She had to be content with that. The air of mystery which had been exasperating her so much of late had somehow grown deeper than ever that night and he was very taciturn all the rest of the way to Chelsea.
He left her at the studio, and would not even come in for a last drink and cigarette before he went home.
“I want to sleep on it,” he said. “It is now after half-past three. I shall be asleep at half-past four, and I shall sleep until half-past four this afternoon. When I wake up I shall have something to come round and tell you.”
For his own convenience, he had decided to spend the night at the apartment in Sloane Street instead of going back to Upper Berkeley Mews. He parked the car in a garage close by and walked round to his flat, and, as he crossed the road, he happened to glance up at the windows. Something that he saw there made him halt in his stride, slip his hands in his pockets, and stand there gazing up thoughtfully at the windows for quite a long time. Then he went back to the garage and returned with a couple of spanners from his tool-box.
Standing on the pavement below, he sent one spanner hurtling upwards with an accurate aim. It smashed through one window with a clatter and tinkle of broken glass, and in a moment the second spanner had followed it through another window.
Then Simon stood back and watched two thick greenish clouds rolling down towards the street like a couple of ghostly slow-motion waterfalls.
As he stood there, a heavy hand tapped him on the shoulder.
“’Ere,” said a voice behind him, “what’s this?”
“Chlorine,” said the Saint coolly. “A poisonous gas. I shouldn’t go any nearer: it would be unhealthy for you to get under that stream.”
“I saw you smash those windows.”
“That must have been amusing for you,” murmured the Saint, still gazing thoughtfully upwards. “But since they’re my own windows, I suppose I’m allowed to smash them.”
The policeman stood beside him and followed his gaze upwards.
“’Ow did that gas get there?”
“It was left there,” said the Saint gently, “by an Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard who has a grudge against me. I might have walked right into it, only I happened to look up at the windows, and I remembered leaving them open last time I went out. They were closed before I opened them again with those spanners, and that made me look hard at them. You could see a sort of mistiness on the panes, even in this light.”
The constable turned, and suddenly a gleam of recognition came into his eyes. He peered at the Saint more closely, and then he released a blasphemous ejaculation.
“I know you!”
“You’re honoured,” said the Saint affably.
“You’re the gentleman who told me that funny story about that very flat the week before last, and got me the worst dressing-down I ever ’ad from the Divisional Inspector!”
He did not call Simon a gentleman.
“Am I?” said the Saint.
“You’ll come along with me to the Station right now.”
Simon turned to him with a bland smile.
“Why?”
“I shall take you into custody—”
“On what charge?”
“Suspicious loitering, an’ committing a breach of the peace.”
“Oh, for the love of Pete!” said the Saint. “Why not throw in arson and bigamy as well?”
But he had to submit to the arrest, because a humble constable—especially one with good reason to remember him—could not be expected to appreciate the same arguments as Chief Inspector Teal had followed only too clearly.
It took Simon another hour to obtain his liberty, and more than another hour after that to get the last traces of the gas out of his apartment.
It did not take him anything like so long to discover the means by which it had been introduced. There were pieces of glass on the floor which had not come from either of the broken windows.
He was able to piece a few of them together into the curved shape which they had originally had. And in the frame of his front door, level with the keyhole of the Yale lock, had been bored a neat hole no thicker than a knitting-needle—almost invisible to the casual glance, but as obvious as the neck on a giraffe to the Saint’s practised eye.
“Another of the old gags that never fail—sometimes,” he murmured. “And glass bulbs of the stuff in an attaché case ready to heave in. He’d probably just got back from this job when Jill met him…Our Mr Cullis is waking up. If he hadn’t had to shut the windows, or I hadn’t remembered how I’d left them, I might have been cold mutton draped on the umbrella-stand by this time. Oh, it’s a great life!”
The first pallor of dawn was lightening the sky when he eventually pulled the sheets up to his chin and closed his eyes, but even then it seemed that he was not to have the undisturbed rest he so badly needed. He seemed to have slept hardly ten minutes before he was aroused by the ring of his front-door bell, but when he opened protesting eyes, his watch told him that it was eleven o’clock.
He stumbled sulphurously out of bed, pulled on a dressing-gown, and went to the door.
The cherubic visage of Chief Inspector Teal confronted him on the threshold.
“You again?” sighed the Saint, and turned on his heel without another word, leaving the door open behind him.
Teal followed him into the sitting-room.
“Had a thick night?” inquired Teal sympathetically. “Sorry I had to disturb you.”
“You didn’t have to,” said the Saint. “If you’d looked twice, you’d have seen that you only had to push your tie-pin into that hole beside the lock, and the door would have opened as wide as a whale’s yawn. Or are you going to tell me you hadn’t heard that one before?”
Teal began to unwrap a piece of chewing-gum.
“I hear you’ve had some trouble.”
“Nice of you to come round and see if I was all right,” said the Saint pleasantly. “As it happens, I’m still in the best of health. Now do you mind if I go back to bed?”
“You’re not the only man who had trouble last night,” said Teal sleepily.
