The Saint vs Scotland Yard (The Holy Terror)

be—and to make the voyage alone.

The car was held up at an Oxford Street crossing, and the Saint's back was towards him. Perrigo thought he had it all his own way.

But he had reckoned without the driving-mirror. For several minutes past the Saint had been doing a lot of Perrigo's think­ing for him, and the imminence of some such manoeuvre as that had been keeping him on the tip-toe of alertness. Throughout that time the driving-mirror had never been out of the tail of his eye, and he spotted Perrigo's stealthy move­ment almost before it had begun.

He turned his head and smiled sweetly.

'No,' he said.

Perrigo squinted at him, sinking back a trifle.

'I can look after myself now,' he grunted.

'You can't,' said the Saint.

He was turning round again when Perrigo set his teeth, jumped up, and wrenched at the handle of the door.

It flew open; and then the Saint put one foot on the front seat and went over into the tonneau in a flying tackle.

He took Perrigo with him. They pelted over into the back seat in a lashing welter of legs and arms, fighting like savages. Perrigo had the weight, and brute strength, but Simon had the speed and cunning. The car lurched forward again while they rolled over and over in a flailing thudding tangle. After a few seconds of it, the Saint got an arm loose and whipped in a couple of pile-driving rib-binders; the effects of them put him on top of the mess, and he wedged Perrigo vigorously into a corner and held him there with a knee in his chest.

Then he looked up at the familiar helmet of a police con­stable, and found that the car had stopped.

They were in one of the narrow streets in the triangle of which Regent and Oxford form two sides. A heavy truck and a brace of taxis had combined to put a temporary plug in the meagre passage, and the constable happened to be standing by. Patricia was looking round helplessly.

'Wot's this?' demanded the Law, and Simon smiled win­ningly.

'We are secret emissaries of the Sheik Ali ben Dova, and we have sworn to place the sacred domestic utensil of the Caliph on top of the Albert Memorial.'

'Wot?'

'Well, what I mean is that my friend is rather drunk, and that's his idea.'

The Law produced a notebook.

'Any'ow,' he said, 'you got no right to be treating 'im like that.'

Perrigo's mouth opened, and Simon shifted some more weight on to his knee. Perrigo choked and went red in the face.

'Ah, but you've no idea how violent he gets when he's had a few,' said the Saint. 'Goes quite bats. I'm trying to get him home now before he does any damage.'

'Help!' yapped Perrigo feebly.

'Gets delusions, and all that sort of thing,' said the Saint. 'Thinks people are trying to kidnap him and murder him and so forth. Fancies everyone he meets is a notorious criminal. Doesn't even recognise his own wife—this is his wife, officer. Leads her an awful life. I don't know why she married the fool. And yet if you met him when he was sober, you'd take him for the most respectable gentleman you ever saluted. And he is, too. Man with a big diamond business. Right now, he's worth more money than you could save out of your salary if you were in the Force another three hundred years and lived on air.'

Patricia leaned over pleadingly.

'Oh, officer, it's dreadful' she cried. 'Please try to under­stand—please help me to save a scandal!  Last time, the mag­istrate said he'd send my husband to prison if it happened again.'

'I'm not your husband!' howled Perrigo. 'I'm being robbed! Officer——'

'You see,' said the Saint. 'Just what I told you. Three weeks ago he fired a shot-gun at the postman because he said he was trying to put a bomb in the letter-box.'

The policeman looked doubtfully from him to the lovely anxious face of Patricia, and was visibly moved. And then Perrigo heaved up again.