The Saint vs Scotland Yard (23 page)

“The same doubles, obviously,” said the Saint with great
brilliance.

“And just one block away from that house we found a blue
saloon
Hirondel, which the two people I saw would have got
away in if they’d had
time to reach it. The number of it was
ZX1257. Is that the
number of your car?”

The Saint sat up.

“Claud, you’re a blessing in disguise! That certainly is my
car—and I
was thinking I’d lost her! Pinched outside May Fair
only yesterday
afternoon, she was, in broad daylight. I was
meaning to ring up
Vine Street before, but what with one
thing and another ——
”

Teal drew a deep breath—and then he exploded.

“Now would you like to know what I think of your
defence?”
he blurted out, in a boiling gust of righteous wrath.
And he went on
without waiting for encouragement. “I think
it’s the most
weak-kneed tangle of moonshine I’ve ever had to
listen to in my life.
I think it’s so drivelling that if any jury
will listen to it for
ten minutes. I’ll walk right out of the court
and have myself
certified, I’ve got two men who’ll swear to you
on their dying oaths,
and another one to put beside them if he
recovers, and I know what I saw myself and
what the men who
were with me saw; and I
think everything you’ve got to say is
so
maudlin that I’m going to take you straight back to Scot
land Yard with me and have it put in writing before
we lock
you up. I think I’ve landed
you at last, Mr. Saint, and after
what
you said to me this morning I’m damned glad I’ve done
it.”

The Saint took out his cigarette-case and flopped off the table into an
armchair, sprawling one long leg comfortably
over the arm.

“Well, that does express your point of view quite clearly,”
he
conceded. He lighted a cigarette, and looked up brightly.
“Claud,
you’re getting almost fluent in your old age. But
you’ve got to mind you
don’t let your new-found eloquence
run away with you.”

“Oh, have I?” The detective took the bait right down into
his
oesophagus, and clinched his teeth on the line. “Very well.
Then while
all these extraordinary things were being done by
your double—while half
a dozen sober men were seeing you
and listening to you and being beaten
up by you and getting
messages from you—maybe you’ll tell me what you were doing
and who else knows it besides yourself?”

Simon inhaled luxuriously, and smiled.

“Why, sure. As I told you over the phone, I was drinking
beer with
Beppo.”

“And
who’s he?”

“The Duke of Fortezza.”

“Oh
yes?” Teal grew sarcastic. “And where was the King of
Spain and the Prime Minister of Jugoslavia?”

“Blowed if I know,” said the Saint ingenuously. “But
there
were some other distinguished people present. The Count of
Montalano,
and Prince Marco d’Ombria, and the Italian Am
bassador——
”

“The Italian
what?”

“Ambassador. You know. Gent with top hat and spats.”

“And
where was this?”

“At the Italian Embassy. It was just a little private party,
but it
went on for a long time. We started about midnight, and didn’t break up till
half-past four—I hadn’t been home
two minutes when you phoned.”

Teal almost choked.

“What sort of bluff are you trying to pull on me now?” he
demanded.
“Have you got hold of the idea that I’ve gone
dotty? Are you sitting
there believing that I’ll soak up that
story, along with
everything else you’ve told me, and just go
home and ask no
questions?” Teal snorted savagely. “You must
have gone daft!”
he blared.

The Saint came slowly out of his chair. He posed himself
before the
detective, feet astraddle, his left hand on his hip,
loose-limbed and
smiling and dangerous; and the long dicta
torial forefinger
which Teal had seen and hated before drove a
straight and
peremptory line into the third button of the
detective’s
waistcoat.

“And now you listen to me again, Claud,” said the Saint
waspily.
“Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for?”

“Do I know what I’m——
”

“Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for? You burst
into my
house and make wild accusations against me. You
shout at me, you
bully me, you tell me I’m either lying or
dippy, and you
threaten to arrest me. I’m very sensitive,
Claud,” said the
Saint, “and you hurt me. You hurt me so much that I’ve a damned good mind
to let you run me in—
and then, when you’d put the rope right round
your own neck
and drawn it up as tight as it’d go, I’d pull down such a
schemozzle around your bat ears that you’d want nothing more in life than
to hand in your resignation and get away to some
forgotten corner of
earth where they’ve never seen a newspaper
. That’s what’s coming
your way so fast that you’re going to
have to jump like a kangaroo to get
from under it. It’s only
because I’m of a godly and forgiving disposition,” said the
Saint
virtuously, “that I’m giving you
a chance to save your skin. I’m
going
to let you verify my alibi before you arrest me, instead
of having it fed into you with a stomach-pump
afterwards; and then you are going to apologise to me and go home,” said
the
Saint.

He picked up a telephone directory, found a place, and
thrust the
book under Teal’s oscillating eyes.

“There’s the number,” he said. “Mayfair three two three O.
Check it up for yourself now, and save yourself the trouble of
telling me
I’m just ringing up an accomplice.”

He left the detective blinking at the volume, and went to the telephone.

Teal read off the number, put down the book, and pulled at
his
collar.