“Been eating too much again?” said the Saint solicitously.
“Some men,” said Teal, “bite off more than they can chew.”
The Saint sank into a chair with a sigh.
“Have you been sitting up reading a detective story, and then come round to work off some of the jokes on me?” he demanded.
“Up late last night, weren’t you?”
“No,” said the Saint. “Up early this morning.”
“Enjoy yourself in Hampstead?”
Simon wrinkled his brow.
“I believe I’ve heard of that place before,” he said. “Doesn’t one of the buses go there, or something?”
Teal chewed stolidly.
“I know roughly what time you got back here,” he said, “because I was able to find that out at Rochester Row. I also know what time somebody not quite unknown was busting Mr Cullis’s desk. There were fresh footprints in one flower-bed and the same footprints over that patch of building land at the back. It’s rather a distinctive kind of mud on that bit of building land. Funny I should have seen the same kind of mud on the floorboards of your car. I went to the garage this morning before I called in here, just to have a look.”
The Saint smiled.
“Did Cullis see the man who bust his desk?”
“He did.”
“Is he certain he could identify him?”
“Fairly certain.”
“Then,” said the Saint, “you might fetch him along and ask him to identify me.”
Teal shook his head.
“Oh, no,” he said. “Yours weren’t the only footprints. And the other set of footprints are the ones which Mr Cullis can identify.”
Simon raised saintly eyebrows.
“Then why bother me?”
“I just had an idea.”
“Headlines in the Daily Scream,” murmured the Saint irreverently, “Scot
land Yard a Hive of First-class Brains! But you must take care you don’t get too many of these ideas, Claud. I don’t know how far your skull will stretch, but I shouldn’t think it would hold more than two at a time…Now is that all you’ve got to say, or do you want to charge me with anything?”
“Not yet,” said Teal. “I just wanted to see whether I was right or not.”
“And now you either know or you don’t,” said the Saint.
He picked up a small black notebook from the table and stuffed it into the detective’s breast pocket.
“You can have that,” he said. “It’s an exact transcription of a book that the late lamented Essenden lost in Paris. You may have heard the story. Personally decoded and annotated by Simon Templar. There are about twenty-five names and addresses there, with full records and enough evidence to hang twenty-five archangels—all the main squeezes in the organisation that Waldstein and Essenden were running. You may have it with my blessing, Claud. I’d have dealt with it myself once, but life is getting too short for these diversions now. Take it home with you, old dear, and don’t tell anyone how you got it, and if you play your cards astutely you may make some mug believe you always were a real detective, after all. And I’m going back to bed.”
Teal followed him into the bedroom.
“Templar,” said Teal drowsily, “are you still sure it wouldn’t be worth your while to come across?”
“Quite sure,” said the Saint, closing his eyes.
Teal masticated thoughtfully.
“You’re taking on a lot,” he said. “You’ve been lucky so far, but that doesn’t say it’s going on forever. And sooner or later, if you keep on this way, you’re going to find a big hunk of trouble waiting for you round the corner. I’m not looking forward to anything like that happening. I’ll admit you’ve scored off me more than once, but I’m ready to call that quits if you are.”
“Thanks,” yawned the Saint. “And now do you mind shutting your face?”
“You’re clever,” said Teal, “but there are other bright people in the world besides you, and—”
“I know,” drawled the Saint. “You’re a bright boy yourself. That bit of sleuthing over the mud in the car was real hot dog. I’ll send the Chief Commissioner an unsolicited testimonial to your efficiency one day. Good night.”
2
Teal departed gloomily.
He was very busy for the rest of the day with other business, but that did not prevent him taking frequent peeps at the notebook which the Saint had pressed upon him. The entries were almost shockingly transparent, and Teal did not take twenty minutes to realise that the little book placed in his hands had all the loose threads of an organisation that had been baffling him on and off for years. But the realisation did not uplift his soul as much as it might have done. He knew quite well that once upon a time the contents of that book would, as Simon Templar had frankly admitted, have remained the private property of the same gentleman under his better-known title of the Saint, and there would have been twenty-five more mysterious deaths or disappearances, heralded by the familiar trade-mark, to weed some more of the thinning hairs from Chief Inspector Teal’s round pate. The Saint’s own statement, that the old game had lost its charm, and that he was on the eve of another of his perennial lapses into virtue, Teal was inclined to regard sceptically. It seemed almost too good to be true, and Teal had never been called an incorrigible optimist.
He waded through his diverse affairs with a queer certainty that something was shortly going to shatter the comparative peace of the past few days, and in this surmise he was perfectly right.
It was not until after dinner that he returned to Scotland Yard, but by that time he had formed a distinct resolve, and he had not been in the building five minutes before he was asking to see the Chief Commissioner.
The answer which he received, however, was not what he expected.
“The Chief Commissioner has not been in all day.”
Teal raised his eyebrows. He happened to know that the Chief Commissioner had had a particular piece of work to do that day and also a number of appointments, and he knew that his Chief’s habits were as regular as clockwork.
“Has he sent any message?”
