Saint's Getaway by Leslie Charteris Page B

lighting another cigarette.
His face was absolutely barren of expression, and his unblinking eyes were
fixed upon his captive with the dispassionate relent- lessness of frozen
agates. As the man Fritz took hold of the steel cage which encircled
the prisoner’s head, the prince raised one hand.
    “Or perhaps,” he suggested
smoothly, “the redoubtable Herr Krauss would like to change his
mind.”
    The prisoner’s breath came through his teeth
in a sharp hiss. The knuckles showed white and tense on his clenched hands.
    “Nein.”   
    The prince shrugged.
    Watching half-hypnotized through the window,
Simon Templar saw Krauss stiffen in his chair as the screw control of
that foul instrument was slowly tightened. A low groan broke from the
man’s lips, and his heel kicked spasmodically against the table. The prince
never moved.
    Simon struggled to fight free from the trance
of horrible fascination that held him spellbound. He pulled himself further onto the sill, slipping
the automatic from his pocket, and felt his
temples throbbing. And then the prince raised his hand again.
    “Does your memory return, my dear Herr
Krauss?”
    The other shook his head slowly, as if he had
to call on all his forces to find strength to make the movement.
    “Nein.”
    The whisper was so low that the Saint could
scarcely hear it. And the prince smiled, without the slightest symptom of
im patience. He sat forward and pushed the strong-box along the table; and
then he leaned back again in his chair and replaced the cigarette holder
in his mouth.
    “You will find the box within your reach
as soon as you are ready for it,” he said benevolently. “You
have only to say the word, and Fritz will release one of your hands. I should prefer you
to do the actual opening, in case the lock should hold some unpleasant surprise
for the unpractised operator. And directly the box is open you will be
free to go.”
    Again the man Fritz twisted the screw; and
suddenly that dreadful cry of agony rang out again.
    The Saint gritted his teeth and balanced
himself squarely on the sill. Ordinary methods of “persuasion” he
could under stand; they were part of the grim game, and always would
be; but to stand by in cold blood and watch the relentless tighten ing of
that ghoulish machine was more than he could stomach. His finger tightened
on the trigger, and he sighted the prince’s face through a red
haze.
    And then he saw the man Fritz step quickly
round from the control screw, and Krauss’s hand clawed tremblingly at
the box on the table. He was fumbling frantically with the wheels of the
combination, and his shrieking had died down to a ghastly moaning noise. While
the Saint hesitated, the box sprang open with a click; and then Simon vaulted
into the room.
    The man Fritz spun round with an oath and
stepped towards him; and with a feeling akin to holy joy the Saint shot him in the
stomach and watched him crumple to the floor.
    Then he faced round.
    “I should keep very still, if I were
you, Rudolf,” he stated metallically. “Otherwise you might go
the same way home.”
    The prince had risen to his feet. He stood
there without the flicker of an eyelid while the Saint sidled round the
table to wards Krauss, who had fallen limply sideways in his
chair; and the smoke went up from the long jade holder in a thin, blue line
that never wavered.
    Simon found the control wheel of that diabolical
mechan ism and unscrewed it till it fell out of its socket.
    “I assure you, my dear Mr. Templar,”
said the prince’s satiny voice, “the device is really most humane.
There is no lasting injury inflicted—— ”
    “Is that so?” Simon clipped his
answer out of a mouth like a steel trap. “I thought it looked
interesting. The opportunity of experimenting with it on the inventor is
almost too good to miss,
isn’t it?”
    The prince smiled.
    “Was that the object of your
visit?”
    “It was not, Rudolf—as you know. But
maybe you’re right. Business is