Leslie Charteris - The Saint 49 Count On The Saint

The Saint stood in the doorway, his gaze flitting around the cramped office and finally coming to rest on the ledger Reefly was scanning.

“Morning, Vic, cooking the books for breakfast?”

Vic Reefly looked up sharply and his eyes narrowed as they identified his visitor.

“Templar!” Surprise was quickly overtaken by suspicion. “What do you want?”

Simon closed the door and perched himself comfortably on the edge of the desk. He spent a moment attending to the crease of his trousers before replying.

“What I want, Victor, my little virus, is a word. Several, in fact.”

Some of the tenseness eased out of the racketeer. He closed the ledger and sat back in his chair, but his eyes never left the Saint.

“What about?” he asked cautiously.

The Saint was not there to waste time, but he knew there would be no bonuses for seeming pressed for it.

“Oh, this and that,” he answered with an airy wave of his hand. “A bit more this than that.”

Once again his eyes roamed the room before returning to Reefly. And there was a light of dangerous devilment in them that made the racketeer’s palms moisten.

“You know, Vic, there was a time when I might have paid you a less sociable visit,” he said almost wistfully. “Especially after that little brannigan in Gerrard Street the other night.”

The “little brannigan” had in fact been a sizeable melee in the course of which an illegal gambling club had been wrecked and its owner persuaded to part with the contents of his safe to pay the arrears on his “insurance.”

“I hear the guy was breaking the law,” Reefly said, with a faint twitch of his lips that might just have been meant for a smile.

“Whose law, Vic? Yours or the gentlemen’s in blue?”

“Both,” Reefly said curtly. “Now, Templar, if you ain’t dropped in to pass the time of day, what can I do for you?”

Simon appeared to consider the question.

“It’s more a question of what I can do for you,” he said at last. “There was a breakin at St. Jude’s the other night. A certain article was stolen. I’m interested in it.”

Reefly nodded thoughtfully.

“I heard about it,” he said guardedly. “What’s your interest?”

“That’s my business,” the Saint answered briskly. “Let’s just say that if you put me in touch with the right party you wouldn’t lose on the deal — and neither would they.”

The racketeer pondered the request for a while and seemed to find something amusing in it. When the Saint entered he had expected trouble, now it looked as if Simon Templar would owe him a favour, and he knew just how valuable an asset that could be.

He grinned, displaying his expensively gilded teeth.

“It might be arranged,” he conceded warily. “I’ll see what can be done.”

“You do that, Vic,” said the Saint, and stood up.

He stopped as he reached the door.

“And do it soon.” He smiled, but Reefly found nothing reassuring in the sight. “I’d hate to have to pay a less friendly visit.”

He left the club with a vague feeling of annoyance. He disliked Reefly and his kind on principle and was not happy with the possibility of becoming indebted to him. But that was a price about which he might not be able to haggle.

At the same time as he was climbing into a taxi and directing the driver to Upper Berkeley Mews, Taffy Owen was stepping from the dock at Bow Street. The unexpected appearance of Robin Nash had turned what the police solicitor had expected to be a straightforward remand in custody into a legal wrangle in which he was soon floundering. The magistrates were impressed by such a prominent advocate and his arguments, and Father Bernardo’s character reference together with a hefty financial deposit had combined to win Owen the bail the Saint wanted.

Simon was finishing a light lunch of smoked salmon, brown bread, and a bottle of Muscadet when his doorbell sounded.

He opened the door to admit Mila and a youth whom she introduced as Taffy, bade them welcome, sat them down, and dispensed coffee while listening to Mila’s account of the hearing.

He waved aside her thanks as he deposited himself in a chair facing Owen, whom he regarded with dispassionate appraisal.

“Okay, son,” he invited softly. “Tell Uncle Simon the story of your life.”

Taffy Owen could not have been much older than twenty, and although he was almost as tall as the Saint he was slim to the point of thinness. His curly black hair had not come in contact with a brush that day, and he appeared not to have shaved for twice as long. His jacket and trousers had been new a long time before he acquired them, and the cheap open-necked shirt looked as if it had been slept in.

He nervously avoided looking directly at Simon. He glanced around the room like an animal searching for an escape route, but the elegant and expensive furnishings he saw only served to increase his discomfort. Eventually he contented himself with staring at the pattern on the carpet.

Simon waited patiently for the boy to begin his story, but when at last he spoke it hardly amounted to a speech.

“I didn’t do it,” he mumbled.

The Saint sighed.

“Okay, just for a moment we’ll take that as read. But remember, I’m the guy who’s keeping you out of the slammer, and if I’m to continue to do that I’ll need some answers. Where were you while the chalice was being stolen?”

“I went for a walk,” Taffy said wearily. “I’ve already told it all to the police.”

“So tell me too,” said the Saint. “What did you do? And how come you had so much money on you?”

Taffy sat back in his chair and for the first time looked straight at the Saint. He spoke as if reciting a lesson learned by rote.

“About ten I left the mission and went for a walk. I had a drink in a pub near Trafalgar Square but the barman doesn’t remember me. Then I walked up through Green Park to Piccadilly and from there to St. Jude’s. I got back around midnight and went straight to bed. I just wanted some fresh air. I can’t prove it but it’s true.” Owen spread his hands in a gesture of despair. “Look, if I really had taken the chalice, don’t you think I’d have a better alibi than that?”

“Depends whether you are very stupid or very clever,” Simon said. “Go on.”

Taffy shrugged.

“That’s it. I was having breakfast when they came and pulled me in.”

“And how did you come by that hundred quid?”

“That was his savings,” said Mila quickly. “We’re planning to get married.”

“So you knew he had the money?”

Mila looked uncertainly from Taffy to the Saint.

“Well, no, I didn’t know he had so much,” she admitted. “But I knew Taffy had been doing odd jobs to get some.”

“I wanted to buy an engagement ring,” Owen said. “It was going to be a surprise.”

Mila slipped her arm through his and squeezed it affectionately. The look in her eyes said more about her feelings for Taffy than her words could ever have done.

Simon considered the story objectively. As he had pointed out to Peake, it could all be true but, even hearing it from Taffy personally, he could not dissociate himself from the detective’s scepticism. It could not be proved but neither could it be disproved, and the measure of doubt might give Owen an edge with a judge and jury. The Saint wanted it to be true for Mila’s sake. But for just that reason he had to be certain. He realised that trying to break such a non-alibi was futile, and questioning about the lad’s trouble in the past would only create a barrier of hostility.

He changed tack.

“So, Taffy, if you didn’t steal the chalice who did?”

It was a loaded question, for whoever had stolen it the second time might know that it was the Saint himself who had lifted it first. He searched the other’s face for any hint that the shot had scored, but he might just as well have studied a wooden mask — or the rehearsed expression of a good actor.