“No, sir. We’ve heard nothing of him since he left yesterday evening.”
That was less like the Chief Commissioner than anything, to disappear without a word to anyone, and Teal was a rather puzzled man as he made his way to his little office overlooking the Embankment.
He worked there until ten o’clock; for in spite of the air of massive boredom which he was never without, he was, as a matter of fact, absorbed in his profession, and regular office hours meant nothing to him when he was on a case. In this he was totally different from his immediate superior, Mr Cullis, who always grudged giving one minute more of his time than the State purchased with his salary.
He prepared to leave at last, however, and as he emerged into the corridor a hurrying constable collided with him violently.
A buff envelope was knocked out of the man’s hand by the impact, and Teal good-humouredly stooped to pick it up. As he did so he noticed the address.
“Hasn’t Mr Cullis gone home?” he inquired.
“No, sir. He’s still in his room.”
“Can you wait half a minute?”
Without waiting for a reply, Teal went back into his office, taking the telegram with him. Under the constable’s goggling eyes, Teal carefully sponged the back of the envelope and eased up the flap with his paper-knife. Then he extracted the form and read the message.
He actually stopped maltreating a well-worn pellet of spearmint as he read.
Then, with ponderous deliberation, he refolded the form and replaced it in the envelope, freshened up the gum on the flap from a pot of paste on his desk, and dried his handiwork carefully before the gas fire.
He returned the telegram to the messenger.
“Now you can take that on to Mr Cullis,” he said. “But you needn’t mention my name.”
“No, sir.”
The vestige of a smile twitched at Teal’s mouth as the constable departed. It was perhaps fortunate for him that the messenger owed a recent promotion entirely to Teal’s good offices, and might therefore be safely counted upon to obey his somewhat eccentric injunction.
The messenger had closed the door behind him, but as his footsteps died away along the corridor, Teal rose silently and opened the door again. Turning out the light, he waited close by the switch, listening patiently.
He heard the constable return and go down the stairs, and five minutes later he heard a different footfall coming towards him.
Cullis’s office was at the far end of the same corridor, and Teal stepped silently out of his darkened doorway as the Assistant Commissioner reached it.
“Heavens, you gave me a start!” said Cullis peevishly. “I wish you wouldn’t creep about in those rubber soles.”
“Regulation boots, sir,” said Teal phlegmatically, falling into step beside the Assistant Commissioner. “Get the order changed, and I’ll get the rubbers taken off. Nice day it’s been today, hasn’t it?”
Cullis was not disposed to discuss the weather. He left Teal abruptly at the foot of the stairs, and Teal gazed at his departing back with an expressionless face. Then he turned and went through the passage into Cannon Row Police Station and found the man he was wanting to see.
“What’s the news about Templar?” he asked. “Has he slipped you again?”
The plain-clothes man nodded ruefully.
“Same as he always does, Mr Teal.”
“When was this?”
“About four o’clock, sir.”
“And hasn’t been back since?”
“He hadn’t up till half-past nine, when I was relieved.”
Teal glared at him.
“Then why the blue monkeys didn’t you let me know before?”
“Chiefly because you weren’t in, Mr Teal,” said the man truthfully.
<
br /> Teal turned on his heels and went back into Scotland Yard, and was lucky enough to catch the day telephone operator, who was just going home.
“They tell me there’s been no message from the Chief today,” said Teal. “But are you certain he didn’t speak to anyone on the phone?”
“Yes, Mr Teal, he did. He spoke to Mr Cullis about six o’clock. The lines got crossed while I was putting somebody else through, as a matter of fact, and I heard him tell Mr Cullis to stay on tonight until the Chief sent him word again.”
Teal nodded.
“Thanks. That’s all I wanted to know. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
Teal changed his mind about going home himself. Instead, he returned to his office, took off his overcoat again and sat down in the dark with a fresh piece of gum.
The departure of Mr Assistant Commissioner Cullis from his usual routine was explained, even if nothing else was. But there were still far too many things about which Mr Teal was in the dark, and he meditated those things for an hour and a half before light dawned on him in a blinding flash that made him shoot out of his chair as if he had been stung.
A moment afterwards he was tearing through a timetable. And he swore fluently when he found that he had missed the last train to the place where he wanted to go.
He descended the stairs at a surprising speed for a man of his languid appearance, and a few seconds later he was barking at the first man he met.
“Get me a fast Flying Squad car,” he said, “and a couple of men with it. And they’d better be armed!”
The car and the men were outside the Yard within five minutes, and Teal climbed in.
He gave the name of an obscure village in Surrey, and fumed at the delay while the driver consulted a map.
“It’s near Guildford, anyway,” snapped Teal. “Make for Guildford, and I’ll look out the rest while we’re going along.”
He knew the place was near Guildford, because that was where the telegram which he had intercepted had been handed in, and the prosaic words on the tape pasted across the Inland Telegraph form seemed to stand out in the blackness in letters of fire when he closed his eyes, although they merely conveyed information which should not have been in the least disturbing to a man of Teal’s experience.
The Saint Meets his Match (The Saint Series) Page 21
