The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Meet Miss Murder

The Saint stood there amazed. The two musclemen at her side didn't bother him at all, but her face and that softly rounded body stopped him cold. So this was Jill Trelawney, England's most notorious criminal!

His own poker face showed nothing of the fear inside him. Not because of the risk of violence or brutality from the men but because of the woman.

The results of this meeting lead to high adventure as the Saint joins forces with Europe's most dangerous and voluptuous criminal—in a plan that was to rock England to the inner circles of Scotland Yard!

 

THE SAINT

MEETS HIS MATCH

(Original title, "Angels Of Doom")

 

By    Leslie    Charteris

 

 

 

 

 

COMPLETE  AND   UNABRIDGED

 

 

AVON    PUBLISHING   CO.,  INC.

575 Madison Ave.—New York 22

 

ANGELS OF DOOM

Copyright, 1931, 1932, by Leslie Charteris

Avon Edition

First Printing                         December,1952

 

 

 

 

 

 

TO

HUGH CLEVELY

 

    Published by arrangement with Doubleday and Co., Inc.

Printed in U.S.A.

 

Chapter I

HOW SIMON TEMPLAR MET JILL TRELAWNEY,

AND THERE WERE SKYLARKING AND

SONG IN BELGRAVE STREET

 

THE big car had been sliding through the night like a great black slug with wide, flaming eyes that seared the road and carved a blazing tunnel of light through the darkness under the over-arching trees; and then the eyes were suddenly blinded, and the smooth pace of the slug grew slower and slower until it groped itself to a shadowy standstill under the hedge.

The man who had watched its approach, sitting under a tree, with the glowing end of his cigarette carefully shielded in his cupped hands, stretched silently to his feet. The car had stopped only a few yards from him, as he had expected. He stooped and trod his cigarette into the grass and came down to the road without a sound. There was no sound at all except the murmur of leaves in the night air, for the subdued hiss of the car's eight cylinders had ceased.

Momentarily, inside the car, a match flared up, reveal­ing everything there with a startling clearness.

The rich crimson upholstery, the handful of perfect roses in the crystal bracket, the gleaming silver fittings— those might have been imagined from the exterior. So also, perhaps, might have been imagined the man with the battered face who wore a chauffeur's livery; or the rather vacantly good-looking man who sat alone in the back, with his light overcoat swept back from his spotless white shirt front, and his silk hat on the seat beside him. Or, perhaps, the girl. . . .

Or perhaps not the girl.