Enter the Saint (2 page)

The van drove to an address in the West End, and there Mr. Marks delivered the cases, secured a signature to a receipt, and departed, heading further west. On his way, he stopped at St. George’s Hospital, where he left his bucket. The man who took charge of it was puzzled, but Mr. Marks was in a hurry and had neither time nor the inclination to enlighten him. “Take great care of it, because it’s worth more money than you’ll ever have,” he directed. “See that it gets to one of the doctors, and give him this note with it.”

And the Saint went back to the wheel of his van and drove away, feeling that he was nearing the end of an excellent day’s work. He drove to the Great West Road, and out of London towards Maidenhead. Somewhere along that road he turned off into a side lane, and there he stopped for a few minutes out of sight of the main traffic. Inside the van was a large pot of paint, and the Saint used it energetically. He had never considered himself an artist, but he man-handled that van with the broad sweeping touch of a master. Under his vigorous wielding of the brush, the sign of Carter Paterson, which he had been at some pains to execute artistically the night before, vanished entirely; and the van became plain. Satisfied with the obliteration of the handiwork which only a few hours before he had admired so much, the Saint resumed the wheel and drove back to London. The paint he had used was guaranteed quick-drying, and it lived up to the word of its guarantee. It collected a good deal of dust on the return voyage, and duly dried a somewhat soiled aspect which was a very fair imitation of the condition in which Mr. Marks had received it.

He delivered it to its home garage at Shepherd’s Bush and paid twenty-four hours’ hire. Some time later Mr. Marks returned to Chelsea. A little later still, the not-so-immaculate Simon Templar turned into another garage and collected his trim blue Furillac speedster, in which he drove to his club in Dover Street. And the Simon Templar who sauntered through to the bar and called for a pint of beer must have been one of the most impeccably immaculate young men that that haunt of impeccably immaculate young men had ever sheltered.

“We don’t often see you as early as this, sir,” remarked the barman.

“May it be as many years before you see me as early as this again, son,” answered the Saint piously. “But this morning I felt I just had to get up and go for a drive. It was such a beautiful morning.”

Chapter III
MR. EDGAR HAYN was a man of many interests. He was the proud proprietor of “Danny’s,” a night club in a squalid street off Shaftesbury Avenue, and he also controlled the destinies of the firm of Laserre, which was a small but expensive shop in Regent Street that retailed perfumes, powders, rouges, creams, and all the other preparations essential to modern feminine face-repair. These two establishments were Mr. Hayn’s especial pets, and from them he derived the greater part of his substantial income. Yet it might be mentioned that the profits of “Danny’s” were not entirely earned by the sale of champagne, and the adornment of fashionable beauty was not the principal source of the prosperity of the house of Laserre. Mr. Hayn was a clever organizer, and what he did not know about the art of covering his tracks wouldn’t have been missed from one of the microscopical two-guinea alabaster jars in which he sold the celebrated Creme Laserre. He was a big, heavy-featured man, clean-shaven, pink complexioned, and faintly bald. His name had not always been Hayn, but a process of naturalization followed by a Deed Poll had given him an indisputable legal right to forget the cognomen of his father-and, incidentally, had eliminated for ever the unpleasant possibility of a deportation order, an exercise of forethought for which Mr. Hayn was more than once moved to give his sagacity a pat on the back. The police knew certain things about him which made them inclined to regard him with disfavour, and they suspected a lot more, but there had never been any evidence.

He was writing letters at the big knee-hole desk in his private office at “Danny’s” when Ganning arrived. The knock on the door did not make him look up. He said, “Come in!”-but the sound of the opening and closing of the door was, to him, sufficient indication that the order had been obeyed; and he went on to finish the letter he had been drafting. Only when that was done did he condescend to notice the presence of his visitor. “You’re late, Snake,” he said, blotting the sheet carefully.

“Sorry, boss.”

Mr. Hayn screwed the cap on his fountain-pen, replaced it in his pocket, and raised his eyes from the desk for the first time. What he saw made him sag back with astonishment. “Who on earth have you been picking a quarrel with?” he demanded.

The Snake certainly looked the worse for wear. A bandage round his head covered one eye, and the eye that was visible was nearly closed up. His lips were bruised and swollen, and a distinct lack of teeth made him speak with a painful lisp.

