Андрей Л.Рюмин - 03 Enter the Saint

Then Conway remembered the message he had left in the landlord's hands at the Bell, and they piled hurriedly into the car in which Conway and Stan­nard had driven up. They retrieved the message, tidied themselves, and dined. "I think we can call it a day," said the Saint comfortably, when the coffee was on the table. "The check will be cashed on Monday morning, and the proceeds will be regis­tered to the London Hospital, as arranged-less our ten per cent commission, which I don't mind saying I think we've earned. I think I shall enclose one of my celebrated self-portraits-a case like this ought to finish in a worthy dramatic manner, and that opportunity's too good to miss."

He stretched himself luxuriously, and lighted a fresh cigarette which did not explode. "Before I go to bed tonight," he said, "I'll drop a line to old Teal and tell him where to look for our friends. I'm afraid they'll have a hungry and uncomfortable night, but I can't help that. And now, my infants, I suggest that we adjourn to London."

They exchanged drinks and felicitations with the lord and master of the Bell, and it should stand to the eternal credit of that amiable gentleman that not by the twitch of an eyebrow did he signify any surprise at the somewhat battered appearance of two of the party. Then they went out to their cars.

"Who's coming back with me?" asked Tremayne.

"I'm going back without you, laddie," said Jerry Stannard. "Gwen's coming with me!"

They cheered the Buick out of sight; and then the Saint climbed into the back of the Furillac and set­tled himself at his ease.

"Mr. Conway will drive," he said. "Deprived of my charming conversation, you will ponder over the fact that our friend is undoubtedly for it. You may also rehearse the song which I've just composed for us to sing at his funeral-I mean wedding. It's about a wicked young lover named Jerry, who had methods decidedly merry. When the party got very! . . . Oh, very!. . . Take me to the Savoy, Roger. I have a date. . . . Night-night, dear old bacteria!"

THE LAWLESS LADY

Chapter I FOR A LAW-BREAKER, in the midst of his law-breaking, to be attempting at the same time to carry on a feud with a chief inspector of police, might be called heroically quixotic. It might equally well be called pure blame-foolishness of the most suicidal variety-according to the way you look at these things. Simon Templar found it vastly entertaining. Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal, of the Crim­inal Investigation Department, New Scotland Yard, that great detective (and he was nearly as great in mere bulk as he was in reputation) found it an in­teresting novelty. Teal was reputed to have the longest memory of any man at the Yard. It was said, perhaps with some exaggeration, that if the Records Office happened to be totally destroyed by fire, Teal could personally have rewritten the entire dossier of every criminal therein recorded, methods, habits, haunts, and notable idiosyncrasies completely included-and added thereto a rough but reliable sketch of every set of fingerprints therewith con­nected. Certainly, he had a long memory.

He distinctly remembered a mysterious Police­man, whom an enterprising journalist called the Policeman with Wings, who was strangely reincar­nated some time after the originator and (normal) patentee of the idea had departed to heaven-or some other place beginning with the same letter- on top of a pile of dynamite, thereby depriving Teal of the pleasure of handing over to his commissioner fifty thousand pounds' worth of diamonds which had been lost for seven years. Mr. Teal suspected-not without reason-that Simon Templar's fertile brain had given birth to the denouement of that gentle jest. And Mr. Teal's memory was long. Therefore the secret activities of the Saint came to be some­what hampered by a number of massive gentlemen in bowler hats, who took to patrolling Brook Street in relays like members of a Scottish clan mounting guard over the spot where their chieftain is sure he had dropped a sixpence.

The day arrived when Simon Templar tired of this gloomy spectacle, and, having nothing else to do, armed himself with a stout stick and sallied forth for a walk, looking as furtive and conspiratorial as he knew how. He was as fit as a fiddle and shouting for exercise. He walked westward through London, and crossed the Thames by Putney Bridge. He left Kingston behind him. Continuing southwest, he took Esher and Cabham in his stride. He walked fast, enjoying himself. Not until he reached Ripley did he pause, and there he swung into a convenient hostel towards six o'clock, after twenty-three brisk miles had been spurned by his walking shoes.

The afternoon had been sunny and warm. Simon knocked back a couple of pints of beer as if he felt he had earned every drop of them, smoked a couple of cigarettes, and then started back to the road with a refreshed spring in his step. On his way out, in another bar, he saw a man with a very red face. The man had a bowler hat on the seat beside him, and he appeared to be melting steadily into a large spotted handkerchief.

Simon approached him like an old friend. "Are you ready to go on?" he asked. "I'm making for Guildford next. From there, I make for Winchester, where I shall have dinner, and I expect to sleep in Southampton to-night. At six-thirty to-morrow morning I start for Liverpool, via Land's End. Near Manchester, I expect to murder a mulatto gasfitter with a false nose. After which, if you care to follow me to John o' Groats-" The rest of the conversation was conducted, on one side at least, in language which might have made a New York stevedore feel slightly shocked.

Simon passed on with a pained expression, and went on his way. A mile farther on, he slowed his pace to a stroll, and was satisfied that Red Face was no longer bringing up the rear. Shortly afterwards, a blue sports saloon swept past him with a rush and stopped a few yards away. As he reached it, a girl leaned out, and Simon greeted her with a smile. "Hullo, Pat, darling," he said. "Let's go and have a cocktail and some dinner."

He climbed in, and Patricia Holm let in the clutch.

"How's the market in bowler hats?" she asked.

"Weakening," murmured the Saint. "Weaken­ing, old dear. The bulls weren't equal to the strain. Let's change the subject. Why are you so beautiful, Pat?"

She flung him a dazzling smile. "Probably," she said, "because I find I'm still in love with you-after a whole year. And you're still in love with me. The combination's enough to make anyone beautiful."

It was late when they got back to London. At the flat in Brook Street, Roger Conway and Dick Tre­mayne were drinking the Saint's beer. "There was some for you," said Roger, "only we drank it in case it went flat."

"Thoughtful of you," said the Saint.

He calmly annexed Mr. Conway's tankard, and sank into a chair. "Well, soaks," he remarked, "how was the English countryside looking this after­noon?"

"I took the North Road," said Roger. "My little Mary's lamb petered out at St. Albans, and Dicky picked me up just beyond. Twenty-one miles by the clock-in five hours forty-five minutes Fahrenheit. How's that?"

"Out," said the Saint. "I did twenty-three miles in five and a half hours dead. My sleuth was removed to hospital on an asbestos stretcher, and when they tried to revive him with brandy he burst into flames. We shall hear more of this."

Nevertheless, the following morning, Orace, bringing in his master's early tea, reported that a fresh detachment of bowler hats had arrived in Brook Street, and the Saint had to devote his in­genuity to thinking out other means of evading their vigilance.

In the next fortnight, the Saint sent Ј9,000 to charity, and Inspector Teal, who knew that to obtain that money the Saint must have "persuaded" some­one to write him a check for Ј10,000, from which had been deducted the 10 per cent commission which the Saint always claimed according to his rules, was annoyed. His squad, interrogated, were unable to make any suggestions as to the source of the gift. No, Simon Templar had done nothing sus­picious. No, he had not been seen visiting or as­sociating with any suspicious characters. No, he- "You're as much use as so many sick headaches," said Teal unkindly. "In fact, less use. You can stop watching that house. It's obviously a waste of your time-not," he added sweetly, "that the Depart­ment has missed you."