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.Sheridan got a match to his cigarette."Well?" prompted the Saint."I think you're pots, bats, and bees," he said."But if you're set on thatkind of suicide-lead on.Archibald will be at your elbow with the bombs.Youdidn't forget the bombs?"The Saint grinned."I had to leave them behind," he replied lightly."They wouldn't fit into mysponge bag.Seriously, now, where and how do you think we should start thetrouble?"They were sitting opposite one another at Sheridan's bare mahogany diningtable, and at the Saint's back was the open door leading out onto the verandaand commanding an uninterrupted view of the approach to the bungalow."Start the thing here and now and anyhow you like," said Sheridan, and he waslooking past the Saint's shoulder towards the veranda steps.Simon Templar settled back a little more lazily into his chair, and a verySaintly meekness was spreading over his face."Name?" he inquired laconically."Shannet himself."The Saint's eyes were half closed."I will compose a little song about him immediately," he said.Then a shadow fell across the table, but the Saint did not move at once.Heappeared to be lost in a day-dream."Buenos dias, Shannet," said Archie Sheridan."Also, as soon as possible,adios.Hurry up and say what you've got to say before I kick you out.""I'll do any kicking out that's necessary, thanks," said Shannet harshly."Sheridan, I've come to warn you off for the last time.The Andalusia berthedPage 49 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlthis morning, and she sails again on the evening tide.You've been nosingaround here too long as it is.Is that plain enough?""Plainer than your ugly face," drawled Sheridan."And by what right do youkick me out? Been elected President, have you?""You know me," said Shannet."You know that what I say here goes.You'll sailon the Andalusia-either voluntarily or because you're put on board in irons.That's all.What's this?"The Saint, perceiving himself to be the person thus referred to, awokesufficiently to open his eyes and screw his head round so that he could viewthe visitor.He saw a tall, broad-shouldered man of indeterminate age, clad in a soiledwhite suit of which the coat was unbuttoned to expose a grubby singlet.Shannet had certainly not shaved for two days; and he did not appear to havebrushed his hair for a like period, for a damp, sandy lock drooped in a tangleover his right eye.In one corner of his mouth a limp and dilapidatedcigarette dangled tiredly from his lower lip.The Saint blinked."Gawd!" he said offensively."Can it be human?"Shannet's fists swept back his coat and rested on his hips."What's your name, Cissy?" he demanded.The Saint flicked some ash from his cigarette and rose to his feet delicately."Benito Mussolini," he answered mildly."And you must be one of thecorporation scavengers.How's the trade in garbage?" His gentle eyes sweptShannet from crown to toe."Archie, there must have been some mistake.Thereal scavenger has gone sick, and one of his riper pieces of refuse isdeputizing for him.I'm sorry.""If you--""I said I was sorry," the Saint continued, in the same smooth voice, "becauseI'm usually very particular about the people I fight, and I hate soiling myhands on things like you."Shannet glowered."I don't know who you are," he said, "and I don't care.But if you're lookingfor a fight you can have it.""I am looking for a fight, dear one," drawled the Saint."In fact, I'm lookingfor a lot of fights, and you're the first one that's offered.'Cissy' is aname I particularly object to being called, O misbegotten of a pig!"The last words were spoken in colloquial Spanish, and the Saint made more ofthem than it is possible to report in printable English.Shannet went white,then red."You--"His answering stream of profanity merged into a left swing to the Saint's jaw,which, if it had landed, would have ended the fight there and then.But it didPage 50 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlnot land.Simon Templar swayed back, and the swing missed by a couple of inches.AsShannet stumbled, momentarily off his balance, the Saint reached round andtook the jug of ice water off the table behind him.Without any appearance ofeffort or haste, he sidestepped and poured most of the contents of the jugdown the back of Shannet's neck.Shannet swung again.The Saint ducked, and sent the man flying with a smashingjab to the nose."Look out, Saint!" Sheridan warned suddenly."Naughty!" murmured the Saint, without heat.Shannet was getting to his feet, and his right hand was drawing something fromhis hip pocket.The Saint took two steps and a flying leap over Shannet's head, turning in theair as he did so.Shannet had only got to his knees when the Saint landedbehind him and caught his opponent's throat and right wrist in hands that hadthe strength of steel cables in their fingers.Shannet's wrist was twistedbehind his back with an irresistible wrench.The gun cluttered to the floor simultaneously with Shannet's yelp of agony,and the Saint picked up the gun and stepped away."A trophy, Archie!" he cried, and tossed the weapon over to Sheridan."Guns Ihave not quite been shot with-there must be a drawer full of them at home.Let's start, sweet Shannet!"Shannet replied with a chair, but the Saint was ten feet away by the time itcrashed into the opposite wall.Then Shannet came in again with his fists.Any one of those whirling blowscarried a kick that would have put a mule to sleep, but the Saint hadforgotten more about ringcraft than many professionals ever learn.Shannetnever came near touching him.Every rush Shannet made, somehow, expendeditself on thin air, while he always seemed to be running his face slap intothe Saint's stabbing left."Want a rest?" the Saint asked kindly
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