The Saint's Getaway

let me introduce you: this is His Absolute Altitude, the Crown Prince, Rudolf himself, who was with us in all the fun and games a year or two ago. . . . Rudolf, meet Saint Montague Hayward, chairman of the Royal Commission for Investigating the In­cidence of Psittacosis among Dromedaries, and managing editor of The Blunt Instrument, canonized this very day for assassinating a reader who thought a blackleg was something to do with varicose veins. . . . And now you must let us know what we can do for you—Highness!'

The prince glanced down with faint distaste at the bulge of the Saint's pocket. Grim, steady as a rock, and unmistakable, it had been covering him unswervingly throughout that gay cascade of nonsense, and not one of the Saint's exaggerated movements had contrived to veer it off its mark by the thou­sandth part of an inch.

'I sincerely trust, my dear Mr. Templar,' he remarked, 'that you are not contemplating any drastic foolishness. One corpse is quite sufficient for any ordinary man to have to account for, and I cannot help thinking that even such an enterprising young man as yourself would find the addition of my own body somewhat inconvenient.'

'You guess wrong,' said the Saint tersely. 'Corpses are my specialty. I collect 'em. But still, we're beginning to learn things about you. From that touching speech of yours, we gather that you belong to the bunch who presented me with the first body. Izzat so?' The prince inclined his head.

'It distresses me to have to admit that one of my agents was responsible. The killing was stupid and unnecessary. Emilio was only instructed to follow Weissmann and report to me immediately he had reached his destination. When Weissmann was first arrested, and then rescued and abducted by yourself, the ridiculous Emilio lost his head. His blunder is merely a typical example of misplaced initiative.' The prince dismissed the subject with an airy wave of his hand. 'However, the mis­take is fortunately not fatal, except for Weissmann—and Emi­lio will not annoy me again. Is your curiosity satisfied?'

'Not so's you'd notice it,' said the Saint pungently. 'We're only just starting. Our curiosity hasn't got its bib wet yet. Who was this Weissmann bird, anyway?'

The prince raised his finely pencilled eyebrows. 'You seem to require a great deal of information, my dear Mr. Templar.'

'I soak up information like sponge, old sweetheart. Tell me more. What is the boodle?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Granted. What is the boodle? You know.The jack—the swag —the loot—the mazuma—the stuff that all this song and dance is about. The sardines in that ingenious little can. Gosh-darn it,' said the Saint, with exasperation, 'you used to understand plain English. What's the first prize in the sweepstake? We've paid for our tickets. We're inquisitive. Let's hear you tell us what it's all about.'

For the merest fraction of a second, a glitter of expression skimmed across the prince's eyes. And then it was gone again, and his sensitive features were once more as impassive as a Si­berian sea.

'You appear,' he said suavely, 'to be forgetting your posi­tion.'

'You don't say.'

The prince's stick swung gracefully from his fingertips.

'You forget, my impetuous young friend, that I am the visi­tor—and the dictator of the conversation. You are inquisitive, but you may or may not be so ignorant as you wish me to be­lieve. The point is really immaterial. Except that, if you are honestly ignorant, I can assure you—from nothing but my per­sonal regard for you, my dear Mr. Templar—I can assure you that it will be healthier for you to remain in ignorance.' He glanced at his watch. 'I think we have wasted enough time. Mr. Templar, when you abducted Weissmann, he was carrying a small steel box. I see that you have detached it from him. That box, Mr. Templar, is my property, and I shall be glad to have it.'

The Saint lounged even more languidly against the wall.

'I'll bet you'd love it—Highness.'

Simon's voice was dreamy. And right down behind that drawling dreaminess his brain was sizzling with the knowledge that somewhere the interview had sprung a leak.

In no way whatsoever had it taken the line he had subcon­sciously expected of it, and not one of his deliberate discourte­sies had been able to startle it back into the way it should have gone. The Saint felt like a second-rate comedian frantically pumping the old oil into a frosted audience, and feeling all the inclement draughts of Lapland whistling back at him to roost below his wishbone. The badinage was going hideously flat. He caught the prince's gaze on him with a quiet