the heel and helped it enthusiastically on its way. The kicker’s other leg slipped from under him and he went crashing down on his back, and the Saint trod on his face and assisted the back of his head to collide with the pavement a second time, to remove all doubt.
He took the trembling girl’s hand for a moment in a cool grip.
“Get along to my car,” he said. “The red-and-yellow one. I’ll collect uncle.”
She stared at him for a second or two, hesitantly and, it seemed, fearfully, as if she still couldn’t realise that he had helped her, and as if she was terrified of a trap. The Saint turned his head so that the light fell on his face, and there must have been something in his smile that answered her doubts, for she nodded and turned obediently away.
The Saint moved on.
Three or four paces from him, the other two members of the tough brigade had made good use of their time. The old man was out, out of the fight for keeps, as Simon had known he must be after a few minutes of the treatment he had been taking. He lay sprawled on the ground like a rag doll, with his head fallen limply back over the edge of the curb. One of his opponents was kneeling on his chest, and the other turned round from the diverting pastime of kicking him in the ribs to meet the Saint’s approach with a rush of savagely swinging fists.
The Saint side-stepped like a dancer, blocked one blow, ducked another, and slid in with the same movement to catch him in the exact centre of his stomach with a blow that doubled him up as if he had stepped into the path of a runaway pile driver. After which something happened that the victim could never afterwards quite believe, and was inclined to attribute to the dizziness induced by the maltreatment of his solar plexus. But in the fog of agonising nausea which numbed his brain, it felt exactly as if two hands of incredible strength took hold of him at the waist and swept him high in the air, and a voice laughed softly and mockingly before the hands let him go. After which he had a feeling of floating gracefully through the air for one or two short pulsebeats before the earth rose up and hit him a frightful blow in the back that almost shattered his spine…
Simon Templar relaxed his muscles and drew a long, deep breath of sheer content. Even viewed purely in the light of healthy exercise, the dull mechanical movements which less-adventurous souls employed to develop impressive bulges on every limb were not in the same street. This, undoubtedly, as he had always been convinced, was what the doctor ordered. This was the real McCoy. And he laughed again, softly and almost inaudibly, as the last man leapt at him.
He was the largest of them all, with shoulders like an ox, though the Saint topped him in height by a couple of inches, and he came in a swerving charge that gave him the space to jerk something dark and glistening from his hip pocket. The Saint saw it and lunged like a flash of lightning for the wrist behind it. He found it and fastened on it with a grip like iron, swinging the gun out of the line of his body. The man tried to wrench free, impatiently, as he might have done from the interference of a child, and a queer look of amazement spread over his broad face when his arm stayed riveted where it was held, as if it had been pinioned in solid rock. The Saint’s teeth flashed white in the gloom, and his free fist pistoned up and cracked under the other’s outthrust jaw like a gunshot. It should have dropped the large man in his tracks, but he only grunted and shook his head and hit back. Simon slipped under the punch, and they grappled breast to breast. And then there was another sharp thud, and the big man went unexpectedly limp.
Simon let him slide to the ground, and as he folded up he revealed, like an unveiled monument, the homely but supremely happy features of Hoppy Uniatz standing behind him with an automatic in his hand. For a second the Saint’s memory flashed backwards in a spurt of sobering alarm, searching for a more precise definition of the timbre of the sharp thud which had preceded his opponent’s collapse.
“You didn’t shoot him, did you?” he asked anxiously.
“Chees no, boss,” Hoppy reassured him. “I just pat him on de roof wit’ de end of my Betsy. He ain’t hoit.”
Simon breathed again.
“I’m not quite sure whether he’d agree with you about that,” he remarked. “Although I suppose it’s better than being dead…But it looked like the makings of a good fight before you butted in.”
He gazed around him somewhat regretfully. The high peak of vivacity in the proceedings seemed to have gone by, leaving a certain atmosphere of anticlimax. The man with the damaged face was try
ing to get blindly to his feet. The man who had made the short but exciting flight through the air was leaning against the back of the sedan, holding his stomach and looking as if he would like to die. The man whose roof had been patted with the end of Mr Uniatz’s Betsy appeared to sleep. What with one thing and another, a shroud of appalling tranquillity had settled upon the scene.
The Saint sighed. And then he grinned vaguely and clapped Hoppy on the shoulder.
“Anyway,” he said, “let’s see what we fished out of the pot.”
He went over to where the old man still lay with his head in the gutter, and picked him up as if he was a child. Whatever else might develop, a strategic withdrawal from the field of victory was the first indicated move. Simon carried the old man over to the Hirondel, dumped him in the tonneau, where he told Hoppy to look after him, and opened the front door for the girl.
She hesitated with one foot on the running board, and again he glimpsed that cloud of suspicion darkening her eyes.
“Really—you needn’t bother…We can walk—”
“Not with uncle,” said the Saint firmly. “He doesn’t feel like walking.” Without waiting for her, he slid in behind the wheel and touched the starter. “Besides, your sparring partners might start walking too—they still have some life left in them—”
Crack!
The shot whined over his head and smacked into the wall beyond, and the Saint smiled as if it amused him. He caught the girl’s wrist, dragged her down into the seat beside him, slammed the door and let in the clutch more quickly than the separate movements can be described. A second shot crashed harmlessly into the night, and then Mr Uniatz’s Betsy answered. Then a side turning caught the Saint’s eye, and he spun the wheel and sent the Hirondel screaming round in a skidding right angle. In another moment they were coasting smoothly down into the outskirts of Santa Cruz.
A little later, he heard far behind him a ragged fusillade which puzzled him for the next twelve hours.
The Saint Bids Diamonds (The Saint Series) Page 1