“Was it Harrigan’s crowd?” suggested Hayn.

Ganning shook his head. “A bloke we met on the train coming back from Brighton last night.”

“Were you alone?”

“Nope; Ted and Bill were with me. And Mario.”

“And what was this man trooping around? A regiment?”

“He was alone.”

Hayn blinked. “How did it happen?”

“We thought he was a sucker,” explained Snake disgustedly. “Smart clothes, gold cigarette-case, gold-mounted stick, gold watch-and a wad. He showed us his wad. Two-fifty, he said it was. We couldn’t let that go, so we got him into a game of cards. Poker. He said he didn’t know anything about the game, so it looked safe enough-he struck us as being that sort of mug. We were geeing him along nicely right up to ten minutes or so before Victoria, and we’d let him take fifty off us. He was thinking himself the greatest poker player in the world by then, you’d have said. Then we asked him to be a sport and give us a chance of getting our money back on a couple of big jackpots with a five-pound ante. He agreed, and we let him win the first one. We all threw in after the first rise. ‘What about making it a tenner ante for the last deal?’ I said, tipping the wing to the boys. He wasn’t too keen on that, but we jollied him along, and at last he fell for it. It was his deal, but I shuffled the broads for him.”

“And your hand slipped?”

Ganning snorted. “Slipped nothin’! My hand doesn’t slip. I’d got that deck stacked better than any conjurer could have done it. And I picked up a straight flush, just as I’d fixed it. Mario chucked in right away, and Ted and Bill dropped out after the first round. That left the mug and me, and we went on raising each other till every cent the boys and I could find between us was in the kitty. We even turned in our links and Mario’s diamond pin to account for as much of the mug’s wad as possible. When we hadn’t another bean to stake, he saw me. I showed down my straight flush, and I was just getting set to scoop in the pool when he stopped me. ‘I thought you told me this was next to unbeatable,’ he says, and then he shows down five kings.”

“Five?” repeated Mr. Hayn frowning.

“We were playing deuces wild, and a joker. He’d got the joker.”

“Well, didn’t you know what he was holding?”

“It wasn’t the hand I fixed for him to deal himself!”

Mr. Hayn controlled his features. “And then you cut up rough, and got the worst of it?”

“I accused him of cheating. He didn’t deny it. He had the nerve to say: ‘Well, you were supposed to be teaching me the game, and I saw you were cheating all the time, so I thought it was allowed by the rules!’ And he started putting away our pile. Of course we cut up rough!”

“And he cut up rougher?” suggested Mr. Hayn.

“He didn’t fight fair,” said Ganning aggrievedly. “First thing I knew, he’d jabbed the point of his stick into Ted’s neck before Ted had a chance to pull his cosh, so Ted was out of it. Bill was all ready for a fair stand-up fight with the knuckle-dusters, but this man kicked him in the stomach, so he took the count. Mario and me had to tackle him alone.” The Snake seemed disinclined to proceed further with the description of the battle, and Hayn tactfully refrained from pressing him. He allowed the Snake to brood blackly over the memory for a few moments.

“He wasn’t an amateur,” said Ganning. “But none of us could place him. I’d give the hell of a lot to find out who he was. One of these fly mobsmen you read about, I shouldn’t wonder. He’d got all the dope. Look at this,” said the Snake, producing the envelope. “He shoved that at Ted when he got out. Said it was his receipt. I tried to get Teal to take it up-he was at the station-but he wouldn’t take it seriously.”

Hayn slipped the sheet of paper out of the envelope and spread it out on his desk. Probably he had not fully grasped the purport of Ganning’s description, for the effect the sight had on him was amazing. If Ganning had been disappointed with Inspector Teal’s unemotional reception of the Saint’s recept, he was fully compensated by the reaction of Mr. Edgar Hayn. Hayn’s pink face suddenly turned white, and he jerked away from the paper that lay on the blotter in front of him as if it had spat poison at him.

“What’s it mean to you, boss?” asked the bewildered Ganning.

“This morning we got a consignment over from Germany,” Hayn said, speaking almost in a whisper. “When Braddon opened the case, there was the same picture on top of the packing. We couldn’t figure out how it came there.”

“Have you looked the stuff over yet?” demanded the Snake, instantly alert.

