The Saint vs Scotland Yard (The Holy Terror) Read online

  And it was while he was there that he saw a strange sight.

  The first manifestation of it did not impress him immedi­ately. It was simply a scrap of white that went drifting past the window. His eyes followed it abstractedly, and then reverted to their gloomy concentration on the scenery. Then two more scraps of white flittered past his nose, and a second later he saw a spread of red stuff fluttering feebly on the wire fence beside the line.

  The Saint frowned, and watched more attentively. And a perfect cataract of whatnots began to aviate past his eyes and distribute themselves about the route. Big whatnots and little whatnots, in divers formations and half the colours of the rainbow, went wafting by the window and scattered over the fields and hedges. A mass of green taffeta flapped past, looking like a bilious vulture after an argument with a steam hammer, and was closely followed by a jaundiced cotton seagull that seemed to have suffered a similar experience. A covey of miscel­laneous bits and pieces drove by in hot pursuit. No less than eight palpitating banners of assorted hues curvetted down the breeze and perched on railings and telegraph poles by the wayside. It went on until the entire landscape seemed to be littered with the loot of all the emporia of Knightsbridge and the Brompton Road.

  And suddenly the meaning of it flashed upon the Saint—so suddenly and lucidly that he threw back his head and bowed before a gust of helpless mirth.

  He spun round to the door beside him. He had made sure that it was locked, but he must have been mistaken. He heaved his shoulder at it, and it burst open—-it had been temporarily secured with a gimlet, as he discovered later. But at that moment he was not curious about that. He hadn't a doubt in his head that his latest and most sudden inspiration was right, and he knew exactly what he was going to do about it.

  Five minutes later, after a brief interlude for wash and brush-up purposes, he was careering blissfully back along the corridor on one of the most supremely joyous journeys of his life.

  At the compartment at which Perrigo had been, he stopped, and opened the door.

  "Miss Lovedew," he said pensively, and again the impetigi­nous female looked up and acknowledged the charge, "Is your luggage insured?"

  "Of course," said the woman. "Why?"

  "You should begin making out your claim immediately," said the Saint.

  The woman stared.

  "I don't understand you. What's happened? Are you one of the company's servants?"

  "I am the head cook and bottle-washer," said the Saint gravely, "and I did not like your red flannel nighties."

  He closed the door again and passed on, carolling hilar­iously to himself, and leaving the lady to suffer from as­tounded fury as well as acne.

  In the Pullman he found Patricia gazing disconsolately in front of her. Her face lighted up as he arrived.

  "Did you find him?"

  Simon sat down.

  "What luck did you have?"

  "Just sweet damn-all," said the girl wryly. "I've been over my part of the train four times, and I wouldn't have missed Perrigo if he'd disguised himself as a mosquito."

  "I am inspired," said the Saint.

  He took the wine list and his pencil, and wrote rapidly. Then he held up the sheet and read:

  "The mountains shook, the thunders came,

  The very heavens wept for shame;

  A Gigsworth in a white chemise

  Visibly vortexed at the knees,

  While Dan's defection turned quite giddy

  The ghost of Ancestor Dinwiddie.

  If Dan had been a common cad

  It wouldn't have been half so bad;

  If he had merely robbed a bank,

  Or floated companies that sank,

  Or, with a piece of sharp bamboo,

  Bashfully bumped off Mrs. Glue;

  They might have understood his whim

  And, in the end, forgiven him:

  Such things, though odd, have now and then

  Been done by perfect gentlemen;

  But Daniel's foul iniquity

  Could hardly have been worse if he

  Had bought (or so it seemed to them)

  A chocolate after 9 p.m."

  Patricia smiled.

  "Will you always be mad?" she asked.

  "Until the day I die, please God," said the Saint.

  "But if you didn't find Perrigo——"

  "But I did find him!"

  The girl gasped.

  "You found him?"

  Simon nodded; and she saw then that his eyes were laughing.

