The Saint vs Scotland Yard (17 page)

“I am the proud possessor of a Clue, and I’m going to be
very busy
tying a knot in its tail. Also I have an ambition to
be humorous, and that
will mean that I’ve got to push round to a shop I know of and purchase one of
those mechanical
jokes that are said to create roars of laughter. I’ve
been remem
bering my younger days, and they’ve brought back to me the
very thing I need… . And here we are.”

The cab had stopped at its destination, and they got out.
Patricia
hesitated in the doorway.
“When will you be back?” she asked.

“I shall be along for dinner about eight,” said the Saint.
“Meanwhile,
you’ll be able to get acquainted with Beppo.
Really, you’ll find
him quite human. Prattle gently to him,
and he’ll eat out of
your hand. When he’s stronger, you might
even be allowed to
sing to him—I’ll ask the doctor about that
tomorrow.
…
So long,
lass!”

And the Saint was gone.

And he did exactly what he had said he was going to do. He
went to a
shop in Regent Street and bought a little toy and
took it back with him
to Upper Berkeley Mews; and a certain
alteration which he made to its inner
functionings kept him
busy for some time and afforded him
considerable amusement.

For he had not the slightest doubt that there was going to
be fun and
games before the next dawn. The incident of those
lemon-coloured gloves
was a distinct encouragement. It showed
a certain thoroughness
on the part of the opposition, and that
sort of thing always
gave the Saint great pleasure.

“If one glove doesn’t work, the other is expected to oblige,”
he figured
it out, as he popped studs into a snowy white dress
shirt. “And it
would be a pity to disappoint anyone.”

He elaborated this latter idea to Patricia Holm when he
rejoined
her at the Berkeley, having shaken off his official
watcher again by
Method Three. Before he left, he told her
nearly everything.

“At midnight, all the dreams of the ungodly are coming
true,”
he said. “Picture to yourself the scene. It will be the witching hour. The
menace of dark deeds will veil the stars.
And up the heights of
Hampstead will come toiling the pitiful figure of the unsuspecting victim, with
his bleary eyes bulging
and his mouth hanging open and the green moss
sprouting
behind his ears; and that will be Little Boy …”

Chapter V

Some men enjoy trouble; others just as definitely don’t.
And there
are some who enjoy dreaming about the things they
would do if they only
dared-—but they need not concern us.

Simon Templar came into Category A—straight and slick,
with his
name in a panel all to itself, and a full stop just
where it hits
hardest.

For there is a price ticket on everything that puts a whizz
into life,
and adventure follows the rule. It’s distressing, but
there you are. If
there was no competition, everything would
be quite all right.
If you could be certain that you were the
strongest man in the
world, the most quick-witted, the most cunning, the most keen-sighted, the most
vigilant, and simulta
neously the possessor of the one and only
lethal weapon in the
whole wide universe, there wouldn’t be much
difficulty about
it. You would just step out of your hutch and hammer the
first
thing that came along.

But it doesn’t always pan out like that in practice. When
you try the medicine on the
dog, you are apt to discover some
violent
reactions which were not arranged for in the prescrip
tion. And then, when the guns give tongue and a
spot of fur
begins to fly, you are
liable to arrive at the sudden and soul-shattering realisation that a couple of
ounces of lead travelling with a given velocity will make precisely as deep an
impression
on your anatomical system
as they will on that of the next
man.

Which monumental fact the Saint had thoroughly digested a few days after
mastering his alphabet. And the effect it had
registered upon his
unweaned peace of mind had been so near
to absolute zero that
a hair-line could not have been drawn
between them—neither on the day of the
discovery nor on any
subsequent day in all his life.

In theory …

In theory, of course, he allowed the artillery to pop, and the
fur to
become volatile, without permitting a single lock of his
own sleek
dark hair to aberrate from the patent-leather disci
pline in which he
disposed it; and thereby he became the
Saint. But it is
perfectly possible to appreciate and acknowl
edge the penetrating
unpleasantness of high-velocity lead, and
forthwith to adopt a
debonairly philosophical attitude towards
the same, without
being in a tearing hurry to offer your own
carcase for the
purpose of practical demonstration; this also
the Saint did, and by
doing it with meticulous attention con
trived to be spoken of
in the present tense for many years
longer than the most optimistic
insurance broker would have
backed him to achieve.

All of which has not a little to do with 85, Vandemeer
Avenue,
Hampstead.

Down this road strolled the Saint, his hands deep in the
pockets
of knife-edged trousers, the crook of his walking-stick
hooked
over his left wrist, and slanting sidelong over his right
eye a
filbustering black felt hat which alone was something very like a breach of the
peace. A little song rollicked on his
lips, and was inaudible two yards away.
And as he walked, his
lazy eyes absorbed every interesting item of
the scenery.

“Aspidistra, little herb,
Do you think it silly
When the botaniser’s blurb
Links you with the lily?”

