The Saint vs Scotland Yard (The Holy Terror)

'Don't you know who this guy is?' he blurted. 'He's the Sgloogphwf——'

This was not what Perrigo meant to say, but Simon clapped a hand over his mouth.

'Uses the most frightful language, too, when he's like this,' said the Saint confidentially. 'I couldn't even repeat what he called the cook when he thought she was sprinkling arsenic on the potatoes. If I had my way he'd be locked up. He's a dangerous lunatic, that's what he is ——'

Suddenly the policeman's eyes glazed.

'Wot's that?' he barked.

Simon glanced round. His automatic lay in a corner of the seat, clear to view—it must have fallen out of his pocket during the scramble. It gleamed up accusingly from the glossy green-leather upholstery, and every milligram of the accusation was reflected in the constable's fixed and goggling eyes. . . .

Simon drew a deep breath.

'Oh, that's just one of the props. We've been to a rehearsal of one of these amateur dramatic shows—'

The constable's head ducked with unexpected quickness. It pressed down close to the face of Perrigo, and when it raised itself again there was a blunt certitude written all over it.

'That man ain't bin drinking,' it pronounced.

'Deodorised gin,' explained the Saint easily. 'A new inven­tion for the benefit of a A.W.O.L. matrimoniates. Wonderful stuff. No longer can it be said that the wages of gin is breath.'

The policeman straightened up.

'Ho, yus? Well, I think you'd better come round to the station, and let's 'ear some more about this.'

The Saint shook his head.

He looked over the front of the car, and saw that the jam ahead had sorted itself out, and the road was clear. One hand touched Patricia's shoulder. And he smiled very seraphically.

'Sorry,' he said. 'We've got that date with the Albert Memo­rial.'

He struck flat-handed at the policeman's shoulder, sending him staggering back; and as he did so Patricia engaged the gears and the Hirondel rocketed off the mark again like a shell from a howitzer.

Simon and Perrigo spilled over in another wild flurry. This time the objective was the gun on the seat. Simon got it. He also got Perrigo effectively screwed down to the mat, and knelt heavily on his biceps. The cold muzzle of the automatic rammed up under Perrigo's chin.

'That will be the end of your bonehead act, brother,' said the Saint tersely. 'You'd better understand that the only chance you've got is with me. You're a stranger over here. If I left you on your own, Teal would have you behind bars in record time. You wouldn't last twenty-four hours. And if you'd been able to make that cop take notice of you the way you wanted, you wouldn't have lasted twenty-four minutes—he'd have lugged you off to the station with the rest of us, and that would have been your finale. Get that up under your skull. And then put this beside it: you can't make your getaway now without consulting me. I've got your passport and your ticket to New York right next my heart—dipped them out of your pocket before we left Isadora's. Which is why you're going to stick as close to me as you know how. When I'm through with you, I'll give you the bum's rush quick enough—but not before!'

Chapter VI

The Hirondel skimmed round a corner and flashed out into Regent Street. The bows of an omnibus loomed up, bear­ing down upon them. Patricia spun the wheel coolly; they swerved round the wrong side of an island, dodged a taxi and a private car, and dived off the main road again.

Perrigo, on the floor of the tonneau, digested the fresh set of facts that the Saint had streamed into him. However apocry­phal the first sheaf that he had meditated had been, these new ones were definitely concise and concrete—as was the circle of steel that bored steadily into his dewlap. He assimilated them in a momentous silence, while the stars gyrated giddily above him.

'All right,' he said at length. 'Let me up.'

Simon hitched himself on to the seat; his gun went into his pocket, but retained command of the situation. As they en­tered Berkeley Square he watched Perrigo looking out to left and right, and was prompted to utter an additional warning.

'Stepping off moving vehicles,' he said, 'is the cause of ump­teen street accidents per annum. If you left us now, it would be the cause of umpteen plus one. Ponder the equation, brother. . . . And besides,' said the Saint, who was starting to feel expansive again, 'we've only just begun to know each other. The warbling