Follow the Saint

'Go ahead and get the iron, sweetheart,' he said, with bloodcurdling distinctness, and winked at her. 'Just in case old dear Red changes his mind.'

Then the wink and the grin vanished together as he whip­ped round on his prisoner.

'All right,' he snapped. 'Tell me all you know about Miracle Tea!'

'I dunno anythink about it, so help me, guv'nor. I never heard of it before tonight. All I know is I was told to come here wiv a packet, an' if I found another packet here I was to swop them over an' bring your packet back. That's all I know about it, strike me dead if it ain't.'

'I shall probably strike you dead if it is,' said the Saint coldly. 'D'you mean to tell me that Comrade Osbett didn't say any more than that ?'

'Who's that?'

'I said Osbett. You know who I'm talking about.'

'I never heard of 'im.'

Simon moved towards him with one fist drawn back.

'That's Gawd's own truth!' shouted McGuire desperately. 'I said I'd tell yer anythink I could, didn't I? It ain't my fault if I don't know everythink——'

'Then who was it told you to come here and play tea-parties ?'

'I dunno.... Listen!' begged McGuire frantically. 'This is a squeal, ain't it ? Well, why won't yer believe me ? I tell yer, I don't know. It was someone who met me when I come out of stir. I dunno wot is name is, an' in this business yer don't arsk questions. He ses to me, would I like fifty quid a week to do any dirty work there is going, more er less. I ses, for fifty quid a week I'll do anythink he can think of. So he gives me twenty quid on account, an' tells me to go anywhere where there's a telephone an' just sit there beside it until he calls me. So tonight he rings up——'

'And you never knew who he was ?'

'Never in me life, strike me dead——'

'How do you get the rest of your money ?'

'He just makes a date to meet me somewhere an' hands it over.'

'And you don't even know where he lives ?'

'So help me, I don't. All I got is a phone number where I can ring him.'

'What is this number?'

'Berkeley 3100.'

Simon studied him calculatingly. The story had at least a possibility of truth, and the way McGuire told it it sounded convincing. But the Saint didn't let any premature camera­derie soften his implacably dissecting gaze.

He said: 'What sort of a guy is he?'

'A tall thin foreign-looking bloke wiv a black beard.'

It still sounded possible. Whatever Mr Osbett's normal appearance might be, and whatever kind of racket he might be in, he might easily be anxious not to have his identity known by such dubiously efficient subordinates as Red McGuire.

'And exactly how,' said the Saint, 'did your foreign-looking