  "I did. He was in the luggage van at the end, heaving mentionables and unmentionables out of a wardrobe trunk. And just for the glory of it, Pat, the trunk was labelled with the immortal name of Lovedew—I found that out afterwards and tried to break the news to her, but I don't think she believed me. Anyway, I whaled into him, and there was a breezy exchange of pleasantries. And the long and the short of

  "That Perrigo is locked up in that trunk, just where he wanted to be; but there's an entirely new set of labels on it that are going to cause no small stir on board the Berengaria if Claud Eustace arrives in time. Which I expect he will— Isadore is almost certain to have squealed. And all we've got to do is wait for the orchestra to tune up." Simon looked at his watch. "There's half an hour to go yet, old Pat, and I think we might stand ourselves a bottle!"

  Chapter X

  A clock was booming the half-hour after twelve when Chief Inspector Teal climbed stiffly out of his special police car at the gates of the Ocean Dock. It had been half-past ten when he left Albany Street Police Station, and that single chime indicated that the Flying Squad driver had made a very creditable run of it from London to Southampton.

  For Isadore Elberman had duly squealed, as the Saint had expected, and it had been no mean squeal. Considerably stewed down after a sleepless night in the cells, he had reiter­ated to the Divisional Inspector the story with which he had failed to gain Teal's ear the evening before; and the tale had come through with a wealth of embellishments in the way of circumstantial detail that had made the Inspector reach hastily for the telephone and call for Mr. Teal to lend his personal patronage to the squeak.

  Isadora Elberman was not the only member of the cast who had spent a sleepless night. Teal had been waiting on the doorstep of his bank when it opened in the morning. He asked casually for his balance, and in a few minutes the cashier passed a slip of paper across the counter. It showed exactly one thousand eight hundred pounds more to his credit than it should have done, and he had no need to make further inquir­ies. He took a taxi from the bank to Upper Berkeley Mews; but a prolonged assault on the front door elicited no response, and the relief watcher told him that Templar and the girl had gone out at nine-thirty and had not returned. Teal went back to New Scotland Yard, and it was there that the call from Albany Street found him.

  And on the way down to Southampton the different frag­ments of the jigsaw in which he had involved himself had fitted themselves together in his head, dovetailing neatly into one another without a gap or a protuberance anywhere, and producing a shape with one coherent outline and a sickeningly simple picture lithographed upon it in three colours. So far as the raw stark facts of the case were concerned, there wasn't a leak or a loose end in the whole copper-bottomed consolida­tion of them. It was as puerile and patent as the most ele­mentary exercise in kindergarten arithmetic. It sat up on its hind legs and leered at him.

  Slowly and stolidly, with clenched fists buried deep in the pockets of his overcoat, Chief Inspector Teal went up the gangway of the Berengaria to see the story through.

  And down in the well-deck aft, Simon Templar was sitting on a wardrobe trunk discoursing genially to two stewards, a porter, an irate lady with pimples, and a small group of fasci­nated passengers.

  "I agree," the Saint was saying. "It is an outrage. But you must blame Bertie for that. I can only conclude that he doesn't like red flannel nighties either. So far as can be de­duced from the circumstances, the sight of your eminently
respectable robes filled him with such an uncontrollable frenzy that he began to empty the whole contents of your trunk out of the window. But am I to blame? Am I Bertie's keeper? At a moment when my back was turned——"

  "I don't believe you!" stormed the irate lady. "You're a common thief, that's what you are! I should know that trunk anywhere. I can describe everything that's in it——"

  "I'll bet you can't," said the Saint.

  The lady appealed to the assembled spectators.

  "This is unbearable!" she raved. "It's the most barefaced imposture I ever heard of! This man has stolen my clothes and put his own labels on the trunk——"

  "Madam," said the Saint, "I've never disputed that the trunk, as a trunk, was yours. The labels refer to the destination of the contents. As a strictly law-abiding citizen——"

  "Where," demanded the pimply female hysterically, "is the Captain?"

  And at that point Teal shouldered himself into the front rank of the crowd.

