The Saint Meets His Match (7 page)

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 persua
sively,
“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
inten
tion 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 vol
untary. 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 call
er. 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 hap
pened, this
generous impulse was justified, for Jill Tre
lawney opened the door of the sitting room just as Simon
put his hand on the knob.

“Hullo,” said the
Saint amiably.

His eyes flickered with an
offensively secret mirth, and
he caught the answering
blaze from hers before she veiled
them in a frozen
inscrutability.

“Lovely day,
Jill,” remarked the Saint, very amiably.

She relaxed wearily
against the jamb.

“My—sainted—aunt!
Have you got away from your
keeper again?”

“Looks like it,”
said the Saint apologetically. “Yes, I
will
stay to tea, thanks. Ring down to the kitchen and tell
them not to mix arsenic
with the sugar, because I don’t take sugar. And it’s no use putting strychnine
in the milk,
because I don’t take milk. Just
tell ‘em to shovel the
whole bag of
tricks in the teapot.”

He walked calmly past her
into the room, and sat down
in the best chair. As an afterthought, he
removed his hat.

The girl followed him in.

“Is your posse outside again?”

“I wonder?”
said the Saint. “Why don’t you go out and
ask?
You don’t know where you are just now, do you?
One
time I tell you I haven’t a posse, and I haven’t.
Another
time I tell you I have a posse and I haven’t. Now
suppose I tell you I
haven’t a posse you’ll know I have,
won’t
you?”

She shrugged and took a cigarette from a silver
box.
Then she offered the box to him.

“Have one?”

“Not with you,
darling.”

“Did I hear you say ‘No, thanks’?”

“Er—no, I don’t think
so,” said the Saint seriously.
“Did
you?”

With the smoke trickling
through her lips the girl
looked at him.

“Have you come on
business this time?” she inquired.
“Or
is this just another part of the official persecution?”

“Partly on business,
partly on pleasure,” said Simon,
unabashed.
“Which will you have first?”

“The business,
please.”

“It’s a
pleasure,” said the Saint accommodatingly. “I’ve
come to do you a good turn, Jill.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, that is so.
Oh, yeah? Yeah. Ses you? Ses me. In
fact, yes
…
I want to warn you. A
dark man is going to cross your path. Beware of him. His name is Slinky Dy
son.”

The name roused no more
response than a flicker of
her eyelids.

“What about
him?”

“He is a police spy,” said the Saint
solemnly. “I have
been able to buy him
over. In return for a cash reward
he is going to try to join your gang
and give me all the information about you that he can get hold of. So, what
ever happens, don’t be taken in by him.”

She read with glittering
eyes the dancing devil of
amusement behind his
expressionlessness.

“Is this another of
your funny stories?”

“It is.” The
Saint sighed. “In fact, it’s one of my best.
Do
you know, Jill, I’m afraid you’re going to get in a devil
of a muddle about me, aren’t you? First the business of
the posse, then this. Now, do you think I’m telling you
the truth in the hope that you will think I’m bluffing and
fall into the trap, or do you think I’m inventing the
yarn to keep you away from a man I don’t want you to have? I can’t help
thinking that some of these questions
are going to make life very difficult
for you for the next
few days.”

She tapped her cigarette
delicately on the edge of an
ashtray.

“Is that all you came
to say?” she asked patiently.

“Not quite,”
said the Saint, in that tone of gentle mockery that would have been like
sandpaper rasped
across the nerves of anyone less
self-possessed. “I just
wanted to ask one
thing—about your father.”

She faced him.

“Haven’t I told
you,” she said dangerously, “to leave my father out of this?”

“I know,” said
the Saint. “And I’ve told you that I shall
bring
anyone into it whom I choose to bring in. So we
know
where we are. And now listen to this. I’ve been making some inquiries about
your father, and I’ve come
on a name which interests
me. It may mean something to
you. The name
is—Waldstein.”

She stared at him
narrowly.

“Well?”

The monosyllable dropped
like a flake of hot metal.

“I thought you might
be after him,” said the Saint.
“Do you mind
telling me if I’m right?”

Slowly she nodded.
.
  
“You’re quite right—Templar!”

The Saint beamed.

“That’s one of the
most sensible things I’ve heard you say,” he remarked. “In fact, if
you concentrated your attention on Waldstein you’d be doing yourself and every
one else much more good than you’re doing at present.
If your
father was framed, Waldstein knows all about it.
I’ll tell you that. But what good you expect to do by
simply making yourself a nuisance to the police
force in
general is more than my logical mind can see.”

She pointed to the table.

“I suppose you’ve seen
the papers?”

“We have. All about
the inefficiency of the police. Of
course, everybody
doesn’t know that I’m in charge of the
situation.
But does it give you the satisfaction you want?”

“It gives me some
satisfaction.”

“We are also
amused,” said Simon. “The chiefs of the C. I. D. meet together twice
a day to roar with laughter over it.
…
And I think that’s all for today. I’ll see you
again soon. If you like, I’ll drop you a line to say when I’m coming,
so that you can arrange to be out.”

“Perhaps,” she said silkily,
“you will not be in a posi
tion to come
again. So you might save the stamp.”

“That’s all
right,” said the Saint easily. “I shouldn’t
have
stamped the letter.”

He stood up and picked up
his hat, which he brushed
carefully with his
sleeve. She made no move to delay him.

At the door he turned for
his parting shot.

“Just for information,”
he said, “is there going to be any trouble about my leaving this
time?”

“No,” she said
quietly. “Not just now.”

He smiled.

“Something else
arranged, I suppose. Not machine
guns, I hope. And no more
poisoned milk. I don’t want
you to let yourself down
by repeating yourself too often,
you know.”

“You won’t be in
suspense for long,” she said.

“I’m glad to hear
it,” said the Saint, with intense ear
nestness.
“Well,
 
bye-bye, old dear.”

He strolled down the
stairs, humming a little tune.

No one attempted to stop
him. The hall was deserted.
He let himself out and
sauntered down Belgrave Street,
swinging his stick.

As a bluffing interview it
had not borne the fruit he
had hoped for. Since their
first encounters, the girl had
recovered a great deal of
the poise and self-control that
his studied impudence had
at first been able to flurry
her into losing. On that
occasion she had given nothing
away of importance—only
that she had an interest in
Waldstein. This was
perhaps one interest that Simon
Templar shared with her
wholeheartedly.