12 The Saint in London (The Misfortunes of Mr Teal)

by Leslie Charteris

  He steered the girl up the dark narrow stairs with a hand on her arm and felt that she was trembling--he was not surprised. From the studio, as they drew near, came the sounds of a melancholy voice raised in inharmonious song; and the Saint grinned. He opened the door, passing the girl in and closing it again behind them, and surveyed Mr. Uniatz reprovingly.

  "I see you found the whisky," he said.

  "Sure," said Mr. Uniatz, rising a trifle unsteadily, but beaming an honest welcome none the less. "It was in de pantry, jus' like ya tole me, boss."

  The Saint sighed.

  "It'll never be there again," he said, "unless you lose your way." He was stripping off his taxi driver's overcoat and peaked cap; and as he did so, in the full light, the girl recognized him, and he saw her eyes widen. "This bloke with the skinful is Mr. Hoppy Uniatz, old dear--a handy man with a Roscoe but not so hot on the Higher Thought. If I knew your name I'd introduce you."

  "I'm Annette Vickery," said the girl. "But I don't even know who you are."

  "I'm Simon Templar," he said. "They call me the Saint."

  She caught her breath for an instant; and suddenly she seemed to see him again for the first time, and the flicker of fear came and went in her brown eyes. He stood with his hands in his pockets, lean and dark and dangerous and debonair, smiling at her with a cigarette between his lips and a wisp of smoke curling past his eyes; and it is only fair to say that he enjoyed his moment. But still he smiled, at himself and her.

  "Well, I'm not a cannibal," he murmured, "although you may have heard rumours. Why don't you sit down and let's finish our talk?" She sat down slowly.

  "About--pillows?" she said, with the ghost of a smile; and he began to laugh. "Or something."

  He sent Hoppy Uniatz out to the kitchen to brew coffee and gave her a cigarette. She might have been twenty-two or twenty-three, he saw-- the indifferent lighting of Bond Street had had no need to be kind to her. He was more sure than ever that her red mouth would smile easily and there would be mischief in the brown eyes; but he would have to lift more than a corner of the shadow to see those things.

  "I told you the Barnyard Club was no place to go," he said, drawing up a chair. "Why wouldn't you take my advice?"

  "I didn't understand."

  All at once he realized that she was crediting him with having known that the raid was going to take place; but he showed nothing in his face.

  "You've got hold of it now?"

  She shrugged helplessly.

  "Some of it. But I still don't know why you should have--bothered to get me out of the mess."

  "That's a long story," he said cheerfully. "You ought to ask Chief Inspector Teal about it some day--he'll be able to tell you more. Somehow, we just seem to get in each other's way. But if you're * thinking that you owe me something for it, I'm afraid you're right."

  He saw the glimmer of fear in her eyes again; and yet he knew that she was not afraid of him. She had no reason to be. But she was afraid.

  "You--kill people--don't you?" she said after a long silence.

  The question sounded so startlingly naive that he wanted to laugh; but something told him not to. He drew at his cigarette with a perfectly straight face.

  "Sometimes even fatally," he admitted, with only the veiled mockery in his eyes to show for that glint of humour. "Why--is there anyone you'd like to see taken off? Hoppy Uniatz will do it for you if I haven't time."

  "What do you kill them for?"

  "Our scale is rather elastic,'' he said, endeavouring to maintain his gravity. "Sometimes we have done it for nothing. Mostly we charge by the yard------"

  "I don't mean that." She was smoking her cigarette in short nervous puffs, and her hands were still unsteady. "I mean, if a man wasn't really bad --if he'd just made a mistake and got into bad company------"

  Simon nodded and stood up.

  "You're rather sweet," he said humorously. "But I know what you mean. You're frightened by some of the stories you've heard about me. Well, kid--how about giving your own common sense a chance? I've just lifted you straight out of the hands of the police. They're looking for you now, and before tomorrow morning every flat-footed dick in London will be joining in the search. If I wanted to get tough with you I wouldn't need any third degree--I'd just have to promise to turn you right out into the street if you didn't come through. I haven't said a word about that, have I?" The Saint smiled; and in the quick flash of that particular smile the armour of worldlier women than she had melted like wax. "But I do want you to talk. Come on, now-- what's it all about?"

