Brighter Buccaneer (27 page)

“Well?”

The interrogation broke from the detective’s mouth with a curt bluntness that was as self-explanatory as a cannonball. The Saint’s eyebrows flickered.

“This,” he murmured, with the air of a Cook’s guide conducting a tour, “is Mr. Julian Lamantia, who recently revived the ancient game of inviting suckers to —”

“I know all that,” said Teal thuddingly. “That’s what I came here about. What I want to know is why you’re here.”

Simon’s brow puckered.

“But did you really know all about it? Why, I thought I was doing you a good turn. In the course of my private and philanthropic investigations I happened to learn that the affairs of Julian were not all that they might be, so in order to protect his clients without risking a libel action I decided to have him watched. And this very morning my energetic agents informed me that he had drawn all the J. L. Investment Bureau’s capital out of the bank and was preparing to skip with the simoleons-I mean abscond with the cash.”

“Go on,” said Teal dourly. “It sounds interesting.”

The Saint hitched one leg onto the table, and drew appreciatively on Mr. Lamantia’s cigar.

“It is interesting, Claud. We also learned that Julian was catching a boat train at two-thirty, so our time was limited. The only thing seemed to be for us to toddle along and grab him before he slipped away, and phone you to come over and collect him as soon as we had him trussed. I admit it may have been a bit rash of us to take the law into our own hands like that; but you must have a spot of excitement now and again in these dull days, and we were thinking of nothing but the public weal.”

“And what have you got in that bag?”

“This?” Simon glanced down. “This contains the aforesaid simoleons, or mazuma. We were going to take it downstairs and ask the manager to stow it away in his safe till you arrived.”

Mr. Teal took the bag from the Saint’s hand and opened it. He sniffed, reminding himself of the Assistant Commissioner.

“That’s a great story,” he said.

“It’s a swell story,” said the Saint quietly. “And it’ll keep the Home Office guessing for a while. Remember that I’m a reformed character now, so far as the public are concerned, and any nasty suspicions you may have are like the flowers that bloom in the spring. They have nothing to do with the case My reputation is as pure as the driven snow. Perhaps, as I admitted, we have been rash. The magistrate might rebuke me. He might even be rude.” The Saint sighed. “Well, Claud, if you feel you must expose me to that tragic humiliation-if you must let the newspapers tell of the magistrate’s severe criticism —”

“I don’t want to hear any more of that,” barked the detective.

“Just a word-picture,” explained the Saint apologetically.

Teal bit down forcefully on his chewing gum. He knew that the Saint was right-knew that the last useful word on the subject had been uttered-and the clear blue mocking eyes of the smiling Saint told him that Simon Templar also knew. The knowledge went down into Teal’s stomach like gall, but in the days gone by he had learned a certain fatalistic wisdom.

And’ this time, for the first time in their long duel, the honours were fairly even.

“If you’re quite satisfied,” murmured the Saint persuasively, “Peter and I have a date for lunch with a beautiful lady.”

“That’s your own business,” said Mr. Teal with all the restraint of which he was capable.

He turned his broad back on them and moved over to the bed, where his assistant was wrestling with the knots that held the empurpled Mr. Lamantia; and Simon winked at Peter Quentin and removed himself from the table. They Sauntered unopposed to the door; and from there, without a shadow on his face, Simon turned back for his irrepressibly gay farewell. “Send my medal along in the mail, Claud,” he said.

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