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.He drained his glass and had just pulled his money from his pocket when hisattention was arrested by the approach of a most luxuriantly developed younglady whose display included things of much greater charm than thecellophane-covered packets in the tray at her waist."Zigaretten?" she said."May I you serve?"Simon handed her a bill and accepted one of the packs."You serve very nicely."Page 37ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html"Thank you, sir," she said, smiling, and moved away.Such an ordinary event would not be worth recount-ing, except that it is withsuch seemingly insignificant encounters that a wait for a plane can turn intoan adven-ture.If the cigarette bunny, in her mammary munificence, had notcome along at just that moment, and if Simon had not turned to witness theoscillatory retreat of her pretty little bottom, made rabbit-like by afascinating caudal appendage somewhat resembling an overgrown powder puff, hewould not have noticed the iron-gray stocky man sitting alone at a table onthe other side of the dance floor.Alone, at least, except for several bunnieswho stood around laughing at some story he was telling.Simon turned back to the bar and said almost absently to the white-jacketedyoung man behind it, "Another of the same, please."It took surprisingly few seconds for him to isolate from the mass of faces inhis memory even so relatively obscure a figure as William Fenton, ex-RoyalNavy, more re-cently with British Intelligence.Simon's previous con-tact withhim had been brief but friendly, and now he had to decide whether he wantedto or ought to renew the acquaintance.There was always the possibility thatFenton was involved incognito in some mission or other, and would notappreciate having his identity heralded all over bunny heaven."Here you are, sir."The bartender was blond and pale-eyed, and more for friendly efficiency thanfor lively conversa-tion, which suited Simon fine.But, thanking him, heno-ticed a sudden change in the man's expression, a shift to new alertness.The gray eyes followed as the Saint could see by glancing into themirror-covered wall the entrance and transit of a dark unattractive individualin a poorly cut suit.The newcomer did what most newcomers to clubs do not do: having entered by thefront door, he went more or less directly to the rear door, an obscure portalshrouded in black velvet, AUSGANG glowing above it, and disappeared behind thecurtains.Even a person less well versed in the ways of the Un-godly than Simon Templarwould have felt some suspi-cion by now that all was not precisely as it shouldbe in this modern Wonderland.The hasty newcomer was no White Rabbit, but hewas most certainly intent on meet-ing some sort of deadline, and he waschoosing a strange route by which to do it.The Saint had already gone beyond suspicion to active calculation.The eyes ofthe bartender became his mir-ror.The Teutonic mixologist had become overlybusy polishing glasses, but his narrowing gaze never left the velvet drapes ofthe exit.When Simon whirled from his stool it was already al-most too late.The dancehad just ended, and the de-parting couples had opened a clear avenue from theexit door to William Fenton's table.Pushing slowly from be-tween the blackcurtains was the blunt snout of a silencer.Until that moment, the wine bunny had inadvertently shielded Fenton.Now shemoved around his table to pour champagne, and there was no time for the Saintto call out a warning.In that space of a precious breath or two which anordinary man would have wasted staring helplessly, Simon acted.A waitress was passing, carrying on her tray a gigantic platter of flamingshish kebab.In one, swift, fluid move-ment, like the blurred attack of ahawk, the Saint leaped forward, snatched up one of the long steel spears,drip-ping blue flame, and hurled it unerringly across the whole width of theroom.Like a blazing arrow it pierced the velvet curtains.A man screamed.Simultaneously the champagne bottle exploded, showering Fenton with foam andglass.In the ensuing pandemonium, as the would-be assas-sin fell forward hopelesslyentangled in smoldering dra-peries, Simon moved through panicking masses tothe wine-drenched table.But there he found no gratefully uninjured WilliamFenton.He found no William Fenton at all which was clearly impossible.So helifted the edge of the tablecloth, stooped, and found himself look-ingPage 38ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlstraight into the unblinking eye of an automatic.It was natural that the Saint's fame as a modern buc-caneer should have madehim vividly remembered by most of those who had had even transient contactwith him.William Fenton hesitated only for a split second."Simon Templar! Of all people to be rescued by."The former naval officer crawled from under the table and put away his weapon."I assume it must have been you who put on the spear-throwing exhibition.""Who else?" drawled the Saint."There's just one infec-tion I couldn't saveyou from, even though you seemed in imminent danger of succumbing.""What's that?" Fenton asked as they made their way past hysterically weepingbunnies to the fallen sniper."Tularemia.""Tularemia?""Rabbit fever [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]