Leslie Charteris - The Saint and Mr. Teal

The commissioner accepted the exposition with his characteristic sniff.

"I don't anticipate that the Home Secretary will approve of that method of curtailing the Saint's activities," he said. "Failing the adoption of your interesting scheme, I shall hold you personally responsible for Templar's behaviour."

It was an unsatisfactory day for Mr. Teal from every conceivable angle, for he was in the act of putting on his hat preparatory to leaving Scotland House that night when a report was brought to him which made his baby-blue eyes open wide with sheer incredulous disgust.

He read the typewritten sheet three times before he had fully absorbed all the implications of it, and then he grabbed the telephone and put through a sulphurous call to the department responsible.

"Why the devil didn't you send me this report before?" he demanded.

"We only received it half an hour ago, sir," explained the offending clerk. "You know what these country police are."

Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal slammed back the receiver and kept his opinion of those country police to himself. He knew very well what they were. The jealousy that exists between the provincial C.I.D.'s and Scotland Yard is familiar to anyone even remotely connected with matters of criminal investigation: on the whole, Teal could have considered himself fortunate in that the provincial office concerned had condescended to communicate with him at all on its own initiative, instead of leaving him to learn the news from a late evening paper.

He sat on in his tiny office for another hour, staring at the message which had filtered the last ray of sunshine out of his day. It informed him that a certain Mr. Wolseley Lormer had been held up in broad daylight in his office at Southend that afternoon and robbed of close on two thousand pounds by an intruder whom he never even saw. It would not have been a particularly remarkable crime by any standards if the caretaker who discovered the outrage had not also discovered a crude haloed figure chalked on the outer door of Mr. Lormer's suite. And the one immutable fact which Chief Inspector Teal could add to the information given him was that at the very time when the robbery was committed the Saint was safely locked up in Newhaven police station — and Mr. Teal was talking to him.

ONE of the charms of London, as against those of more up-to-date and scientific cities, is the multitude of queer little unscientific dwellings which may be found by the experienced explorer who wanders a mere hundred yards out of the broad regular thoroughfares and pries into the secrets of dilapidated alleys and unpromising courtyards. At some time in the more recent history of the city there must have been many adventurous souls who felt the urge to escape from the creeping development of modern steam-heated apartments planned with Euclidean exactitude and geometrically barren of all individuality. Wherever a few rooms with an eccentric entrance could be linked up and made comfortable, a home was established which in the days when there came a boom in such places was to repay a staggering percentage to the originality of its creators.

With his infallible instinct for these things, Simon Templar had unearthed this very type of ideal home within a matter of hours after he returned to London.

His old stronghold in Upper Berkeley Mews, which he had fitted up years ago with all the expensive gadgets essential to a twentieth-century robber baron, had been the centre of an undue amount of official curiosity just before he embarked on his last hurried trip abroad. It no longer had any ingenious secrets to conceal from the inquisitive hostility of Scotland Yard; and the Saint felt in the mood for a change of scene. He found a suitable change in a quiet cul-de-sac off the lower end of Queen's Gate, that broad tree-lined avenue which would be a perfect counterpart of the most Parisian boulevard if its taxis and inhabitants were less antique and moth-eaten. The home of his choice was actually situated in a mews which ran across the end of the cul-de-sac like the cross-bar of a T, but some earlier tenant had arranged to combine respectability with a garage on the premises, and had cut a street door and windows through the blank wall that closed the cul-de-sac, so that the Saint's new home was actually an attractive little two-storied cottage that faced squarely down between the houses, while the garage and mews aspect was discreetly hidden at the rear. It was almost perfectly adapted to the Saint's eccentric circumstances and strategic requirements; and it is a notable fact that he was able to shift so much lead out of the pants of the estate agents concerned that he was fully installed in his new premises within forty-eight hours of finding that they were to let, which anyone who has ever had anything to do with London estate agents will agree was no mean piece of lead-shifting.

Simon was personally supervising the unpacking of some complicated electrical apparatus when Mr. Teal found him at home on the third day. He had not notified his change of address, and it had taken Mr. Teal some time to locate him; but the Saint's welcome was ingenuous cordiality itself.

"Make yourself at home, Claud," he murmured. "There's a new packet of gum in the sitting room, and I'll be with you in two minutes."

He joined the detective punctually to a second, dusting some wood shavings from his trousers, and there was nothing whatever in his manner to indicate that he could anticipate any unpleasantness. He found Teal clasping his bowler hat across his stomach and gazing morosely at an unopened package of Wrigley's Three Star which sat up sedately in the middle of the table.

"I just came in," said the detective, "to tell you I liked your alibi."

"That was friendly of you," said the Saint calmly.

"What do you know about Lormer?"

Simon lighted a cigarette.

"Nothing except that he's a receiver of stolen goods, an occasional blackmailer, and a generally septic specimen of humanity. He's quite a small fish, but he's very nasty. Why?"

Teal ignored the question. He shifted a wad of gum meditatively round his mouth, and then swept the Saint's face with unexpectedly searching eyes. "Your alibi is good enough," he said, "but I'm still hoping to learn some more about your friends. You used work with four of 'em, didn't you? I've often wondered how they all managed to reform so quickly."

The Saint smiled gently.

"Still the same old gang theory?" he drawled. "If I didn't know your playful ways so well, Claud, I'd be offended. It's not complimentary. You must find it hard to believe that so many remarkable qualities can be concentrated under one birth certificate, but as time goes on you may get used to the idea. I was quite a prodigy as a child. From the day when I stole the corsets off my old nannie—"

"If you're getting another gang together, or raking up the old lot," Teal said decisively, "we'll soon know all about it. What about that girl who used to be with you — Miss Holm, wasn't it? What's her alibi?"

"Does she want one? I expect it could be arranged."

"I expect it could. She landed at Croydon the day before we found you at Newhaven. I've only just learned that. Lormer never saw the man who knocked him out and emptied his safe, so just in case it wasn't a man at all—"

"I think you're on the wrong line," said the Saint genially. "After all, even a defective — detective — has got to consider probabilities. In the old days, before all this vulgar publicity, I could put my trade mark on every genuine article; but you must admit that times have changed. Now that every half-wit in the British Isles knows who I am, is it likely that if I contemplated any crimes I'd be such a fool as to draw Saints all over 'em? D'you think you could make any jury believe it? I've got a reputation, Claud. I may be wicked, but I'm not waffy. It's obvious that some low crook is trying to push his stuff onto me."