  She was silent for a moment, tapping her cigarette over the ashtray long after all the loose ash had flaked away; and then her hands moved in a helpless gesture.

  "I don't know."

  Her eyes turned to meet his when she spoke, and he knew she was not merely stalling. He waited with genuine seriousness; and presently she said: "The boy who got into bad company was my brother. Honestly, he isn't really bad. I don't know what happened to him. He didn't need to be dishonest--he was so clever. Even when he was a kid at school he could draw and paint like a professional. Everyone said he had a marvellous future. When he was nineteen he went to an art school. Even the professors said he was a genius. He used to drink a bit too much, and he was a bit wild; but that was only because he was young. I'm eighteen months older than he is, you see. I didn't like some of his friends. That man who was --arrested with me--was one of them."

  "And what's his name?"

  "Jarving--Kenneth Jarving. ... I think he used to flatter Tim--make him feel he was being a man of the world. I didn't like him. He tried to make love to me. But he became Tim's best friend. . . . And then--Tim was arrested. For forgery. And it turned out that Jarving knew about it all the time. He was the head of the gang that Tim was forging the notes for. But the police didn't get him."

  "Charming fellow," said the Saint thoughtfully.

  Hoppy Uniatz came in with the coffee, opened his mouth to utter some cheery conversation, sensed the subtle quietness of the atmosphere, and did not utter it. He stood on one foot, leaving his mouth open for future employment, and scratched his head, frowning vaguely. Annette Vickery went on, without paying any attention to him:

  "Of course, Tim went to prison. I suppose they really meant to be kind to him. They only gave him eighteen months. They said he was obviously the victim of somebody much older and more experienced. I believe he might have got off altogether if he'd put them onto Jarving, who was the man they really wanted. But Tim wouldn't do it. And he swore he'd never forgive me if I said anything. I suppose--I shouldn't have taken any notice. But he was so emphatic. I was afraid. I didn't know what the others might have done to him if he'd given them away. I--I didn't say anything. So Tim went to prison."

  "How long ago was that?"

  "He came out three weeks ago. He was let off some of his sentence for good conduct. I was the only one who knew when he was coming out. Jarving tried to make me tell him, but I wouldn't. I wanted to try and keep Tim out of his way. And Tim said he wouldn't go back. He got a job in a printing works at Dulwich, through the Prisoners' Aid Society; and he was going to take up drawing again in his spare time and try to make a decent living at it. I believed he would. I still believe it.

  But--that pound note you changed ... it was part of some money he gave me only yesterday, to pay back some that I'd lent him. He said he'd sold some cartoons to a magazine."

  The Saint put down his cigarette and picked up the coffee pot. He nodded.

  "I see. But that still doesn't tell me why you had to go to the Barnyard Club and get pinched."

  "That's what I still don't understand. I'm only trying to tell you everything that happened. Jarving rang me up this evening and asked if he could see me. I made excuses--I didn't want to see him. Then he said there'd be trouble for Tim if I didn't. He told me to meet him at the Barnyard Club. I had to go."

  "And what was the trouble?"

  "He'd only started to tell me when the police c
ame in. He wanted to know where he could get hold of Tim. I wouldn't tell him. He said, 'Look here, I'm not trying to get your brother in trouble again. This isn't anything to do with me. It's somebody else who wants to see him.' I still didn't believe him. Then he said he'd give me this man's name and address himself, and I could give it to Tim myself, and Tim could go there on his own. But he said Tim had got to go, somehow."

  "Did he give you the name and address?"

  "Yes. He wrote it down on a piece of paper, just before------"

  "Have you got it?"

  She opened her bag and took out a scrap of paper torn from a wine list. Simon took it and glanced over the writing.

  And in that instant all his lazy good humour, all the relaxed and patient quiet with which he had listened to her story, were swept away as if a silent bomb had annihilated them.

