Leslie Charteris - Alias The Saint

He stopped in his stride, and stooped; and Patricia felt herself swept up in his arms. There was a lamp-post close behind them, and the Saint leaped for it. He heard the screech of brakes and tires before he dared to look round; even then he was in time to see the pillar that sheltered him bend like a reed before the impact of the car; and he moved again, this time to one side, like lightning, as the iron column snapped at the base and came crashing down to the pavement.

Then there was a shout somewhere, and a sound of running feet; and the mutter of the car stopped.

Quietly the Saint set Patricia down again.

"How very unfortunate," he remarked. "Dearie, dearie me! ... Mr. Miles Hallin, giving evidence, stated that his nerves had been badly shaken by his smash at Brooklands. His license was suspended for six months."

A constable and half a dozen ordinary citizens were rapidly congregating around the wreckage; and an unholy glitter came into the Saint's eyes.

"Pardon me one moment, old darling," he murmured; and Patricia found herself standing alone.

But she reached the crowd in time to hear most of his contribution to the entertainment.

"Scandalous, I call it," the Saint was saying, in a voice that trembled--possibly with righteous indignation. Or possibly not. "I shall write to the Times. A positive outrage. . . . Yes, of course you can have my name and address. I shall be delighted to give evidence. . . . The streets aren't safe . . . murderous fools who ought to be in an asylum . . . Probably only just learned to drive . . . Disgraceful . . . disgusting . . . ought to be shot. . . mannerless hogs....

It was some time before the policeiman was able to sooth him; and he faded out of the picture still fuming vitriolically, to the accompaniment of a gobble of applause from the assembled populace.

And a few minutes later he was leaning helplessly against the door of his flat, his ribs aching and the tears streaming down his cheeks, while Patricia implored him wildly to open the door and take his hilarity into decent seclusion.

"Oh, but it was too beautiful, sweetheart!" he sobbed weakly, as at last he staggered into the sitting room. "If I'd missed that chance I could never have looked myself in the face again. Did you see Miles?"

"I did."

"He couldn't say a word, He didn't dare to let on that he knew me. He just had to take it all. Pat, I ask you, can life hold any more?"

Half an hour later, when he was sprawled elegantly over an armchair, with a tankard of beer in one hand and the last cigarette of the evening in the other, she ventured to ask the obvious question.

"He was waiting for us, of course?" she asked; and the Saint nodded.

"My prophetic report of the police-court proceedings would still have been correct," he drawled. "Miles Hallin has come to life."

He did not add that he could have prophesied with equal assurance that Chief Inspector Teal would not again be invited to participate in the argument--not by Miles Hallin, anyway. But he knew quite well that either Miles Hallin or Simon Templar would have to die before the argument was settled; and it would have to be settled soon.

Nevertheless, teal did participate again; and it may be said that his next intrusion was entirely his own idea.

He arrived in Upper Berkeley Mews the very next evening; and the Saint, who had seen him pass the window, opened the door before Teal's finger had reached the bell.

"This is an unexpected pleasure," Simon murmured cordially, as he propelled the detective into the sitting room. "Still, you needn't bother to tell me why you've come. A tram was stolen from Tooting last night, and you want to know if I did it. Six piebald therms are missing from the Gaslight & Coke Company's stable, and you want to know if I've got them. A seventeen-horse-power saveloy entered for the St. Leger has been stricken with glanders, and you want to know--"

"I didn't say so," observed Mr. Teal--heatedly, for him.

Never mind," said the Saint peaceably. ""We won't press the point. But you must admit that we're seeing a lot of you these days." He inspected the detective's waterline with a reflective eye. "I believe you've become a secret Glaxo drinker," he said reproachfully.

Teal gravitated towards a chair.

"I heard about your show last night," he said.

Simon smiled vaguely.

"You hear of everything, old dear," he remarked; and Teal nodded seriously.

"It's my business," he said.

He put a finger in his mouth and hitched his chewing gum into a quiet backwater; and then he leaned forward, his pudgy hands resting on his knees, and his baby blue eyes unusually wide awake.

"Will you try not to stall. Templar--just for a few minutes?"

The Saint looked at him thoughtfully; Then took a cigarette and sat down in the chair opposite.

"Sure," he said.

"I wonder if you'd even do something more that that?"

"Namely?"

"I wonder if you'd give me a straight line bout Miles Hallin--and no fooling."

"I offered you one yesterday," said the Saint, "and you wouldn't listen."

Teal nodded, shifting his feet.

"I know. But the situation wasn't quite the same. Since then I've heard about that accident last night. And that mayn't mean anything to anyone but you and me--but you've got to include me."

"Have I?"

"I'm remembering things," said the detective. "You may be a respectable member of society now, but you haven't always been one. I can remember the time when I'd have given ten years' salary for the pleasure of putting you away. Sometimes I get relapses of that feeling, even now."

"So you do," murmured the Saint,

"But this isn't one of those times," said Teal, "Just now I only want to remember another part of your record. And I know as well as anyone else that you never go after a man just because he's got a wart on his nose. Usually, your reason's fairly plain. This time it isn't. And I'm curious."

"Naturally."

"Hallin's right off your usual mark. He doesn't belong to any shady bunch. If he did, I'd know it. He isn't even a borderline case, like I knew Lemuel was.

"He isn't.''

"And yet he tried to bump you off last night,"

The Saint inhaled deeply, and exhaled again through a Saintly smile.

"If you want to know why he did that," he said, I'll tell you. It was because he's always been terribly afraid of death."

"Do you mean he thought you ere going to kill him?"

"That's not what I said. I certainly did say I was going to kill him; but whether he believed me or not is more than I can tell you at present."

"Then what do you mean?"

Simon raised his eyebrows mournfully, but he checked the protest that was almost becoming a habit. After all, Teal was only a detective. One had to make allowances.

"Miles Hallin thought no one in the world knew the truth about him," said the Saint. "And then he found that I knew. So he wanted me to die."

Teal compressed his lips.

Then he said: "And what was this truth?"

"Simply that Miles Hallin is a coward."

"Would he try to kill you for that?"

The Saint gazed at the ceiling,

"Did you take my tip about that Brooklands affair?" he asked.

"I made some inquiries," Teal shrugged. "I'm afraid it wasn't much use. I'm told no one could Improve anything."

"And yet you've come back to see me."

"After that business last night. On the level, Templar, I'd be glad of a tip. You know something that I don't know, and just this once I want you to help me. If it had looked like one of your ordinary shows, I wouldn't have done it."

"Where is the peculiar difference between this show and what you call my 'ordinary shows'?"

"You know as well as I do--"

"I don't!"

The Saint uncurled from his chair like a steel spring released, and his eyes were of the same steel. The detective realized that those eyes had been levelled unwinkingly at him for a long while; but he had not realized it before. Now he saw his mistake.