Leslie Charteris - Follow the Saint

"In the morning you'll be too busy trying to put up a defence at the police court to think about me," said the Saint coldly.

He moved towards the desk; but he did not pick up the keys at once. His eyes strayed to the sheet of paper in the typewriter; and yet they did it in such a way that the Baron still knew that the first move he made would call shattering death out of the trim unwavering automatic,

Simon read:

In conjunction with numbers 4, 10, and 16 you will proceed at once to Cheltenham and establish close watch on Sir Roland Hale who is on holiday there. Within 24 hours you will send report on the method by which urgent War Office messages—

Simon's eyes returned to the Baron's face.

"What more evidence do you think Chief Inspector Teal will need?" he said.

"With a name like mine?" came the scornful answer. "When I tell them that you held me at the point of a gun while you wrote that message on my typewriter—"

"I'm sure they'll be very polite," said the Saint. "Especially when they find that yours are the only fingerprints on the keys."

"If you made me write it under compulsion—"

"And the orders in the packets of Miracle Tea which numbers six, fourteen, and twenty-seven are going to buy tonight came from the same machine."

The Baron moistened his lips.

"Let us talk this over," he said.

The Saint said: "You talk."

He picked up the telephone and dialled 'O'.

He said: "I want to make a call to France — Radio Calvados."

The Baron swallowed.

"Wait a minute," he said desperately. "I—"

"Incidentally," said the Saint, "there'll be a record that you had a call to Radio Calvados this evening, and probably on lots of other evenings as well. And I'm sure we shall find that Henry Osbett moustache of yours somewhere in the house — not to mention the beard you wore when you were dealing with Red McGuire. I suppose you needed some thug outside the organization in case you wanted to deal drastically with any of the ordinary members, but you picked the wrong man in Red. He doesn't like hot curling-irons."

Inescu's fists clenched until the knuckles were bleached. His face had gone pale under its light tan.

The Saint's call came through.

"Mr Vernon, please," he said.

He took out his cigarette case, opening it, and lighted a cigarette with the hand that held his gun, all in some astonishing manner that never allowed the muzzle to wander for an instant from its aim on the Baron's shirt stud; and then an unmistakable Oxford accent said: "Hullo?"

"Vernon?" said the Saint, and his voice was so exactly like the voice affected by Mr Henry Osbett that its originator could scarcely believe his ears. "I've got to make a change in that copy I just gave you. Make it read like this: 'They say there is safety in numbers. In that case, you can't go wrong with Miracle Tea. There are many numbers in our files, but they all praise Miracle Tea. Every number has the same message. Why should you be left out? All of you, buy Miracle Tea — tonight!'… Have you got it?… Good. See that it goes in without fail."

Simon pressed the spring bracket down with his thumb, still holding the microphone.

The Baron's stare was wide and stupefied.

"You're mad!" he said hoarsely. "You're throwing away a fortune—"

Simon laughed at him, and lifted the microphone to his ear again. He dialled the number of Scotland Yard.

"Give me Chief Inspector Teal," he said. "The Saint calling."

There was some delay on the switchboard.

The Saint looked at Baron Inescu and said: "There's one thing you forget, Baron. I like money as much as anybody else, and I use more of it than most people. But that's a side line. I also deliver justice. When you get to Dartmoor, you'll meet some other men that I've sent there. Ask them about it. And then you in your turn will be able to tell the same story."

The voice of Chief Inspector Teal blared short-windedly in his ear.

"Yes?"

"Oh, Claud? How's the old tum-tum getting — … All right, if it's a sore subject; but I wondered — … Yes, of course I have. Just a minute. Did you get six, fourteen, and twenty-seven?" Simon listened, and the contentment ripened on his face. "Well, didn't I tell you? And now you can have some more for the bag. At any time after nine o'clock there's going to be a perfect stampede of blokes asking for Miracle Tea, so you can send your squad back for more. They'd better take over the shop and grab everyone who tries to buy Miracle Tea. And while they're doing that I've got the Big Shot waiting for you. Come and get him. The address is — Excuse me."

The Saint had the telephone in one hand and a gun in the other, and it seemed impossible for him to have done it, but a narrow-bladed ivory-hilted knife stuck quivering in the desk half an inch from the Baron's fingers as they slid towards a concealed bell. And the Saint went on talking as if nothing had happened.

"Sixteen North Ashley Street, Berkeley Square; and the name is Inescu… Yes, isn't that a coincidence? But there's all the evidence you'll need to make you happy, so I don't see why you should complain. Come along over and I'll show you."

"I'll send someone over," Teal said stiffly. "And thanks very much."

Simon frowned a little.

"Why send someone?" he objected. "I thought—"

"Because I'm busy!" came a tortured howl that nearly shattered the receiver. "I can't leave the office just now. I–I'll have to send someone."

The Saint's eyebrows slowly lifted.

"But why ?" he persisted.

Eventually Mr Teal told him.

Simon Templar sat on the desk in Chief Inspector Teal's office a fortnight later. The police court proceedings had just concluded after a remand, and Baron Inescu, alias Henry Osbett, had been committed for trial in company with some three dozen smaller cogs in his machine. The report was in the evening paper which Simon had bought, and he pointed it out to Teal accusingly.

"At least you could have rung me up and thanked me again for making you look like a great detective," he said.

Mr Teal stripteased a slice of chewing gum and fed it into his mouth. "I'm sorry," he said. "I meant to do it, but there was a lot of clearing-up work to do on the case. Anyway, it's out of my hands now, and the Public Prosecutor is pretty satisfied. It's a pity there wasn't enough direct evidence to charge Inescu with the murder of Nancock, but we haven't done badly."

"You're looking pretty cheerful," said the Saint.

This was true. Mr Teal's rosy face had a fresh pink glow, and his cherubic blue eyes were clear and bright under his sleepily drooping lids.

"I'm feeling better," he said. "You know, that's the thing that really beats me about this case. Inescu could have made a fortune out of Miracle Tea without ever going in for espionage —"

The Saint's mouth fell open.

"You don't mean to say—" he ejaculated, and couldn't go on. He said: "But I thought you were ready to chew the blood out of everyone who had anything to do with Miracle Tea, if you could only have got away from—"

"I know it was rather drastic," Teal said sheepishly. "But it did the trick. Do you know, I haven't had a single attack of indigestion since I took that packet; and I even had roast pork for dinner last night!"

Simon Templar drew a long deep breath and closed his eyes. There were times when even he felt that he was standing on holy ground.

The girl's eyes caught Simon Templar as he entered the room, ducking his head instinctively to pass under the low lintel of the door; and they followed him steadily across to the bar. They were blue eyes with long lashes, and the face to which they belonged was pretty without any distinctive feature, crowned with curly yellow hair. And besides anything else, the eyes held an indefinable hint of strain.