  "Is this it?" he said aimlessly; and she found his clear blue eyes on her, for that moment absolutely without mockery, raking her face with a blaze of azure light that was the most dynamic thing she had ever seen.

  "That's it," she said hesitantly. "I've never heard the name before------"

  "I have."

  The Saint smiled. He had been marking time since the last gorgeous climax which his reckless impetuosity had given him, feeling his way towards the next move almost like an artist waiting for renewed inspiration; but he knew now where he was going on. He looked again at the scrap of paper on which outrageous fortune had jotted down his cue. On it was written:

  Ivar Nordsten Hawk Lodge, St. George's Hill, Weybridge.

  "I want to know why one of the richest men in Europe is so anxious to meet your brother," he said. "And I think your brother will have to keep the appointment to find out."

  He saw the fear struggling back into her eyes.

  "But------"

  The Saint laughed and shook his head. He indicated Hoppy Uniatz, who had transferred his balance to the other foot and his scratching operations to his left ear.

  "There's your brother, darling. He may not have all the artistic gifts of the real Timothy, but he's a handy man in trouble, as I told you. I'll lend him to you free of charge. What d'you say?"

  "Hot diggety," said Mr. Uniatz.

  IV

  WHEN Annette Vickery woke up, the sun was streaming into her bedroom window, and she looked out into a wide glade of pine trees and silver birches lifting from rolling banks of heather and bracken. It was hard to believe that this was less than twenty miles from London, where so many strange things had happened in the darkness a few hours ago, and where all the forces of Scotland Yard would still be searching for her. They had driven down over the dark glistening roads in the Saint's Hirondel--a very different proposition from the spavined taxi which he had driven before--after a telephone call which he put through to a Weybridge number; and when they arrived there were lights in the house, and a gruff-voiced man who walked with a curious strutting limp waiting to put the car away without any indication that he was at all surprised at his master arriving at four o'clock in the morning with two guests. Whisky, sandwiches, and a steaming pot of coffee were set out on a table in the living room; and the Saint grinned.

  "Orace is used to me," he explained, "If I rang up and told him I was arriving with three hungry lions and a kidnapped bishop, he wouldn't even blink."

  It was the same man with the limp who came in with a cup of tea in the morning.

  "Nice day, miss," he said.

  He put the cup down on the table beside the bed and looked at her pugnaciously--he had a heavy walrus moustache which made it permanently impossible for anyone to tell when he was smiling.

  "Yer barfs ready," he said, as if he were addressing a dumb recruit on a parade ground, "an' brekfuss'll be ready narf a minnit."

  It was only another curiosity in the stream of fantastic happenings that had carried her beyond all the horizons of ordinary life.

  She was down to breakfast in twenty minutes; but even so she found the Saint drinking coffee and reading a newspaper, while Hoppy Uniatz finished up the toast. Simon served her with eggs and bacon from the chafing dish.

  "You'll probably find the egg a bit tough," he remarked, "but we have to toe the line at meal times. When Orace says 'Brekfuss narf a minnit' he means breakfast in exactly thirty seconds, and you can check your stop watch by him. I hid a piece of toast for you, too; or else Hoppy would have had it. How d'you feel?"

  "Fine," she told him; and, tackling succulent rashers and eggs that were not too tough to make the mouth water, she was surprised to find that a fugitive from justice could still eat breakfast with a good appetite.

  She looked out of the French doors that opened from the dining room onto the same view as she had seen from her bedroom when she awoke, the sunlit glade striped with the shadows of the trees, and said: "Where am I?--isn't that what everyone's supposed to say when they wake up?"

  The Saint smiled.

  "Or else they call for Mother." He pushed back his chair and tapped a cigarette on his thumbnail. "This is Mr. George's hill itself, though you mightn't believe I can drive you from here to Piccadilly Circus without hurrying in half an hour. I bought this place because I don't know anywhere else like it where you can forget London so easily and get there so quickly if you have to; but it seems as if it has other uses. By the way, there's some news in the paper that may appeal to your sense of humour."

