The Saint vs Scotland Yard (The Holy Terror)

In theory, of course, he allowed the artillery to pop, and the fur to become volatile, without permitting a single lock of his own sleek dark hair to aberrate from the patent-leather disci­pline in which he disposed it; and thereby he became the Saint. But it is perfectly possible to appreciate and acknowl­edge the penetrating unpleasantness of high-velocity lead, and forthwith to adopt a debonairly philosophical attitude towards the same, without being in a tearing hurry to offer your own carcase for the purpose of practical demonstration; this also the Saint did, and by doing it with meticulous attention con­trived to be spoken of in the present tense for many years longer than the most optimistic insurance broker would have backed him to achieve.

All of which has not a little to do with 85, Vandemeer Avenue, Hampstead.

Down this road strolled the Saint, his hands deep in the pockets of knife-edged trousers, the crook of his walking-stick hooked over his left wrist, and slanting sidelong over his right eye a filbustering black felt hat which alone was something very like a breach of the peace. A little song rollicked on his lips, and was inaudible two yards away. And as he walked, his lazy eyes absorbed every interesting item of the scenery.

'Aspidistra, little herb,

Do you think it silly

When the botaniser's blurb

Links you with the lily?'

Up in one window of the house, he caught the almost imperceptible sway of a shifting curtain, and knew that his approach had already been observed. 'But it is nice,' thought the Saint, 'to be expected.' And he sauntered on.

'Up above your window-ledge

Streatham stars are gleaming:

Aspidistra, little veg,

Does your soul go dreaming?'

A low iron gate opened from the road. He pushed it wide with his foot, and went up the steps to the porch. Beside the door was a bell-push set in a panel of polished brass tracery.

The Saint's fingers moved towards it . . . and travelled back again. He stooped and examined the filigree more closely, and a little smile lightened his face.

Then he cuddled himself into the extreme houseward corner of the porch, held his hat over the panel, and pressed the button with the ferrule of his stick. He heard a faint hiss, and turned his hat back to the light of a street lamp. A stained splinter of wood quivered in the white satin lining of the crown; and the Saint's smile became blindingly seraphic as he reached into a side pocket of his jacket for a pair of tweezers. ...

And then the door was opening slowly.

Deep in his angle of shadow, he watched the strip of yellow light widening across the porch and down the short flagged passage to the gate. The silhouette of a man loomed into it and stood motionless for a while behind the threshold.

Then it stepped out into full view—a big, heavy-shouldered close-cropped man, with thick bunched fists hanging loosely at his sides. He peered outwards down the shaft of light, and then to right and left, his battered face creasing to the strain of probing the darkness of either side. The Saint's white shirt-front caught his eye, and he licked his lips and spoke like an automaton.

'Comin' in?'

'Behind you, brother,' said the Saint.

He stepped across the light, taking the bruiser by the elbows and spinning him adroitly round. They entered the house in the order of his own arrangement, and Simon kicked the door shut behind him.

There was no machine-gun at the far end of the hall, as he had half expected; but the Saint was unashamed.

'Windy?' sneered the bruiser, as the Saint released him; and Simon smiled.

'Never since taking soda-mint,' he murmured. 'Where do we go from here?'

The bruiser glanced sideways, jerking his head.

'Upstairs.'

'Oh, yeah?'

Simon slanted a cigarette into his mouth and followed the glance. His eyes waved up the banisters and down the separate steps of the stairway.

'After you again,' he drawled. 'Just to be certain.'