Leslie Charteris - Follow the Saint

"You remember our old pal and playmate, Red McGuire?" he murmured. "Just back from a holiday at Parkhurst after his last job of robbery with violence. Somebody told him about all those jewels we keep around, and he couldn't wait to drop in and see them. Why didn't you ring the bell, Red, and save yourself the trouble of carving up our door?"

McGuire sat on the floor and tenderly rubbed his head.

"Okay," he growled. "I can do without the funny stuff. Go on an' call the cops."

Simon considered the suggestion. It seemed a very logical procedure. But it left an unfinished edge of puzzlement still in his mind.

There was something about finding himself the victim of an ordinary burglary that didn't quite ring bells. He knew well enough that his reputation was enough to make any ordinary burglar steer as far away from him as the landscape would allow. And serious burglars didn't break into any dwelling chosen at random and hope for the best, without even knowing the identity of the occupant — certainly not burglars with the professional status of Red McGuire. Therefore…

His eyes drained detail from the scene with fine drawn intentness. Nothing seemed to have been touched. Perhaps he had arrived too quickly for that. Everything was as he had left it when he went to bed. Except—

The emptied packet of Miracle Tea which Patricia had bought for him that evening was still in his coat pocket. The packet which he had refilled for Teal's personal consumption was still on the table… Or was it?

For on the floor, a yard from where Red McGuire had fallen, lay another identical packet of Miracle Tea.

Simon absorbed the jar of realization without batting an eyelid. But a slowly increasing joy crept into the casual radiance of his smile.

"Why ask me to be so unfriendly, Red?" he drawled. "After all, what's a packet of tea between friends?"

If he needed any confirmation of his surmise, he had it in the way Red McGuire's small green eyes circled the room and froze on the yellow carton beside him before they switched furtively back to the Saint's face.

"Wot tea?" McGuire mumbled sullenly.

"Miracle Tea," said the Saint gently. "The juice that pours balm into the twinging tripes. That's what you came here for tonight, Red. You came here to swipe my beautiful packet of gut-grease and leave some phony imitation behind instead!"

McGuire glowered at him stubbornly.

"I dunno wot yer talkin' abaht."

"Don't you?" said the Saint, and his smile had become almost affectionate. "Then you're going to find the next half hour tremendously instructive."

He straightened up and reached over for a steel chair that stood close to him, and slid it across in the direction of his guest.

"Don't you find the floor rather hard?" he said. "Take a pew and make yourself happy, because it looks as if we may be in for a longish talk."

A wave of his gun added a certain amount of emphasis to the invitation, and there was a crispness in his eyes that carried even more emphasis than the gun.

McGuire hauled himself up hesitantly and perched on the edge of the chair, And the Saint beamed at him.

"Now if you'll look in the top drawer of the desk, Pat — I think there's quite a collection of handcuffs there. About three pairs ought to be enough. One for each of his ankles, and one to fasten his hands behind him."

McGuire shifted where he sat.

"Wot's the idea?" he demanded uneasily.

"Just doing everything we can to make you feel at home," answered the Saint breezily. "Would you mind putting your hands behind you so that the lady can fix you up?… Thanks ever so much… Now if you'll just move your feet back up against the legs of the chair—"

Rebellious rage boiled behind the other's sulky scowl, a rage that had its roots in a formless but intensifying fear. But the Saint's steady hand held the conclusive argument, and he kept that argument accurately aligned on McGuire's wishbone until the last cuff had been locked in place and the strong-arm expert was shackled to the steel chair-frame as solidly as if he had been riveted on to it.

Then Simon put down his automatic and languidly flipped open the cigarette box.

"I hate to do this to you," he said conversationally, "but we've really got to do something about that memory of yours. Or have you changed your mind about answering a few questions?"

McGuire glared at him without replying.

Simon touched a match to his cigarette and glanced at Patricia through a placid trail of smoke.

"Can I trouble you some more, darling? If you wouldn't mind plugging in that old electric curling-iron of yours—"

McGuire's eyes jerked and the handcuffs clinked as he strained against them.

"Go on, why don't yer call the cops?" he blurted hoarsely. "You can't do anything to me!"

The Saint strolled over to him.

"Just who do you think is going to stop me?" he asked kindly.

He slipped his hands down inside McGuire's collar, one on each side of the neck, and ripped his shirt open clear to the waist with one swift wrench that sprung the buttons pinging across the room like bullets.

"Get it good and hot, darling," he said over his shoulder, "and we'll see how dear old Red likes the hair on his chest waved."

Red McGuire stared up at the Saint's gentle smile and ice-cold eyes, and the breath stopped in his throat. He was by no means a timorous man, but he knew when to be afraid — or thought he did.

"You ain't given me a charnce, guv'nor," he whined. "Why don't yer arsk me somethink I can answer? I don't want to give no trouble."

Simon turned away from him to flash a grin at Patricia — a grin that McGuire was never meant to see.

"Go ahead and get the iron, sweetheart," he said, with bloodcurdling distinctness, and winked at her. "Just in case old dear Red changes his mind."

Then the wink and the grin vanished together as he whipped round on his prisoner.

"All right," he snapped. "Tell me all you know about Miracle Tea!"

"I dunno anythink about it, so help me, guv'nor. I never heard of it before tonight. All I know is I was told to come here wiv a packet, an' if I found another packet here I was to swop them over an' bring your packet back. That's all I know about it, strike me dead if it ain't."

"I shall probably strike you dead if it is," said the Saint coldly. "D'you mean to tell me that Comrade Osbett didn't say any more than that?"

"Who's that?"

"I said Osbett. You know who I'm talking about."

"I never heard of 'im."

Simon moved towards him with one fist drawn back.

"That's Gawd's own truth!" shouted McGuire desperately. "I said I'd tell yer anythink I could, didn't I? It ain't my fault if I don't know everythink—"

"Then who was it told you to come here and play tea-parties?"

"I dunno… Listen!" begged McGuire frantically. "This is a squeal, ain't it? Well, why won't yer believe me? I tell yer, I don't know. It was someone who met me when I come out of stir. I dunno wot is name is, an' in this business yer don't arsk questions. He ses to me, would I like fifty quid a week to do any dirty work there is going, more er less. I ses, for fifty quid a week I'll do anythink he can think of. So he gives me twenty quid on account, an' tells me to go anywhere where there's a telephone an' just sit there beside it until he calls me. So tonight he rings up—"

"And you never knew who he was?"

"Never in me life, strike me dead—"

"How do you get the rest of your money?"

"He just makes a date to meet me somewhere an' hands it over."

"And you don't even know where he lives?"

"So help me, I don't. All I got is a phone number where I can ring him."

"What is this number?"

"Berkeley 3100."

Simon studied him calculatingly. The story had at least a possibility of truth, and the way McGuire told it it sounded convincing. But the Saint didn't let any premature cameraderie soften his implacably dissecting gaze.