Once again the situation had passed out of his control. He
gazed at
the Saint purply, and the beginnings of a despondent
weariness pouched up
under his eyes. It was starting to be
borne in upon him, with a preposterous
certitude, that he had
just been listening to something more than
bluff. And the
irony of it made him want to burst into tears. It was
unfair. It
was brutal. It outraged every cannon of logic and
justice. He
knew his case was watertight, knew that against the
evidence
he could put into a witness-box there could simply be no
human way
of escape—he could have sworn it on the rack,
and would have gone
to his death still swearing it. And he
knew that it wasn’t
going to work.

Through a haze of almost homicidal futility, he heard the
Saint
speaking.

“Oh, is that you, Signor Ravelli? … Simon Templar speaking.
Listen: there’s some weird eruption going on in the brains
of Scotland
Yard. Some crime or other was committed some
where tonight, and
for some blithering reason they seem to
think I was mixed up
in it. I’m sorry to have to stop you
on your way to bed, but a fat
policeman has just barged in
here——”

“Give me that telephone!” snarled Teal.

He snatched the instrument away and rammed the receiver
against
his ear.

“Hullo!” he barked. “This is Chief Inspector Teal,
Criminal
Investigation Department, speaking. I have every reason to
believe that this man Templar was concerned in a murder
which took
place in Hampstead shortly after four o’clock this
morning. He’s tried
to tell me some cock-and-bull story about
… What? … But
damn it
…
I beg your pardon, sir,
but I definitely know
… From twelve o’clock till half-past
four? … But …
But … But oh, hell, I
…
No, sir, I
said … But he
…
Who?
…”

The diaphragm of the receiver clacked and chattered and
Teal’s
round red face sagged sickly.

And then:

“All right, sir. Thank you very much, sir,” he said in a
strangled voice, and slammed the microphone back on its
bracket.

The Saint smoothed his hair.

“We might get on to Beppo next,” he suggested hopefully.
“He’s
staying at the Berkeley. Then you can have a word with
Prince d’Ombria ——
”

“Can I?” Teal had eaten wormwood, and his voice was thick
and raw
with the bitterness of it. “Well, I haven’t got time. I
know when
I’m licked. I know where I am when half a dozen
princes and
ambassadors will go into the witness-box and
swear that you’re
chasing them round the equator at the very
moment when I know
that I’m talking to you here in this
room. I don’t even ask how you worked
it. I expect you rang
up the President of the United States and got
him to fix it for
you. But I’ll be seeing you another time—don’t
worry.”

He hitched his coat round, and grabbed up his hat.

“Bye-bye,” sang the Saint.

“And you remember this,” Teal gulped out. “I’m not
through
with you yet. You’re not going to sit back on your
laurels. You wouldn’t.
And that’s what’s going to be the finish
of you. You’ll be up
to something else soon enough—and
maybe you won’t have the entire Italian
Diplomatic Service
primed to lie you out of it next time. From this minute,
you’re
not even going to blow your nose without I know it. I’ll have
you
watched closer than the Crown Jewels, and the next mis
take you make is
going to be the last.”

“Cheerio, dear heart,” said the Saint, and heard the vicious
bang of the front door before he sank back into his chair in
hysterics of helpless laughter.

But the epilogue of that story was not written until some
weeks
later, when a registered packet bearing an Italian post
mark was delivered at No. 7,
Upper Berkeley Mews.
Simon opened it after
breakfast.

First came a smaller envelope, which contained a draft on
the Bank
of Italy for a sum whose proportions made even
Simon Templar blink.

And then he took out a small shagreen case, and turned it
over
curiously. He pressed his thumb-nail into the little spring
catch, and
the lid flew up and left him staring.
Patricia put a hand on his shoulder.
“What
is it?” she asked, and the Saint looked at her.
“It’s the
medallion of the Order of the Annunziata—and I
think we shall both
have to have new hats on this,” he said.

PART III

The Melancholy Journey of
Mr. Teal

Chapter I

Now there was a day when the Saint went quite mad.

Of course, one might with considerable justification say that
he always
had been mad, anyway, so that the metamorphosis suggested by that first
sentence would be difficult for the ordi
nary observer to
discover. Patricia Holm said so, quite defi
nitely; and the Saint
only smiled.

“Neverwithstanding,” he said, “I am convinced that the
season is ripe for Isadore to make his contribution to our bank
balance.”

“You must be potty,” said his lady, for the second time; and
the Saint
nodded blandly.

“I am. That was the everlasting fact with which we started
the day’s
philosophy and meditation. If you remember——
”

Patricia looked at the calendar on the
wall, and her sweet
lips came
together an the obstinate little line that her man
knew so well.

“Exactly six months ago,” she said, “Teal was in here
giving
such a slick imitation of the sorest man on earth that anyone
might have
thought it was no impersonation at all. Two of his
best men have been
hanging around outside for twenty-four
hours a day ever
since. They’re out there now. If you think six
months is as far as
his memory will go——
”