Leslie Charteris - The Saint vs Scotland Yard

"No — not you, Montgomery," he drawled. "We may want you again this evening. Back-pedal, comrade."

His arm telescoped languidly outwards, and the hand at the end of it seized the retreating Mr. Bird by one ear, fetching him up with a jerk that made him squeak in muted anguish.

Simon steered him firmly but rapidly towards the open,cupboard.

"You can cool off in there," he said; and the next sensations that impinged upon Montgomery Bird's delirious consciousness consisted of a lot of darkness and the sound of a key turning in the cupboard lock.

The Saint straightened his coat and returned to the centre of the room.

He sat down in Mr. Bird's chair, put his feet on Mr. Bird's desk, lighted one of Mr. Bird's cigars, and gazed at the ceiling with an expression of indescribable beatitude on his face; and it was thus that Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal found him.

Some seconds passed before the detective recovered the use of his voice; but when he had done this, he made up for lost time.

"What," he snarled, "the blankety blank blanking blank-blanked blank—

"Hush," said the Saint.

"Why?" snarled Teal, not unreasonably.

Simon held up his hand.

"Listen."

There was a moment's silence; and then Teal's glare recalorified.

"What am I supposed to be listening to?" he demanded violently; and the Saint beamed at him.

"Down in the forest something stirred — it was only the note of a bird," he explained sweetly.

The detective centralised his jaw with a visible effort.

"Is Montgomery Bird another of your fancy names?" he inquired, with a certain lusciousness. "Because, if it is—"

"Yes, old dear?"

"If it is," said Chief Inspector Teal grimly, "you're going to see the inside of a prison at last."

Simon regarded him imperturbably.

"On what charge?"

"You're going to get as long as I can get you for allowing drinks to be sold in your club after hours—

"And then—?"

The detective's eyes narrowed.

"What do you mean?"

Simon flourished Mr. Bird's cigar airily.

"I always understood that the police were pretty bone-headed," he remarked genially, "but I never knew before that they'd been reduced to employing Chief Inspectors for ordinary drinking raids."

Teal said nothing.

"On the other hand, a dope raid is quite a different matter," said the Saint.

He smiled at the detective's sudden stillness, and stood up, knocking an inch of ash from his cigar.

"I must be toddling along," he murmured. "If you really want to find some dope, and you've any time to spare after you've finished cleaning up the bar, you ought to try locking the door of this room and pulling up bits of wainscoting. The third and fifth sections — I can't tell you which wall. Oh, and if you want Montgomery, he's simmering down in the Frigidaire… See you again soon."

He patted the crown of Mr. Teal's bowler hat affectionately, and was gone before the detective had completely grasped what was happening.

The Saint could make those well-oiled exits when he chose; and he chose to make one then, for he was a fundamentally tactful man. Also, he had in one pocket an envelope purporting to contain one hundred pounds, and in another pocket the entire contents of Mr. Montgomery Bird's official safe; and at such times the Saint did not care to be detained.

Simon Templar pushed back his plate.

"Today," he announced, "I have reaped the first-fruits of virtue."

He raised the letter he had received, and adjusted an imaginary pair of pince-nez. Patricia waited expectantly.

The Saint read:

"Dear Mr: Templar,

"Having come across a copy of your book 'The Pirate' and having nothing to do I sat down to read it. Well, the impression it gave me was that you are a writer with no sense of proportion. The reader's sympathy owing to the faulty setting of the first chapter naturally goes all the way with Kerrigan, even though he is a crook. It is not surprising that this book has not gone to a second edition. You do not evidently understand the mentality of an English reading public. If instead of Mario you had selected for your hero an Englishman or an American, you would have written a fairly readable and a passable tale — but a lousy Dago who works himself out of impossible difficulties and situations is too much. It is not convincing. It does not appeal. In a word it is puerile.

"I fancy you yourself must have a fair amount of Dago blood in you—"

He stopped, and Patricia Holm looked at him puzzledly.

"Well?" she prompted.

"There is no more," explained the Saint. "No address — no signature — no closing peroration — nothing. Apparently words failed him. At that point he probably uttered a short sharp yelp of intolerable agony, and began to chew pieces out of the furniture. We may never know his fate. Possibly, in some distant asylum—"

He elaborated on his theory.

During a brief spell of virtue some time before, the Saint had beguiled himself with the writing of a novel. Moreover, he had actually succeeded in finding a home for it; and the adventures of Mario, a super-brigand of South America, could be purchased at any bookstall for three half-crowns. And the letter that he had just read was part of his reward.

Another part of the reward had commenced six months previously.

"Nor is this all," said the Saint, taking another document from the table. "The following billet-doux appears to close some entertaining correspondence:"

"Previous applications for payment of the undermentioned instalment for the year 1931–1932, due from you on the 1st day January, 1932, having been made to you without effect, PERSONAL DEMAND is now made for payment, and I HEREBY GIVE YOU FINAL NOTICE that if the amount be not paid or remitted to me at the above address within SEVEN DAYS from this date, steps will be taken for recovery by DISTRAINT, with costs.

LIONEL DELBORN, COLLECTOR."

In spite of the gloomy prognostications of the anonymous critic, The Pirate had not passed utterly unnoticed in the spate of sensational fiction. The Intelligence Department ("A beautiful name for them," said the Saint) of the Inland Revenue had observed its appearance, had consulted their records, and had discovered that the author, the notorious Simon Templar, was not registered as a contributor towards the expensive extravagances whereby a modern boobocracy does its share in encouraging the survival of the fattest. The Saint's views about his liabilities in this cause were not invited: he simply received an assessment which presumed his income to be six thousand pounds per annum, and he was invited to appeal against it if he thought fit. The Saint thought fit, and declared that the assessment was bad in law, erroneous in principle, excessive in amount, and malicious in intent. The discussion that followed was lengthy and diverting; the Saint, conducting his own case with remarkable forensic ability and eloquence, pleaded that he was a charitable institution and therefore not taxable.

"If," said the Saint, in his persuasive way, "you will look up the delightful words of Lord Macnaghten, in Income Tax Commissioners v. Pemsel, 1891, A.C. at p. 583, you will find that charitable purposes are there defined in four principal divisions, of which the fourth is 'trusts for purposes beneficial to the community, not falling under any of the preceding heads.' I am simply and comprehensively beneficial to the community, which the face of the third Commissioner from the left definitely is not."

We find from the published record of the proceedings that he was overruled; and the epistle he had just quoted was final and conclusive proof of the fact.

"And that," said the Saint, gazing at the formidable red lettering gloomily, "is what I get for a lifetime of philanthropy and self-denial."