The Saint's Getaway

them again, letting them into its back streets through a narrow path be­tween two houses—less than fourteen hours since that moment by the bridge in Innsbruck when Monty Hayward of his own unsuspecting free will had launched them on that harebrained steeplechase. The town seemed quiet enough. Like the core of a cyclone, it was a paradoxical oasis of tranquillity within the belt of official spleen that must have been raging round it. The Saint and Monty plunged into it as if the mayor were their personal friend, and no one paid any attention to them; but the Saint had expected that much immunity. Doubtless the next day's newspapers would inform him that his exploits had roused the neighbourhood to a fever of indignation, but if he had hoped to be regaled with the magnificent spectacle of Treuchtlingen's aldermen woofling up and down the main street with their ties under their ears and the veins standing out on the backs of their necks he would have been disap­pointed. Treuchtlingen went about its daily business, and left any woofling that might be called for to the authorities who were paid to woofle on suitable occasions. It was a sidelight on the social system which deputes its emotions to a handful of salaried wooflers that had stood the Saint in good stead before; and yet perhaps only Simon knew how thin was the veneer of apathy on which his bluff was based.

But once they were inside the town concealment was impos­sible, and the only way to proceed was by that sheer arrogance of brass-neckedness in which the Saint's nerve had never failed him. They located the police station without difficulty and walked past it. Farther on, a heaven-sent Weinstube swam into their ken; and Monty Hayward realized that his throat had beeH parched for hours. He glared at the temptation like a starving rabbi resisting a fat slice of ham, but the Saint saw no objection.

'Why shouldn't we?' drawled the Saint. 'We don't want to roam about the streets. We can't go into a Konditorei—they'd think there was something wrong with us. Why not?'

Their trail turned through the doors. It was Simon who called for beer and sausages, and produced a packet of evil-smelling cigarettes from his overalls. Monty began to wish that he had suffered his thirst in silence: he had caught a smile in the Saint's eye which forboded more mischief.

'I have been thinking,' said the Saint.

He broke off while their order was placed on the stained wooden table in front of them. To fill up the interval he smiled winningly at the barmaid. She smiled back, disclosing a faceful of teeth that jutted out over, her lower lip like a frozen Niagara of ivory. The Saint watched her departure with some emotion; and then he turned to Monty again and raised his glass. They were in an isolated corner of the room where their conversation could not be overheard.

'Great thoughts, Monty,' said the Saint.

'I suppose you must think sometimes,' conceded Monty discouragingly, without any visible eagerness to probe deeper into the matter. He swilled some Nurnberger round his palate with great concentration. 'Why can't they make beer like this in England?' he asked, pulling out the best red herring he could think of.

'Because of your Aunt Emily,' said the Saint, whose pa­tience could be inexhaustible when once he had made up his mind. 'In America they have total prohibition, and the beer is lousy. In England they have semi-prohibition, in the shape of your Aunt Emily's wall-eyed Licensing Laws, and the beer is mostly muck. This is a free country where they take a proper pride in their beer, and if you tried to put any filthy chemi­cals in it you'd find yourself in the can. The idea of your Aunt Emily is that beer-drinkers are depraved anyway, and there­fore any poison is good enough to pump into their stomachs —and the rest is a question of degree. Now let's get back to business. I have been thinking.'

Monty sighed.

'Tell me the worst.'

'I've been thinking,' said the Saint, with his mouth full of sausage, 'that we ought to do a job of work.'

He took another draught from his glass and went on merci­lessly.

'We are disguised as workmen, Monty,' he said, 'and there­fore we ought to work. We can't stay here indefinitely, and Nina'll only just have got started on the pump-handle. That police station looked lonely to me, and I'd feel happier if we were on the spot'

'But what d'you think you're going to do?' protested Monty half-heartedly. 'You can't go to the door and ask if they've got any chairs to mend.'^r

The Saint grinned.

'I don't think I could ever mend a chair,' he said. 'But I know something else I could do, and