The Saint Goes On (Simon Templar 'The Saint', Book 14)

The Saint Goes On (Simon Templar 'The Saint', Book 14)

Leslie Charteris

Language: English

Pages: 161

ISBN: B01M4O24ZJ

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Three classic adventures for the Saint in which he tackles a criminal who kills people before they can reveal his identity, tracks down a man who died a year ago, and goes to a sleepy seaside pub disturbed by mysterious underground rumblings. One thing’s for sure—despite death threats, gun battles, and kidnapping, the Saint will go on…

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of yours, Desmond, she called the police. Hearing of this, you came puffing round to see me, with your waistcoat bursting with pride and your brain addled with all the uncomplimentary fairy-tales that Claud Eustace Teal has told you about me.” “Who said so?” “I did. It’s a sort of clairvoyant gift of mine. But you must listen to the rest of it. You come blowing round here, and wait for me from four o’clock onwards. Pepped up with the idea of scoring a solo triumph, you haven’t said anything to

all rather voluptuous and dreamy, like sinking away in some Elysian hop-joint…Suddenly he felt faintly sick. He sat up, with a tremendous effort. A message was trying to get through to his brain, but it seemed to be muffled in layer after layer of cotton-wool. His chest was labouring, and he could feel his heart pounding at crazy speed. The face of Junior Inspector Pryke stared back at him through a kind of violet haze. Pryke’s chest was heaving also, and his mouth was open: it crossed the

the Saint on the back. “Damn good,” he applauded. “But why ever didn’t you shoot the man when you had the chance? Then everything would have been cleared up.” “Claud Eustace doesn’t like me shooting people,” said the Saint mildly, at which Lord Ripwell guffawed in a manner which removed the last shadow of doubt from Teal’s mind that at least one member of the peerage was in an advanced and malignant stage of senile decay. Teal almost strangled himself. “Apparently both the bombs were planted

hear even while he was talking himself. “Well, I know it’s on the road to Yeovil. I’ve been there often enough.” “Damn it, I was born and brought up in Crewkerne, and I ought to know.” “I’ll bet you a pound you don’t.” “I’ll bet you five pounds you’re talking through your hat.” “Well, you show it to me on a map.” “All right, who’s got a map?” It turned out that none of them had a map. The big unshaven man finished loading his pipe and got up. “Perhaps the landlord’s got a map.” “He

and tip it into the harbour,” said the Saint. If he had expected to cause a sensation with that blunt challenge, he was disappointed. Not one of the men showed any more reaction than if he had shown that he knew the hotel had a thatched roof, and Jeffroll babbled on: “You took her away in your car, and then Garthwait telephoned this morning—” “This is wasting time,” snarled Voss. “Let him do the talking, old man, and if he doesn’t talk we’ll see what we can do to make him.” “I’m waiting for a

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