Leslie Charteris - The Saint Meets His Match

Perhaps Sir Francis Trelawney had been framed. Perhaps he had not been framed. If he had been framed, it had been brilliantly done. If he had not been framed. Well, it was quite natural that a girl like Jill Trelawney, as he estimated her, might refuse to believe it. And, either way, if you looked at it from the standpoint of a law-abiding citizen and an incipient policeman to boot, the rights and wrongs of the Trelawney case made no difference to the rights and wrongs of Jill.

Within the past five months, a complete dozen of valuable prisoners had been rescued from under the very arms of the law, long as those arms were traditionally reputed to be; and the manner of their rescue, in every case, betrayed such an exhaustive knowledge of police methods and routine that at times a complete reorganization of the Criminal Investigation Department's system seemed to be the only possible alternative to impotent surrender. And this, as is the way of such things, accurately coincided with one of those waves of police unpopularity and hysterical newspaper criticism which make commissioners and superintendents acidulated and old before their time. Clearly, it could not go on. The newspapers said so, and therefore it must have been so. And the Saint understood quite calmly and contentedly that, after the matter in which the Saint had made his debut as a law-abiding citizen, either the Angels of Doom or Simon Templar had got to come to a sudden and sticky end.

Completely comprehending this salient fact, the Saint drank his breakfast coffee black the next morning, and sent the milk bottle from outside his front door to an analyst. He had the report by lunchtime.

"At least," he told Cullis, "I'm collecting the makings of a case against the Angels."

"There was nothing against them before," assented the commissioner sarcastically.

Simon shook his head.

"There wasn't. Assaulting the police, obstructing the police — I tell you, in spite of everything, you could only have got them on minor charges. But attempted murder—"

"Or even real murder," said Cullis cheerfully.

"Slinky" Dyson had squealed. Simon Templar had to admit that nothing but that happy windfall had enabled him to step so promptly upon the tail of the Angels of Doom. Slinky was pulled sin for suspicious loitering one evening, and when they searched him they found on his person a compact leather wallet containing tools which were held to be house-breaking implements within the meaning of the Act. Simon happened to be in Marlborough Street police station at the time, and witnessed the discovery.

"I was waiting for a friend," said Slinky. "Honest I was."

"Honest you may have was," said the inspector heavily. "But you grew out of that years ago."

Shortly after Slinky had been locked up, he asked to speak to the inspector again, and the inspector thought the squeal sufficiently promising to fetch Teal in to hear it. And then Teal sent in the Saint.

"I told you I was waiting for a friend," said Slinky, "and that's gospel. But if you'd pulled me to-morrow… I was going down to take a look at Lord Essenden's party. I had a tip from the Angels. You'll find the letter in my room — I put it in the Bible on the shelf over the bed. They said I was to take what I liked, how I liked, and they'd see I made a good getaway. Now, you ain't told me why I'm here, but I know. There's been a scream. I don't know why they should want to shop me, but there's been a scream… An' I'd take is as a favour, sir, if you'd tell me who was the screamer."

"I don't know," said the Saint truthfully. "Maybe you talk in your sleep."

They found the letter as Slinky had said they would find it, and it was short and to the point.

And the Saint, acting upon it, went to Lord.Essenden's party unknown to Lord Essenden, and thus met Jill Trelawney and Stephen Weald and Pinky Budd; and what followed we know.

After the jokes of the machine gun and the milk, the Saint saw Slinky Dyson again, and was able to give some unhelpful information to that puzzled man.

"There was no scream," he said. "That is official. It was just your bad luck, Slinky."

Dyson scratched his head.

"I'll believe you, Mr. Templar. It was bad luck all right. But you'll remember my squeak, sir?"

"You were remanded for a week, weren't you?"

"Yes, Mr. Templar."

"If we let you out, will you take a job?"

"What sort of job?" asked Slinky suspiciously.

"Oh, not work," said the Saint soothingly. "I wouldn't dream of asking you to do that."

Slinky relaxed.

"I'll hear about it, Mr. Templar."

"How much do you want for a black eye?"

Slinky stared.

"Beg pardon, Mr. Templar?"

"You heard me."

The man shifted his eyes nervously, and giggled.

"Wh-what?"

"I didn't ask you to give an imitation of a consumptive Wyandotte laying a bad egg," said the Saint patiently. "I asked you how much you wanted for a black eye."

"You want to give me a black eye, Mr. Templar?"

"Very much indeed."

"What for?"

"Five pounds."

"What for after that?"

"Do you know how to get in touch with the Angels?"

Slinky shook his head.

"Never mind that," said the Saint. "I guess they'll hear about it, if you carry it round and talk a lot about how I gave it to you — without mentioning the five pounds. Tell the world how I beat you up and tried to make you howl on the Angels, and how you're going to get even with me one day. The Angels don't like me, and they'd be glad to find a man who hates me as much as you're going to. If we're lucky, you'll find yourself enlisted in the gang in less than no time. Then you keep me posted."

"You mean," said Slinky, "you want me to be your nose?"

"That's the idea."

Dyson sighed.

"I've never been a nose," he said solemnly. "No, Mr. Templar, it can't be done."

"You will be paid," said the Saint deliberately, "twenty pounds' cash for every genuine piece of news you send in about what the Angels are going to do next and how they're going to do it."

Slinky closed his eyes sanctimoniously.

"My conscience," he said, "wouldn't allow me to do a thing like that, Mr. Templar."

"You'll remember," the Saint reminded him persuasively, "that I could get you sent down for six months' hard right now."

Dyson blinked.

"If it wasn't for my principles," he said sadly, "I'd be very happy to oblige you, Mr. Templar."

Eventually, when he found that the Saint had no intention of raising his price, except in the matter of ten pounds instead of five for the black eye, he managed to choke down his conscience and accept. Simon arranged for him to be brought before the magistrate again the next morning, when he would be released, and started back to Scotland Yard in a taxi. But on the way he had an idea.

"The machine gun," he reflected, "was Pinky's voluntary. Weald would have thought of the prussic acid in the milk. We're still waiting for Jill's contribution — and it might be very cunning to meet it halfway."

The inspiration, duly considered, appealed to him; and he gave fresh instructions to the driver.

The door of the house in Belgrave Street was a long time opening in response to his peal on the bell. Perhaps to make up for this, it was very quick in starting to shut again as soon as Frederick Wells had recognized the caller. But Simon Templar was more than ordinarily skilful at thrusting himself in where he was not wanted.

"Not good enough, Freddie," he drawled regretfully, and closed the door himself — from the inside.

The butler glowered.

"Miss Trelawney is out," he said.

"You lie, Ferdinand," said the Saint pleasantly, and went on up the stairs.

He really had no idea whether the butler was lying or not, but he gave him the benefit of the doubt. As it happened, this generous impulse was justified, for Jill Trelawney opened the door of the sitting room just as Simon put his hand on the knob.