The Saint vs Scotland Yard (The Holy Terror)

knee-cap.' He took her bag from her hands, slipped out the little mirror, and used it for a periscope to survey the south side pavement as they drove away. 'This is one of those whens,' he said complacently.

'Then why are we going to the Berkeley?'

'Because you are the nurse who is going to look after Beppo. His number is 148, and 149 is already booked for you. Incidentally, you might remember that he's registered in the name of Teal—C. E. Teal. I'll pack a bag and bring it along to you later; but once you're inside the Berkeley Arms you've got to stay put so long as it's daylight. The doctor's name is Branson and mine is Travers, and if anyone else applies for admission you will shoot him through the binder and ring for the bell-hop to remove the body.'

'But what will you be doing?'

'I am the proud possessor of a Clue, and I'm going to be very busy tying a knot in its tail. Also I have an ambition to be humorous, and that will mean that I've got to push round to a shop I know of and purchase one of those mechanical jokes that are said to create roars of laughter. I've been remem­bering my younger days, and they've brought back to me the very thing I need. . . . And here we are.'

The cab had stopped at its destination, and they got out. Patricia hesitated in the doorway. 'When will you be back?' she asked.

'I shall be along for dinner about eight,' said the Saint. 'Meanwhile, you'll be able to get acquainted with Beppo. Really, you'll find him quite human. Prattle gently to him, and he'll eat out of your hand. When he's stronger, you might even be allowed to sing to him—I'll ask the doctor about that tomorrow. ... So long, lass!'

And the Saint was gone.

And he did exactly what he had said he was going to do. He went to a shop in Regent Street and bought a little toy and took it back with him to Upper Berkeley Mews; and a certain alteration which he made to its inner functionings kept him busy for some time and afforded him considerable amusement.

For he had not the slightest doubt that there was going to be fun and games before the next dawn. The incident of those lemon-coloured gloves was a distinct encouragement. It showed a certain thoroughness on the part of the opposition, and that sort of thing always gave the Saint great pleasure.

'If one glove doesn't work, the other is expected to oblige,' he figured it out, as he popped studs into a snowy white dress shirt. 'And it would be a pity to disappoint anyone.'

He elaborated this latter idea to Patricia Holm when he rejoined her at the Berkeley, having shaken off his official watcher again by Method Three. Before he left, he told her nearly everything.

'At midnight, all the dreams of the ungodly are coming true,' he said. 'Picture to yourself the scene. It will be the witching hour. The menace of dark deeds will veil the stars. And up the heights of Hampstead will come toiling the pitiful figure of the unsuspecting victim, with his bleary eyes bulging and his mouth hanging open and the green moss sprouting behind his ears; and that will be Little Boy . . .'

Chapter V

Some men enjoy trouble; others just as definitely don't. And there are some who enjoy dreaming about the things they would do if they only dared-—but they need not concern us.

Simon Templar came into Category A—straight and slick, with his name in a panel all to itself, and a full stop just where it hits hardest.

For there is a price ticket on everything that puts a whizz into life, and adventure follows the rule. It's distressing, but there you are. If there was no competition, everything would be quite all right. If you could be certain that you were the strongest man in the world, the most quick-witted, the most cunning, the most keen-sighted, the most vigilant, and simulta­neously the possessor of the one and only lethal weapon in the whole wide universe, there wouldn't be much difficulty about it. You would just step out of your hutch and hammer the first thing that came along.

But it doesn't always pan out like that in practice. When you try the medicine on the dog, you are apt to discover some violent reactions which were not arranged for in the prescrip­tion. And then, when the guns give tongue and a spot of fur begins to fly, you are liable to arrive at the sudden and soul-shattering realisation that a couple of ounces of lead travelling with a given velocity will make precisely as deep an impression on your anatomical system as they will on that of the next man.

Which monumental fact the Saint had thoroughly digested a few days after mastering his alphabet. And the effect it had registered upon his unweaned peace of mind had been so near to absolute zero that a hair-line could not have been drawn between them—neither on the day of the discovery nor on any subsequent day in all his life.

In theory . . .