Hayn shook his head. He was still staring, as though hypnotized, at the scrap of paper. “We didn’t think anything of it. There’s never been a hitch yet. Braddon thought the men who packed the case must have been playing some game. We just put the marked jars away in the usual place.”

“You haven’t had to touch them yet?”

Hayn made a negative gesture. He reached out a shaky hand for the telephone, while Ganning sat silently chewing over the startling possibilities that were revealed by this information. “Hullo… . Regent nine double-o four seven … please.” Hayn fidgeted nervously as he waited for the call to be put through. It came after what seemed an eternity. “Hullo… . That you, Braddon? … I want you to get out the marked jars that came over in the case with the paper in-you remember?… Never mind why!” A minute ticked away, while Hayn kept the receiver glued to his ear and tapped out an impatient tattoo on the desk.

“Yes? … What’s that? … How d’you know? … I see. Well, I’ll be right round!”

Hayn clicked the receiver back and slewed his swivel-chair round so that he faced Snake Ganning.

“What’s he say?” asked the Snake.

“There’s just a tin of Keating’s powder in each,” Hayn replied. “I asked him how he knew what it was, and he said the whole tin was there, label and all, packed in with cotton wool to make it fit. There was ten thousand pounds’ worth of snow in that shipping, and this guy has lifted the lot!”

Chapter IV
“YOU MAY DECANT some beer, son,” said Simon Templar, stretched out in an armchair. “And then you may start right in and tell me the story of your life. I can spare you about two minutes.”

Jerry Stannard traveled obediently over to a side table where bottles and glasses were already set out, accomplished his task with a practised hand, and traveled back again with the results.

“Your health,” said the Saint, and two foaming glasses were half-emptied in an appreciative silence.

Stannard was then encouraged to proceed. He put down his glass with a sigh and settled back at his ease, while the Saint made a long arm for the cigarette box. “I can’t make out yet why you should have interested yourself in me,” said Stannard.

“That’s my affair,” said the Saint bluntly. “And if it comes to that, son, I’m not a philanthropic institution. I happen to want an assistant, and I propose to make use of you. Not that you won’t get anything out of it. I’m sufficiently interested in you to want to help you, but you’re going to pay your way.”

Stannard nodded. “It’s decent of you to think I’m worth it,” he said.

He had not forgotten-it would have been impossible to forget such an incident in two days-the occasion of his first meeting with the Saint. Stannard had been entrusted with a small packet which he had been told to take to an address in Piccadilly; and even if he had not been told what the packet contained, he could not have helped having a very shrewd idea. And therefore, when a heavy hand had fallen suddenly on his shoulder only a few minutes after he had left Mr. Hayn, he had had no hope. …

And then the miracle had happened, although he did not realize at the time that it was a miracle. A man had brushed against him as the detective turned to hail a taxi, and the man had turned to apologize. In that crisis, all Stannard’s faculties had been keyed up to the vivid super-sensitiveness which comes just before breaking-point; and that abnormal acuteness had combined with the stranger’s apology, so that the stranger’s face was indelibly engraved on Stannard’s memory… .

The Saint took a little package from his pocket, and weighed it reflectively in his hand. “Forty-eight hours ago,” he murmured, “you assumed, quite rightly, that you were booked for five years’ penal servitude. Instead of that, you’re a free man. The triumphant sleuths of Vine Street found nothing on you, and had to release you with apologies. Doubtless they’re swearing to make up for that bloomer, and make no mistakes about landing you with the goods next time, but that can’t hurt you for the moment. And I expect you’re still wondering what’s going to be my price for having picked your pocket in the nick of time.”

“I’ve been wondering ever since.”

“I’m just going to tell you,” said the Saint. “But first we’ll get rid of this.” He left the room with the packet, and through the open door came the sound of running water. In a few moments he was back, dusting his hands. “That disposes of the evidence,” he said. “Now I want you to tell me something. How did you get into this dope game?”

Stannard shrugged. “You may as well know. There’s no heroic or clever reason. It’s just because I’m a waster. I was in the wrong set at Cambridge, and I knew most of the toughs in Town. Then my father died and left me without a bean. I tried to get a job, but I couldn’t do anything useful. And all the time, naturally, I was mixing with the same bad bunch. Eventually they roped me in. I suppose I ought to have fought against it, but I just hadn’t the guts. It was easy money, and I took it. That’s all.”