The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

'curiosities.'

Simon was steering the two-seater round the big one­way triangle at Hyde Park Corners, and he did not answer at once.

Then he said: 'I wonder what incriminating papers there might, have been.'

'So do I. ... But to-night's work may put the wind up him a bit more, which is something.'

The Saint drove on in silence for a while, and his next remark came as a bolt from the blue.

'Would you object to being arrested?' he asked.

She looked at him.

'I think I should be inclined to object,' she said. 'Why?'

'Just part of that idea I mentioned recently,' said the Saint. 'I'll think it out more elaborately overnight, and tell you the whole scheme to-morrow if I think there's anything in it.'

She had to be content with that. The air of mystery which had been exasperating her so much of late had somehow grown deeper than ever that night, and he was very taciturn all the rest of the way to Chelsea.

He left her at the studio, and would not even come in for a last drink and cigarette before he went home.

'I want to sleep on it,' he said. 'It is now after half-past three. I shall be asleep at half-past four, and I shall sleep until half-past four this afternoon. When I wake up I shall have something to come round and tell you.'

For his own convenience he had decided to spend the night at the apartment in Sloane Street instead of going bark to Upper Berkeley Mews. He parked the car in a garage close by and walked round to his flat, and, as he crossed the road, he happened to glance up at the win­dows. Something that he saw there made him halt in his stride, slip his hands in his pockets, and stand there gazing up thoughtfully at the windows for quite a long time. Then he went back to the garage and returned with a couple of spanners from his toolbox.

Standing on the pavement below, he sent one span­ner hurtling upwards with an accurate aim. It smashed through one window with a clatter and tinkle of broken glass, and in a moment the second spanner had followed it through another window.

Then Simon stood back and watched two thick green­ish clouds rolling down towards the street like a couple of ghostly slow-motion waterfalls.

As he stood there, a heavy hand tapped him on the shoulder.

' 'Ere,' said a voice behind him, 'what's this?'

'Chlorine,' said the Saint coolly. 'A poisonous gas. I shouldn't go any nearer: it would be unhealthy for you to get under that stream.'

'I saw you smash those windows.'

'That must have been amusing for you,' murmured the Saint, still gazing thoughtfully upwards. 'But since they're my own windows, I suppose I'm allowed to smash them.'

The policeman stood beside him and followed his gaze upwards.

' 'Ow did that gas get there?'

'It was left there,' said the Saint gently, 'by an assis­tant commissioner of Scotland Yard who has a grudge against me. I might have walked right into it, only I happened to look up at the windows, and I remembered leaving them open last time I went out. They were closed before I opened them again with those spanners, and that made me look hard at them. You could See a sort of mistiness on the panes, even in this light.'