The gunman started to move to one side, peering blindly into the dark. He bumped into a standard lamp and set it rattling.
That was the only sound he heard before an arm slid around his neck from behind and a row of steel fingers clamped on his right hand and bent it inwards to within a millimeter of breaking his wrist. His hand opened involuntarily and the gun dropped on the carpet. Simon located it with his toe and put his foot on it.
“Okay, Pat,” he said. “I’ve got him.”
The lights went on again.
“Nice work,” said the Saint. “You read all the right stories.”
He released his pressure on the gunman’s larynx before suffocation had seriously set in, pushed the man away, and picked up the gun.
“Now, chum,” he said, “where did you say we were going?”
The man rubbed his wrists tenderly and glanced at him without answering.
The first vague impression of familiarity that Simon had felt began to come into focus.
“On second thoughts, you needn’t bother,” said the Saint. “I know where I’ve seen you before. At the Blue Paradise. You’re one of Rick Lansing’s boys.”