Leslie Charteris - The Saint and Mr. Teal

"Guess you're too good for this, baby," he said. "Why don't you take a rest?"

He had asked that before; and she made the equivalent of every other answer she had given him.

"Would I get a lot of rest in your flat?"

Tex Goldman grinned and discarded another half-smoked cigar. He knew what he wanted, knew how to get it, and had an infinite capacity for patience in certain directions.

It was after two o'clock when he left the club — and the girl — and took a taxi back to Baker Street. In his apartment he exchanged his tail coat for a silk dressing gown, removed his collar and tie, and settled himself in an armchair over an evening paper.

Half an hour later his bell rang, and he went to open the door. A red-eyed Ted Orping stood outside, looking rather dishevelled in spite of his flashy clothes, with Clem Enright a little behind him.

"Well?"

There was trouble plainly marked on every feature of Ted Orping's face, ratified in the peaked countenance of Clem Enright; but Tex Goldman showed no emotion. He let the Green Cross boys pass, closed the door after them, and followed them through to the sitting room. Clem Enright sat awkwardly on the edge of an upright chair, while Ted Orping flung himself asprawl in an armchair and kept his hat on. Naturally it was Ted Orping who was the spokesman.

"Boss — we were hijacked."

Goldman gauged the length of his cigar butt calmly.

"How?"

"It was Corrigan's fault. Joe said he must have a drink before we did the job, an' he drove us round to Sam Harp's. Sam don't care what time it is if he's awake. We had a couple, an' came out — Clem an' me first, an' Joe last. Least, we thought it was Joe. We got in the car and drove off. We could only see what we thought was Joe's back, driving, an' we went up Regent Street to Peabody's. Did the job properly, just as it'd been fixed, an' hopped back in the wagon. There was a copper — a bull — on the beat, but he never got near us. We went around Regent's Park, an' then this guy cut out of it an' stopped. I still thought it was Joe. I asked him what he was playin' at, an' then he turned round. It wasn't Joe."

"Who was it?"

"The Saint." Ted looked at Goldman grimly and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "He stuck us up with a gun, an' took the bag. I went for him, an' his gun squirted ammonia in my face. He had another wagon fixed for his getaway. I was blind for a quarter of an hour. Clem had to drive me here."

Tex Goldman's cigar had gone out. He shredded it into the wastepaper basket.

"Where's Corrigan?"

"I dunno. We come straight here. There wasn't nothing we could do."

Goldman sat down. His square stubby fingers drummed on the arm of his chair, while his narrowed black eyes remained fixed on Ted Orping's face.

"We ain't here to be hijacked," he said. "We're here for all we can get. Get it quick — no mistakes — and scram. No one's gonna give us the runaround. Not dicks, Saints, nor anyone else. Anyone that gets in the way — well, it'll be just too bad about him. You got a gun. It's meant to be used. Back where I come from, we shoot fast and often. It saves trouble."

"Sure."

The black eyes swivelled round to Clem.

"You got a gun, Enright?"

"N-no, sir."

Goldman hitched open a drawer and dragged out a heavy blue-black automatic and a box of cartridges. He tossed the items, one after another, across the room to the little cockney.

"You got one now — and I didn't give it you for ornament. There's no room for pikers or double-crossers in this racket. Anyone that don't toe the line is only safe in one place. Anyone — understand?"

"Y-yes, sir."

Clem Enright turned the gun over in his hand, felt the weight of it, tested his fingers round the grip. He put it away in his pocket, reluctantly, with the box of cartridges, his eyes gleaming. He drew a deep breath and held some of it back, giving himself a chest, and conscious all the time of Ted Orping's critical scrutiny.

"I'll use it, Mr. Goldman," he said.

The whir of the front-door buzzer broke in on them sharply, sounding again and again, insistently.

Tex Goldman raised the lid of a cigar box.

"See who it is, Ted."

Orping slouched up and went out. The front door opened, and Joe Corrigan came bursting through into the sitting room. Ted Orping followed him in. Corrigan's hair was awry, his tie loose and askew; and his clothes looked as if he had been pulled backwards through a hedge. He stood just inside the room, breathing heavily, glancing from one face to another.

Goldman surveyed him with distaste.

"What d'you mean by coming here like that?" he demanded harshly. "Are you aiming to tell the world I'm in the habit of entertaining a pack of hoboes in my apartment at three o'clock in the morning?"

"I'm sorry," Corrigan said stolidly. "I thought I'd better come here at once and tell you what happened."

"I've heard most of it. What happened to you?"

Corrigan rubbed the palms of his hands down his trousers.

"We went to Sam Harp's, and I was coming out last. Ted was in a hurry to go, and I stayed to pay for the last round. There's a dark corridor between Sam's private room and the side door, and as I came down there I was caught from behind. There was two of 'em — whoever they were — and they had a handkerchief with chloroform on it. I sort of passed out. When I woke up I was lying on a heap of bricks in a building lot just next to Sam's."

"What did Harp say about it?"

"He didn't know anything. Said he locked the door after he let us in, and couldn't see that anyone had forced it."

"Have you any idea who the other guy was — besides the Saint?"

"I don't know, Mr. Goldman. I didn't hear neither of them speak—"

Corrigan's voice died away. The cold black eyes of Tex Goldman, screwed down to vicious pinpoints, were boring into his face with an inclement ferocity that appalled him. Ted Orping started up — one abrupt menacing movement. Clem Enright moved his feet restlessly, his mouth opening in stupid perplexity.

Tex Goldman's cigar waved a slight gesture of restraint.

"You didn't seem surprised when I mentioned the Saint, Corrigan," said the gunman silkily. "Who told you that was who it was?"

"I don't… Nobody told me, Mr. Goldman. I–I s'pose—"

"You skunk!"

Goldman moved with startling suddenness, swiftly and savagely. He pulled himself out of his chair and stepped up to within a foot of the Irishman. His eyes never left the other's face. One of his hands grasped the man's coat collar; the other dived into Corrigan's pockets, one after another, like a striking snake. It came out of one trouser pocket with a roll of new one-pound notes.

He flung Corrigan back. Ted Orping seized Corrigan from behind as the Irishman's fists clenched.

"You dirty double-crossing rat! So you sold us to the Saint!"

Goldman tore the notes across and across, and scattered them over the floor.

"Get out of here!"

"Listen, Goldman — I didn't—"

"Get out!"

Ted Orping twisted the man round and pushed him towards the door. Corrigan's eyes flamed, and he took a pace back into the room. Orping's hand touched his hip.

Then Joe Corrigan turned on his heel and left the apartment.

Tex Goldman looked at Orping steadily. There was a question in Ted Orping's gaze, another question in Tex Goldman's. Temporarily forgotten in his corner, Clem Enright shuffled his feet again, open-mouthed.

"There's only one way to deal with traitors," Goldman said.

Ted Orping nodded. He shrugged, with the callous understanding that he had been taught, and pulled down the brim of his hat. He went out without a word.

He caught Joe Corrigan in the street.

"Walk a little way with me, Joe?"

"You get away from me," grated Corrigan surlily. "I don't want your company."