13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

He was a large fleshy man, with one of those fleshy faces which look as if their owner had at some time invited God to strike him pink, and had found his prayer instantaneously answered. Simon Templar, who did not like large fleshy men with fleshy pink faces, smiled under his mask.

"So far, we haven't done very much," he said. "But we're going to do plenty."

The quietness of his voice struck Flager with a sudden chill, and instinctively he huddled inside his clothes. Some­thing else struck him as unusual even as he did so, and in another moment he realised what it was. Above the waist, he had no clothes on at all—the whole of his soft white torso was exposed to the inclemency of the air.

The Saint smiled again.

"Start the machine, Peter," he ordered; and Flager saw that the chauffeur who had driven the car was also there, and that he was similarly masked.

A switch clicked over, and darkness descended on the garage. Then a second switch clicked, and the white screen in front of the truck's bonnet lighted up with a low whirring sound. Bewildered but afraid, Flager looked up and saw a free moving picture show.

The picture was of a road at night, and it unrolled to­wards him as if it had been photographed from behind the headlights of a car that was rushing over it. From time to time, corners, cross-roads, and the lights of other traffic pro­ceeding in both direction swept up towards him—the illusion that he was driving the lorry in which he sat over that road was almost perfect.

"What's this for?" he croaked.

"You're taking the place of one of your own drivers for the week-end," answered the Saint. "We should have preferred to do it out on the road under normal working conditions, but I'm afraid you would have made too much noise. This is the best substitute we were able to arrange, and I think it'll work all right. Do you know what it is?"

Flager shook his head.

"I don't care what it is! Listen here, you    "

"It's a gadget for testing people's ability to drive," said the Saint smoothly. "When I turn another switch, the steer­ing wheel you have there will be synchronised with the film. You will then be driving over the road yourself. So long as you keep on the road and don't try to run into the other traffic, everything will be all right. But directly you make a movement that would have taken you off the road or crashed you into another car—or a cyclist, brother—the film will stop for a moment, a red light will light up on top of the screen, and I shall wake you up like this."

Something swished through the air, and a broad stinging piece of leather which felt like a razor strop fell resound­ingly across Sir Melvin's well-padded shoulders.

Flager gave a yelp of anguish; and the Saint laughed softly.

"We'll start right away," he said. "You know the rules and you know the penalties—the rules are only the same as your own employees have to obey,  and the penalties are really much less severe. Wake up, Flager—you're off!"

The third switch snapped into place, and Flager grabbed blindly at the steering wheel.  Almost at once the picture faltered, and a red light glowed on top of the screen.

Smack! came the leather strap across his shoulders.

"Damn you!" bellowed Flager. "What are you doing this for?"

"Partly for fun," said the Saint. "Look out—you're going to hit that car!"

Flager did hit it, and the strop whistled through the dark­ness and curled over his back. This shriek tortured the echoes; but Simon was without mercy.

"You'll be in the ditch in a minute," he said. "No. . . . Here comes a corner. . . . Watch it! . . . Nicely round, brother, nicely round. Now mind you don't run into the back of this cart—you've got plenty of room to pass. . . . Stick to it. ... Don't hit the cyclist. . . . You're going to hit him. . . . Mind the fence—you're heading straight for it —look out. . . . Look out!"

The strap whacked down again with a strong and willing arm behind it as the red light sprang up again.

Squealing like a stuck pig, Sir Melvin Flager tore the lorry back on to its course.

"How long are you keeping this up for?" he sobbed. "Until Monday morning," said the Saint calmly. "And I wish it could be a month. I've never seen a more responsive posterior than you have. Mind the cyclist."

"But you're making me drive too fast!" Flager almost screamed. "Can't you slow the machine up a bit?"

"We have to average over thirty miles an hour," answered the Saint remorselessly. "Look out!"

Sir Melvin Flager passed into a nightmare that was worse than anything he had thought of when he first opened his eyes. The mechanical device which he was strapped to was not quite the same as the cars he was used to; and Simon Templar himself would have been ready to admit that it might be more difficult to drive. Time after time the relent­less leather lashed across his shouder-blades, and each time it made contact he let loose a howl of pain which in itself was a reward to his tormentors.