The Saint vs Scotland Yard (The Holy Terror)

The bruiser led the way, and Simon followed discreetly. They arrived in procession at the upper landing, where a second bruiser, a trifle shorter than the first, but even heavier of shoulder, lounged beside an open door with an unlighted stump of cigar in his mouth.

The second man gestured with his lower jaw and the cigar.

'In there.'

'Thanks,' said the Saint.

He paused for a moment in the doorway and surveyed the room, one hand ostentatiously remaining in the pocket of his coat.

Facing him, in the centre of the rich brown carpet, was a broad flat-topped desk. It harmonised with the solid simplicity of the book-cases that broke the panelling of the bare walls, and with the long austere lines of the velvet hangings that covered the windows—even, perhaps, with the squat square materialism of the safe that stood in the corner behind it. And on the far side of the desk sat the man whom the Saint had come to see, leaning forward out of a straight-backed oak chair.

Simon moved forward, and the two bruisers closed the door and ranged themselves on either side of him.

'Good evening, Kuzela,' said the Saint.

'Good evening, Mr. Templar.' The man behind the desk moved one white hand. 'Sit down.'

Simon looked at the chair that had been placed ready for him. Then he turned, and took one of the bruisers by the lapels of his coat. He shot the man into the chair, bounced him up and down a couple of times, swung him from side to side, and yanked him out again.

'Just to make quite certain,' said the Saint sweetly. He beamed upon the glowering pugilist, felt his biceps, and patted him encouragingly on the shoulder. 'You'll be a big man when you grow up, Cuthbert,' he said affably.

Then he moved the chair a yard to one side and sat in it himself.

'I'm sure you'll excuse all these formalities,' he remarked conversationally. 'I have to be so careful these days. The most extraordinary things happen to me. Only the other day, a large spotted hypotenuse, overtaking on the wrong side——'

'I have already observed that you possess a well-developed instinct of self-preservation, Mr. Templar,' said Kuzela suavely.

He clasped his well-kept hands on the blotter before him, and studied the Saint interestedly.

Simon returned the compliment.

He saw a man in healthy middle age, broad-shouldered and strongly built. A high, firmly modelled forehead rose into a receding setting of clipped iron-grey hair. With his square jaw and slightly aquiline nose, he might have posed for a symboli­cal portrait of any successful business man. Only his eyes might have betrayed the imposture. Pale blue, deep-set, and unwinking, they levelled themselves upon the object of their scrutiny in a feline stare of utter ruthlessness. . . . And the Saint looked into the blue eyes and laughed.

'You certainly win on the exchange,' he said; and a slight frown came between the other's eyebrows.

'If you would explain ——?'

'I'm good-looking,' said the Saint easily, and centred his tie with elegance.

Kuzela leaned back.

'Your name is known to me, of course; but I think this is the first time we have had the pleasure of meeting.'

'This is certainly the first time you've had the pleasure of meeting me,' said the Saint carefully.

'Even now, the responsibility is yours. You have elected to interfere with my affairs——'

Simon shook his head sympathetically.

'It's most distressing, isn't it?' he murmured. 'And your most strenuous efforts up to date have failed to dispose of the interference. Even when you sent me a pair of gloves that would have given a rhinoceros a headache to look at, I survived the shock. It must be Fate, old dear.'

Kuzela pulled himself forward again.

'You are an enterprising young man,' he said quietly. 'An unusually