Leslie Charteris - The Saint Meets His Match

And then, all at once, as it seemed, he had finished his work, and that should have been that. "The tumult and the shouting dies, the sinners and the Saints depart," as the Saint himself so beautifully put it. All adventures come to an end. But Jill Trelawney.

"Jill Trelawney," said the Saint dreamily, "is a new interest. I tell you, Teal, I was going to take the longest holiday of my life. But since Jill Trelawney is still at large, and your bunch of flat-footed nit-wits hasn't been able to do anything about it…"

And after considerable elaboration of his point, the Saint was permitted to say much the same thing to the commissioner; but this interview was briefer.

"You can try," said the chief. "There are some photographs and her dossier. We pulled her in last week, after the Angels wrecked the raid on Harp's dope joint—"

"And she showed up with a copper-bottomed alibi you could have sailed through a Pacific hurricane," drawled the Saint. "Yeah?"

"Get her," snapped the chief.

"Three weeks," drawled the Saint laconically, and walked out of Scotland Yard warbling a verse of the comedy song hit of the season — written by himself.

As he passed the startled doorkeeper, he got a superb yodelling effect into the end of that last line.

And that was exactly thirty-six hours before he met Jill Trelawney for the first time.

And precisely at three o'clock on the afternoon after he had first met her, Simon Templar walked down Belgrave Street, indisputably the most astonishingly immaculate and elegant policeman that ever walked down Belgrave Street, was admitted to No. 97, was shown up the stairs, walked into the drawing room. If possible, he was more dark and cavalier and impudent by daylight than he had been by night. Weald and the girl were there.

"Good-afternoon," said the Saint.

His voice stoked the conventional greeting with an infinity of mocking arrogance. He was amused, in his cheerful way. He judged that the rankling thoughts of the intervening night and morning would not have improved their affection for him, and he was amused.

"Nice day," he drawled.

"We hardly expected you," said the girl.

"Your error," said the Saint comfortably.

He tossed his hat into a chair and glanced back at the door which had just closed behind him.

"I don't like your line in butlers," he said. "I suppose you know that Frederick Wells has a very eccentric record. Aren't you afraid he might disappear with the silver?"

"Wells is an excellent servant."

"Fine! And how's Pinky?"

"Budd is out at the moment. He'll be right back."

"Fine again!" The mocking blue eyes absorbed Stephen Weald from the feet upwards. "And what position does this freak hold in the establishment? Pantry boy?"

Weald gnawed his lip and said nothing. There was a cross of sticking plaster over the bruised cut in his chin to remind him that a man like Simon Templar is apt to confuse physical violence with abstract repartee. Stephen Weald felt cautious.

"Mr. Weald is a friend of mine," said the girl, "and I'd be obliged if you'd refrain from insulting him in my house."

"Anything to oblige," said the Saint affably. "I apologize."

And he contrived to make a second insult of the apology.

The girl had to call up all her resources of self-control to preserve an outward calm. Inwardly she felt all the fury that the Saint had aroused the night before boiling up afresh.

"I wonder," she said, with a strained evenness, "why nobody's ever murdered you, Simon Templar?"

"People have tried," the Saint said mildly. "It's never quite succeeded, somehow. But there's still hope."

He seemed to enjoy the thought. It was quite clear that his detestableness was no unfortunate trick of manner. It was too offensively deliberate. He had brought discourtesy in all its branches to a fine art, and he ladled out his masterpieces with no uncertain enthusiasm.

"How are the Angels this afternoon?" he inquired.

"They are" — she waved a vague hand—"here and there."

"Nice for them. May I sit down?"

"I think—"

"Thanks." He sat down. "But don't let me stop you thinking."

She took a cigarette from the box beside her and fitted it into a long amber holder. Weald applied a match.

"You forgot to ask me if I minded," said the Saint reproachfully. "Where are your manners, Jill?"

She turned in her chair — a movement far more abrupt than she meant it to be.

"If the police have to pester me," she said, "I should have appreciated their consideration if they'd sent a gentleman to do it."

"Sorry," said Simon. "Our gentlemen are all out pestering ladies. The chief thought I'd be good enough for you. Backchat. However, I'll pass on your complaint when I get back."

"If you get back."

"This afternoon," said the Saint. "And I shan't worry if he takes me off the job. Man-size criminals are my mark, and footling around with silly little girls like you is just squandering my unique qualities as a detective. More backchat."

Weald butted in, from the other side of the room:

"Jill, why do you waste time—"

"It amuses her," said the Saint. "When she's finished amusing herself, she'll tell us why my time's being wasted here at all. I didn't fall through a trapdoor in the hall, I wasn't electrocuted when I touched the banister rail, no mechanical gadget shot out of the wall and hit me over the head when I trod on the thirteenth stair. I wasn't shot by a spring gun on the way up. Where's your ingenuity?"

"Saint—"

"Of course, your father was English. Did you get your accent from him or from the talkies?"

He was enjoying himself. She was forced to the exasperating realization that he was playing with her, as if he were making a game of the encounter for his own secret satisfaction. At the least sign of resentment she gave, he registered the scoring of a point to himself as unmistakably as if he had chalked it up on a board.

"By the way," Simon said, "you really must stop annoying Essenden. He came in to see us the other day, and he was most upset. Remember that his nerves aren't as strong as mine. If you murdered him, for instance, I couldn't promise you that he wouldn't be really seriously annoyed."

"Whether I'm responsible for any shocks that Essenden's had, or not," said the girl calmly, "is still waiting to be proved."

"I don't expect it will wait very long," said the Saint comfortably. "You amateur crooks are never very clever."

Jill Trelawney took from her bag a tiny mirror and a gold-cased lipstick. She attended to the shaping of her mouth unconcernedly.

"Templar, you gave me your word of honour you would come alone today."

"Fancy that! And did you believe it?"

"I was prepared to."

"Child," said the Saint, "you amaze me."

He stood up and walked to the window in long jerky strides.

From there he beckoned her, looking down to the street from behind the curtains.

"Come here."

She came, after a pause, with a bored languidness; but it was impossible to make him show the least impatience.

"See there!"

He pointed down with a challenging forefinger.

"See and hear that man singing 'Rose in the Bud' at the harmonium? He's just waiting for me to come out and tell him he can go home. And you see the man farther up with the ice-cream cart? He's standing by. And the man selling newspapers on this side? More of the posse. You credited me with the darn thing, so I thought I'd live up to it. There's ten of 'em spread around this block now!"

"I'm sorry. I thought even your word of honour might be worth something. But now—"

"You'll know better next time, won't you?" Little flinty jags of amusement twinkled in his eyes. "What was the joke I was supposed to buy? Pinky Budd waiting downstairs in the hall with a handful of Angels? Or just a button you press up here that starts off the trapdoor and the electric banister rail and the mechanical gadget in the thirteenth stair?"