  Just for a second he stood looking at the Saint, and Simon saw that there were shadows under his eyes and the faintest trace of flabbiness about his cheeks. But the eyes themselves were hard and expressionless, and the lips below them were pressed up into a dour line.

  "I thought I should find you here," he said.

  The last of the Lovedews whirled round.

  "Do you know this man?"

  "Yes," said Teal rigidly. "I know him."

  The Saint crossed his legs and took out a cigarette-case. He indicated the detective with a wave of his hand.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," he murmured, "allow me to introduce the deus ex machina, or whizzbang out of the works. This is Mr. Claud Eustace Teal, who is going to tell us about his wanderings in Northern Euthanasia. Mr. Teal, Miss Lovedew. Miss Lovedew ——"

  "Teal?" The infuriated lady leapt back as though she had been stung. "Are you Teal?"

  "That is my name," said the slightly startled detective.

  "You stand there and admit that to me?"

  "Yes—of course."

  The woman reeled back into the arms of one of the bystand­ers.

  "Has everyone gone mad?" she wailed. "I'm being robbed in broad daylight! That is this man's accomplice—he hasn't de­nied it! Can nobody do anything to stop them?"

  Teal blinked.

  "I'm a police officer," he said.

  "You're a liar!" screamed the woman.

  "My good lady ——"

  "Don't you dare speak to me like that! You're a low, mean, impertinent thief——"

  "But——"

  "I want my trunk. I'm going to have my trunk! How can I go to New York without my trunk? That is my own trunk——"

  "But, Claud," said the Saint earnestly, "have you seen the trunk of the butler of her uncle? That is a trunk of the most colossal."

  Miss Lovedew gazed wildly about her.

  "Will no one help me?" she moaned.

  Simon removed the cigarette from his mouth and stood up. He placed one foot on the trunk, rested his right forearm on his knee, and raised a hand for silence.

  "May I be allowed to explain?" he said.

  The woman clutched her forehead.

  "Is anyone going to listen to this—this—this——"

  "Gentleman?" suggested the Saint, tentatively.

  Teal stepped forward and took a grip of his belt.

  "I am a police officer," he repeated trenchantly, "and I should certainly like to hear his explanation."

  This time he made the statement of his identity with such a bald authoritativeness that the buzz of surrounding comment died down to a tense hush. Even the pimply protagonist gaped at him in silence, with her assurance momentarily shaken. The stillness piled up with almost theatrical effect.

  "Well?" said Teal.

  The Saint gestured airily with his cigarette.

  "You arrive," he said, "in time to arbitrate over a serious misunderstanding. Let me give you the facts. I travelled down by the boat train from Waterloo this morning in order to keep an eye on a friend of ours whom we'll call Bertie. During the journey I lost sight of him. I tootled around to find out what was happening to him, and eventually located him in the luggage van and in the very act of throwing the last of Miss Lovedew's what's-its out of the window."

  "It's a lie!" bleated the lady, faint but pursuing. "He stole my clothes, insulted me in my carriage——"

  "We come to that in a minute," said the Saint imperturba­bly. "As I was saying, I found Bertie just crawling into the trunk he had so unceremoniously emptied. At great personal peril and inconvenience, Claud, I helped him towards his objective and locked him up for delivery to yourself. In order to do this, I was compelled to make a temporary alteration to the labels on the trunk, which I admit I borrowed for the good cause without Miss Lovedew's permission. I made one attempt to explain the circumstances to her, but was rejected with contumely. Then, while I was waiting for you to arrive, this argument about the rightful ownership of the property began. The trunk, as I've never denied, belongs to Miss Lovedew. The dispute seems to be about Bertie."

  Miss Lovedew goggled at him.

  "Do you mean to say that there's a man in that trunk?" she demanded hideously.

  "Madam," said the Saint, "there is. Would you like him? Mr. Teal has the first claim, but I'm open to competitive offers. The specimen is in full running order, suffering at the moment from a black eye and an aching jaw, but otherwise complete and ready for the road. He is highly-strung and sensitive, but extremely virile. Fed on a diet of rye whisky and caviare——"

  Teal bent over the trunk and examined the labels. The name on them was his own. He straightened up and levelled his gaze inflexibly upon the Saint.

