The Saint vs Scotland Yard (The Holy Terror)

evidence he could put into a witness-box there could simply be no human way of escape—he could have sworn it on the rack, and would have gone to his death still swearing it. And he knew that it wasn't going to work.

Through a haze of almost homicidal futility, he heard the Saint speaking.

'Oh, is that you, Signor Ravelli? . . . Simon Templar speaking. Listen: there's some weird eruption going on in the brains of Scotland Yard. Some crime or other was committed somewhere tonight, and for some blithering reason they seem to think I was mixed up in it. I'm sorry to have to stop you on your way to bed, but a fat policeman has just barged in here——'

'Give me that telephone!' snarled Teal.

He snatched the instrument away and rammed the receiver against his ear.

'Hullo!' he barked. 'This is Chief Inspector Teal, Criminal Investigation Department, speaking. I have every reason to believe that this man Templar was concerned in a murder which took place in Hampstead shortly after four o'clock this morning. He's tried to tell me some cock-and-bull story about . . . What? . . . But damn it ... I beg your pardon, sir, but I definitely know . . . From twelve o'clock till half-past four? . . . But . . . But . . . But oh, hell, I ... No, sir, I said . . . But he ... Who? ...'

The diaphragm of the receiver clacked and chattered and Teal's round red face sagged sickly.

And then:

'All right, sir. Thank you very much, sir,' he said in a strangled voice, and slammed the microphone back on its bracket.

The Saint smoothed his hair.

'We might get on to Beppo next,' he suggested hopefully. 'He's staying at the Berkeley. Then you can have a word with Prince d'Ombria ——'

'Can I?' Teal had eaten wormwood, and his voice was thick and raw with the bitterness of it. 'Well, I haven't got time. I know when I'm licked. I know where I am when half a dozen princes and ambassadors will go into the witness-box and swear that you're chasing them round the equator at the very moment when I know that I'm talking to you here in this room. I don't even ask how you worked it. I expect you rang up the President of the United States and got him to fix it for you. But I'll be seeing you another time—don't worry.'

He hitched his coat round, and grabbed up his hat.

'Bye-bye,' sang the Saint.

'And you remember this,' Teal gulped out. 'I'm not through with you yet. You're not going to sit back on your laurels. You wouldn't. And that's what's going to be the finish of you. You'll be up to something else soon enough—and maybe you won't have the entire Italian Diplomatic Service primed to lie you out of it next time. From this minute, you're not even going to blow your nose without I know it. I'll have you watched closer than the Crown Jewels, and the next mis­take you make is going to be the last.'

'Cheerio, dear heart,' said the Saint, and heard the vicious bang of the front door before he sank back into his chair in hysterics of helpless laughter.

But the epilogue of that story was not written until some weeks later, when a registered packet bearing an Italian post­mark was delivered at No. 7, Upper Berkeley Mews. Simon opened it after breakfast.

First came a smaller envelope, which contained a draft on the Bank of Italy for a sum whose proportions made even Simon Templar blink.

And then he took out a small shagreen case, and turned it over curiously. He pressed his thumb-nail into the little spring catch, and the lid flew up and left him staring. Patricia put a hand on his shoulder. 'What is it?' she asked, and the Saint looked at her. 'It's the medallion of the Order of the Annunziata—and I think we shall both have to have new hats on this,' he said.

PART III

The Melancholy Journey of Mr. Teal

Chapter I

Now there was a day when the Saint went quite mad.

Of course, one might with considerable justification say that he always had been mad, anyway, so that the metamorphosis suggested by that first sentence would be difficult for the ordi­nary observer to discover. Patricia Holm said so, quite defi­nitely; and the Saint only smiled.

'Neverwithstanding,' he said, 'I am convinced that the sea­son is ripe for Isadore to make his contribution to our bank balance.'