The Saint in London: Originally Entitled the Misfortunes of Mr. Teal (30 page)

Simon Templar tasted his sherry and lighted a cigarette.

“It was fairly easy after that,” he s^id. “I did a very neat pancake on the water about fifty yards offshore, and a motorboat brought me in. I met Teal halfway up the cliff and showed him the entrance of the cave. We took a peek inside, and damn if Petrowitz and his crew weren’t coming up the steps. Renway had crashed right on top of the underwater exit and blown it in—and the sub was bottled up inside. Apparently the crew had seen our scrap and guessed that something had gone wrong, and scuttled back for home. They were heading for the last round-up with all sail set, and since they could only get out one at a time we didn’t lose any weight helping them on their way.”

Patricia Holm was silent for a moment.

“You didn’t deserve to come out of it with a whole skin,” she said.

“I came out of it with morejthan that, old dar-ling,” said the Saint, with impenitent eyes. “I opened the safe again before I left, and collected Hugo’s cash box again. It’s outside in the car now.”

Hoppy Uniatz was silent somewhat longer. It is doubtful whether he had any clear idea of what all the excitement had ever been about; but he was able to grasp one point in which he seemed to be involved.

“Boss,” he said tentatively, “does it mean I ain’t gotta take no rap for smackin’ de cop?”

The Saint smiled.

“I guess you can put your shirt on it, Hoppy.”

“Chees,” said Mr. Uniatz, reaching for the whisky with a visible revival of interest, “dat’s great! Howja fix it?”

Simon caught Patricia’s eye and sighed. And then he began to laugh.

“I got Claud to forget it for the sake of his mother,” he said. “Now suppose you tell your story. Did you catch Wynnis?”

The front doorbell rang on the interrogation, and they listened in a pause of silence, while Hoppy poured himself out half a pint of undiluted Scotch. They heard Orace’s limping tread crossing the hall, and the sounds of someone being admitted; and then the study door was opened and Simon saw who the visitor was.

He jumped up.

“Claud!” he cried. “The very devil we were talking about! I was just telling Hoppy about your mother.”

Mr. Teal came just inside the room and settled his thumbs in the belt of his superfluous overcoat. His china-blue eyes looked as if they were just about to close in the sleep of unspeakable boredom; but that was an old affectation. It had nothing to do with the slight heliotrope flush in his round face or the slight compression of his mouth. In the ensuing hiatus, an atmosphere radiated from him which was nothing like the sort of atmosphere which should have radiated from a man who was thinking kindly of his mother.

“Oh, you were, were you?” he said, and his voice broke on the words in a kind of hysterical bark. “Well, I didn’t come down from London to hear about my mother. I want to hear what you know about a man called Wynnis, who was held up in his flat at half-past eight this morning –—”

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