  He passed her the folded sheet and marked a place with his forefinger. It was a brief paragraph in a minor position which simply recorded that Scotland Yard detectives had entered the Barnyard Club in Bond Street and taken away a man and a young woman "for questioning."

  "Of course, the part where I butted in may have been too late for this edition," said the Saint. "But I still don't think the public will hear any more about it just now. If there's anything in the history of England which Claud Eustace Teal would perjure his immortal soul to keep out of the news, I'm willing to bet it's that little game we played last night. But it still wouldn't be fatal if the story did leak out--you've only got to see Nordsten long enough to introduce your brother, and then you push off. If he did get inquisitive afterwards, Tim wouldn't know anything--would you, Hoppy?"

  "No, boss," said Mr. Uniatz, shaking his head vigorously. "I don't know nut'n about nut'n."

  "But what about Jarving?" put in the girl.

  "Jarving is safe in clink," said the Saint with conviction. "If the first person who found him wasn't a policeman, which it probably was at that hour of the morning, I don't think anyone who found him could get those handcuffs off without a policeman happening along. So the coast seems to be as clear as we're ever likely to have it."

  She finished her breakfast and drank the coffee which he poured out for her; and then he gave her a cigarette.

  "Get hold of yourself, kid," he said. "I want you to be starting soon."

  For an instant her stomach felt empty as she realized that, once outside the shelter of that house, she was a fugitive again, even if the very idea of policemen seemed absurd in that peaceful place. And then she felt his blue eyes resting on her appraisingly and managed a smile.

  "All right, Don Q," she said. "What is it?"

  "Your share is easy. You've only got to walk up to Hawk Lodge and introduce Hoppy as your brother. I don't expect you'll be asked to stay, and I'll be waiting right round the corner to drive you back. The rest is Hoppy's funeral--or it may be if he doesn't get the lead out of his sleeve on the draw."

  Looking towards Mr. Uniatz, she saw his hand move with the speed of a bullet, and stared into the muzzle of an automatic which had somehow appeared in his grasp.

  "Was dat fast," he asked indignantly, "or was dat fast?"

  "I think it was fast," said the girl gravely.

  "Say, an' can I shoot wit' it?" proclaimed Mr. Uniatz, rewarding her with a beam that displayed all his gold fillings. "Say, I betcha never see a guy t'row two cups in de air an' bean 'em wit' one shot."

  "Yes, she has," said the Saint, moving Ho
ppy's cup rapidly away from under his eager fingers. "And she doesn't like it. Now for heaven's sake put that Betsy away and listen. Your name's Tim Vickery--have you got that?"

  "Sure. Tim Vickery--dat's my name."

  "You're an artist."

  "What, me?" protested Mr. Uniatz plaintively. "Say, boss, you know I can't do dat pansy stuff."

  "You don't have to," said the Saint patiently. "That's just your profession. You were brought up in America--that'll account for your accent-- but you're really English. About fifteen months ago you were------"

  "Say, boss," suggested Mr. Uniatz pleadingly, "why can't I be a bootlegger? You know, one of de big shots. Wit' dat emerald ya gimme last night, I could do it poifect."

  Simon breathed deeply.

  "I tell you, you're an artist," he said relentlessly. "There aren't any bootleggers in this story. About fifteen months ago you were arrested for forgery------"

  "Say, boss," said Mr. Uniatz, with his homely brow deeply wrinkled in the effort of following a train of thought that was incapable of being hurried, "what was dat crack about de pansy stuff bein' my perfession?"

  The Saint sighed and got up. For a minute or two he paced up and down the room, smoking his cigarette and staring at the carpet; and then he turned abruptly.

  "The hell with it," he said. "I'm going to be Tim Vickery."

  "But dat's my name," complained Hoppy.

  "I'll borrow it," Simon said bluntly. "I don't think it suits you." He looked at the girl. "I was going to put Hoppy in because I thought the most important part of the job would be outside, but now I'm not so sure. I don't think there's much difference--and I'm afraid the inside stand is a bit out of Hoppy's distance. Are you all set to go? I want to show you something, and I've got to make a phone call."