  "I'll talk to you alone for a moment," he said.

  "Pleasure," said the Saint briefly.

  The detective looked round.

  "That trunk is not to be touched without my permission," he said.

  He walked over to the rail, and Simon Templar strolled along by his side. They passed out of earshot of the crowd, and stopped. For a few seconds they eyed each other steadily.

  "Is that Perrigo you've got in that trunk?" Teal asked pres­ently.

  "None other."

  "We've had a full confession from Elberman. Do you know what the penalty is for being in possession of illicit diamonds?"

  "I know what the penalty is for being caught in possession of illicit diamonds," said the Saint circumspectly.

  "Do you know where those diamonds are now?"

  Simon nodded.

  "They are sewn into the seat of Perrigo's pants," he said.

  "Is that what you wanted Perrigo for?"

  The Saint leaned on the rail.

  "You know, Claud," he remarked, "you're the damnedest fool."

  Teal's eyes hardened.

  "Why?"

  "Because you're playing the damnedest fool game with me. Have you ever known me be an accessory to wanton murder?"

  "I've known you to be mixed up in some darned funny things."

  "You've never known me to be mixed up in anything as darned funny as that. But you work yourself up to the point where you're ready to believe anything you want to believe. It's the racket. It's dog eating dog. I beat you to something, and you get mad. When you get mad, I have to bait you. The more I bait you, the madder you get. And the madder you get, the more I have to bait you. We get so's nothing's too bad for us to do to each other." The Saint smiled. "Well, Claud, I'm taking a little holiday, and before I go I'm giving you a break."

  Teal shrugged mountainously, but for a moment he said nothing. And the Saint balanced his cigarette on his thumb­nail and flipped it far and wide.

  "Let me do some thinking for you," he said. "I'm great on doing other people's thinking for them these days. . . . Over­night you thought over what I said to you last evening. This morning you verified that I hadn't been bluffing. And you knew there was only one thing for you to do. Your conscience wouldn't let you lie down under what I'd done. You'd got
to take what was coming to you—arrest me, and face the music. You'd got to play square with yourself, even if it broke you. I know just how you felt. I admire you for it. But I'm not going to let you do it."

  "No?"

  "Not in these trousers," said the Saint. "Why should you? You've got Perrigo, and I'm ready for a short rest. And here's your surprise packet. Get busy on what it tells you, and you may be a superintendent before the end of the season."

  Teal glanced at the book which the Saint had thrust into his hands, and turned it over thoughtfully.

  Then he looked again at the Saint. His face was still as impassive as the face of a graven image, but a little of the chilled steel had gone out of his eyes. And, as he looked, he saw that the Saint was laughing again—the old, unchangeable, soundless, impudent Saintly laughter. And the blue imps in the Saint's eyes danced.

  "I play the game by my own rules, Claud," said the Saint. "Don't you forget it. That profound philosophy covers the craziest things I do. It also makes me the only man in this bleary age who enjoys every minute of his life. And"—for the last time in that story, the Saintly forefinger drove gaily and debonairly to its mark—"if you take a leaf out of my book, Claud, one day, Claud, you will have fun and games for ever." And then the Saint was gone.

  He departed in the Saintly way, with a last Saintly smile and the clap of a hand on the detective's shoulder; and Teal watched him go without a word.

  Patricia was waiting for him farther along the deck. He fell into step beside her, and they went down the gangway and crossed the quay. At the corner of a warehouse Simon stopped. Quite quietly he looked at her, propping up the building with one hand.

  And the girl knew what his silence meant. For him, the die was cast; and, being the man he was, he was ready to pay cash. His hand was in his pocket, and the smile hadn't wavered on his lips. But just for that moment he was taking his unflinching farewell of the fair fields of irresponsible adven­ture, understanding just what it would mean to him to pay the score, scanning the road ahead with the steady eyes that had never feared anything in this life. And he was ready to start the journey there and then.