The Saint vs Scotland Yard (The Holy Terror)

by Leslie Charteris

  "Yeah—I have been in there this morning."

  "A coloured gentleman brought these for you, sir. He said he saw you drop them as you came out of the hotel, but he lost you in the crowd while he was picking them up. And then, as he was walking through Lansdowne Passage, he hap­pened to look up and see you at one of the windows, so he brought them in. From the description he gave me it seemed as if it must have been you, sir——"

  "Oh, it was certainly me."

  The Saint, who had never owned a pair of lemon-coloured gloves in his life, accepted the specimens gingerly, folded them, and slipped them into his pocket.

  "Funny coincidence, sir, wasn't it?" said the porter chattily. "Him happening to pass by, and you happening to be in the window at that time."

  "Quite remarkable," agreed the Saint gravely, recalling the care he had taken to avoid all windows; and, turning back, he retired rapidly to a remote sanctuary.

  There he unfolded the gloves in an empty washbasin, con­triving to work them cautiously inside out with his fountain pen in one hand and his propelling pencil in the other.

  He had not the vaguest idea what kind of creeping West African frightfulness might be waiting for him in those citron-hued misdemeanours, but he was certainly a trifle surprised when he saw what fell out of the first glove that he tackled.

  It was simply a thin splinter of wood, painted at both ends, and stained with some dark stain.

  For a moment or two he looked at it expressionlessly.

  Then he picked it up between two matches and stowed it carefully in his cigarette-case.

  He turned his attention to the second glove, and extracted from it a soiled scrap of paper. He read:

  If you will come to 85, Vandermeer Avenue, Hampstead, at midnight tonight, we may be able to reach some mutually satisfactory agreement. Otherwise, I fear that the consequences of your interference may be infinitely regrettable.

  K.

  Simon Templar held the message at arm's length, well up to the light, and gazed at it wall-eyed.

  "And whales do so lay eggs," he articulated at last, when he could find a voice sufficiently impregnated with emotion.

  And then he laughed and went back to Patricia.

  "If Monday's Child comes home, you shall have a new hat," he said, and the girl smiled.

  "What else happens before that?" she asked.

  "We go on a little tour," said the Saint.

  They left the club together, and boarded a taxi that had just been paid off at the door.

  "Piccadilly Hotel," said the Saint.

  He settled back, lighting a cigarette.

  "I shook off Teal's man by Method One," he explained. "You are now going to see a demonstration of Method Two. If you can go on studying under my supervision, all the shad­owers you will ever meet will mean nothing to you. . . . The present performance may be a waste of energy"—he glanced back through the rear window—"or it may not. But the wise man is permanently suspicious."

  They reached the Piccadilly entrance of the hotel in a few minutes, and the Saint opened the door. The exact fare, plus bonus, was ready in the Saint's hand, and he dropped it in the driver's palm and followed Patricia across the pavement—with­out any appearance of haste, but very briskly. As he reached the doors, he saw in one glass panel the reflection of another taxi pulling in to the kerb behind him.

  "This way."

  He steered the girl swiftly through the main hall, swung her through a short passage, across another hall, and up some steps, and brought her out through another door into Regent Street. A break in the traffic let them straight through to the taxi rank in the middle of the road.

  "Berkeley Hotel," said the Saint.

  He lounged deep in his corner and grinned at her.

  "Method Two is not for use on a trained sleuth who knows you know he's after you," he murmured. "Other times, it's the whelk's knee-cap." He took her bag from her hands, slipped out the little mirror, and used it for a periscope to survey the south side pavement as they drove away. "This is one of those whens," he said complacently.

  "Then why are we going to the Berkeley?"

  "Because you are the nurse who is going to look after Beppo. His number is 148, and 149 is already booked for you. Incidentally, you might remember that he's registered in the name of Teal—C. E. Teal. I'll pack a bag and bring it along to you later; but once you're inside the Berkeley Arms you've got to stay put so long as it's daylight. The doctor's name is Branson and mine is Travers, and if anyone else applies for admission you will shoot him through the binder and ring for the bell-hop to remove the body."

  "But what will you be doing?"

  "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 remem­bering 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 simulta­neously 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 prescrip­tion. 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 reali
sation 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 disci­pline in which he disposed it; and thereby he became the Saint. But it is perfectly possible to appreciate and acknowl­edge 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 con­trived 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 tweezers. ...

  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 symboli­cal 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.

  "You certainly win on the exchange," he said; and a slight frown came between the other's eyebrows.

  "If you would explain ——?"

  "I'm good-looking," said the Saint easily, and centred his tie with elegance.

  Kuzela leaned back.

  "Your name is known to me, of course; but I think this is the first time we have had the pleasure of meeting."

  "This is certainly the first time you've had the pleasure of meeting me," said the Saint carefully.

  "Even now, the responsibility is yours. You have elected to interfere with my affairs——"

  Simon shook his head sympathetically.

  "It's most distressing, isn't it?" he murmured. "And your most strenuous efforts up to date have failed to dispose of the inte
rference. Even when you sent me a pair of gloves that would have given a rhinoceros a headache to look at, I survived the shock. It must be Fate, old dear."

  Kuzela pulled himself forward again.

  "You are an enterprising young man," he said quietly. "An unusually enterprising young man. There are not many men living who could have overcome Ngano, even by the method which you adopted. The mere fact that you were able to enter this house is another testimony to your foresight—or your good luck."

  "My foresight," said the Saint modestly.

  "You moved your chair before you sat down—and that again showed remarkable intelligence. If you had sat where I in­tended you to sit, it would have been possible for me, by a slight movement of my foot, to send a bullet through the centre of your body."

  "So I guessed."

  "Since you arrived, your hand has been in your pocket several times. I presume you are armed ——"

  Simon Templar inspected the finger-nails of his two hands.

  "If I had been born the day before yesterday," he observed mildly, "you'd find out everything you wanted to know in approximately two minutes."

  "Again, a man of your reputation would not have communicated with the police——"

  "But he would take great care of himself." The Saint's eyes met Kuzela's steadily. "I'll talk or fight, Kuzela, just as you like. Which is it to be?"

  "You are prepared to deal?"

  "Within limits—yes."

  Kuzela drummed his knuckles together.

  "On what terms?"

  "They might be—one hundred thousand pounds."

  Kuzela shrugged.

  "If you came here in a week's time——"

  "I should be very pleased to have a drink with you," said the Saint pointedly.

  "Suppose," said Kuzela, "I gave you a cheque which you could cash tomorrow morning——"

  "Or suppose," said the Saint calmly, "you gave me some cash with which I could buy jujubes on my way home."