Up in one window of the house, he caught the almost
imperceptible
sway of a shifting curtain, and knew that his
approach had already
been observed. “But it is nice,” thought
the Saint, “to be
expected.” And he sauntered on.

“Up above your window-ledge
Streatham stars are gleaming:
Aspidistra, little veg,
Does your soul go dreaming?”

A low iron gate opened from the road. He pushed it wide
with his
foot, and went up the steps to the porch. Beside the
door was a bell-push
set in a panel of polished brass tracery.

The Saint’s fingers moved towards it … and travelled
back
again. He stooped and examined the filigree more closely, and a little smile
lightened his face.

Then he cuddled himself into the extreme houseward corner
of the
porch, held his hat over the panel, and pressed the
button with the
ferrule of his stick. He heard a faint hiss, and
turned his hat back
to the light of a street lamp. A stained
splinter of wood
quivered in the white satin lining of the
crown; and the
Saint’s smile became blindingly seraphic as he
reached into a side
pocket of his jacket for a pair of tweez
ers.
…

And then the door was opening slowly.

Deep in his angle of shadow, he watched the strip of yellow
light
widening across the porch and down the short flagged
passage to the gate.
The silhouette of a man loomed into it
and stood motionless
for a while behind the threshold.

Then it stepped out into full view—a big, heavy-shouldered close-cropped
man, with thick bunched fists hanging loosely at
his sides. He peered
outwards down the shaft of light, and
then to right and left, his battered
face creasing to the strain
of probing the darkness of either side. The
Saint’s white shirt-front caught his eye, and he licked his lips and spoke like
an
automaton.

“Comin’ in?”

“Behind you, brother,” said the Saint.

He stepped across the light, taking the bruiser by the elbows
and
spinning him adroitly round. They entered the house in
the order of his own
arrangement, and Simon kicked the door
shut behind him.

There was no machine-gun at the far end of the hall, as he
had half
expected; but the Saint was unashamed.

“Windy?” sneered the bruiser, as the Saint released him; and
Simon
smiled.

“Never since taking soda-mint,” he murmured. “Where do
we go
from here?”

The bruiser glanced sideways, jerking his head.

“Upstairs.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Simon slanted a cigarette into his mouth and followed the
glance. His
eyes waved up the banisters and down the separate
steps of the
stairway.

“After you again,” he drawled. “Just to be certain.”

The bruiser led the way, and Simon followed discreetly.
They
arrived in procession at the upper landing, where a
second bruiser, a
trifle shorter than the first, but even heavier of shoulder, lounged beside an
open door with an unlighted
stump of cigar in his mouth.

The second man gestured with his lower jaw and the cigar.

“In there.”

“Thanks,” said the Saint.

He paused for a moment in the doorway and surveyed the room, one hand
ostentatiously remaining in the pocket of his
coat.

Facing him, in the centre of the rich brown carpet, was a
broad
flat-topped desk. It harmonised with the solid simplicity
of the
book-cases that broke the panelling of the bare walls, and with the long
austere lines of the velvet hangings that
covered the windows—even,
perhaps, with the squat square
materialism of the safe that stood in the
corner behind it. And
on the far side of the desk sat the man whom
the Saint had
come to see, leaning forward out of a straight-backed oak
chair.

Simon moved forward, and the two bruisers closed the door
and ranged
themselves on either side of him.

“Good evening, Kuzela,” said the Saint.

“Good evening, Mr. Templar.” The man behind the desk
moved one
white hand. “Sit down.”

Simon looked at the chair that had been placed ready for
him. Then
he turned, and took one of the bruisers by the
lapels of his coat.
He shot the man into the chair, bounced
him up and down a
couple of times, swung him from side to
side, and yanked him
out again.

“Just to make
quite
certain,” said the Saint sweetly.
He
beamed upon the glowering pugilist, felt his biceps, and
patted him
encouragingly on the shoulder. “You’ll be a big
man when you grow up,
Cuthbert,” he said affably.

Then he moved the chair a yard to one side and sat in it
himself.

“I’m sure you’ll excuse all these formalities,” he remarked
conversationally. “I have to be so careful these days. The most
extraordinary
things happen to me. Only the other day, a
large spotted
hypotenuse, overtaking on the wrong side——
”

“I have
already observed that you possess a well-developed
instinct of self-preservation, Mr. Templar,” said Kuzela
suavely.

He clasped his well-kept hands on the blotter before him,
and studied
the Saint interestedly.

Simon returned the compliment.

He saw a man in healthy middle age, broad-shouldered and
strongly
built. A high, firmly modelled forehead rose into a receding setting of clipped
iron-grey hair. With his square jaw and slightly aquiline nose, he might have
posed for a symboli
cal portrait of any successful business man. Only his eyes
might have betrayed the imposture. Pale blue, deep-set, and unwinking,
they levelled themselves upon the object of their
scrutiny in a feline
stare of utter ruthlessness… . And the
Saint looked into the
blue eyes and laughed.