Follow the Saint

was flatly casual, but his small beady eyes flitted over Simon's face like flies hovering.

'Then you should be enjoying the view,' said the Saint affably. 'What can I sell you today, comrade? Hot water bottles? Shaving cream? Toothpaste? We have a special bargain line of castor oil——'

'Where's Ossy?'

'Dear old Ossy is lying down for a while—I think he's got a headache, or something. But don't let that stop you. Have you tried some of our Passion Flower lipstick, guaran­teed to seduce at the first application ?'

The man's eyes circled around again. He pushed out a crumpled envelope.

'Give Ossy my prescription, and don't talk so much.'

'Just a minute,' said the Saint.

He took the envelope back towards the staircase and slit it open. One glance even in the dim light that penetrated there was enough to show him that whatever else the thin sheet of paper it contained might mean, it was not a prescrip­tion that any ordinary pharmacist could have filled.

He stuffed the sheet into his pocket and came back.

'Will you call again at six o'clock ?' he said, and his flip­pancy was no longer obtrusive. 'I'll have it ready for you than.'

'Awright.'

The beady eyes sidled over him once more, a trifle puz­zedly, and the man went out.

Simon took the paper back into the dispensing room and spread it out under a good light. It was a scale plan of a building, with every detail plainly marked even to the posi­tions of the larger pieces of furniture, and provided in addition with a closely-written fringe of marginal notes which to the Saint's professional scrutiny provided every item of information that a careful burglar could have asked for; and the first fascinating but still incomplete comprehen­sion of Mr Osbett's extraordinary business began to reveal itself to him as he studied it.

IX

THE SIMPLE beauty of the system made his pulses skip. Plans like that could be passed over in the guise of prescriptions; boodle, cash payments for services rendered, or almost anything else, could be handed over the counter enclosed in tubes of cold cream or packets of Miracle Tea; and it could all be done openly and with impunity even while other genuine customers were in the shop waiting to be served. Even if the man who did it were suspected and under surveillance, the same transactions could take place countless times under the very eyes of a watcher, and be dismissed as an entirely unimportant feature of the suspect's daily activities. Short of deliberate betrayal, it left no loophole through which Osbett himself could be involved at all—and even that risk, with a little ingenuity, could probably be manipu­lated so as to leave someone like the shifty-eyed young assistant to hold the baby. It was foolproof and puncture-proof—except against such an unforeseen train of accidents as had delivered one fatal package of Miracle Tea into Chief Inspector Teal's unwitting paws, and tumbled it from his pocket into Simon Templar's car.

The one vast and monumental question mark that was left was wrapped all the way round the mystery of what was the motive focus of the whole machinery.

A highly organized and up-to-date gang of thieves, directed by a Master Mind and operating with the efficiency of a big business ? The answer seemed trite but possible. And yet ...

All the goods he could see round him were probably as genuine as patent slimming salts and mouth washes can be— any special packages would certainly be kept aside. And there was nothing noticeably out of place at that time. He exa­mined the cash register. It contained nothing but a small amount of money, which he transferred to a hospital collect­ing box on the counter. The ancient notes and invoices and prescriptions speared on to hook files in the dispensing compartment were obviously innocuous—nothing incrimi­nating was likely to be left lying about there.

The first brisk spell of trade seemed to have fallen off, and no one else had entered the shop since the visit of Weasel Face. Simon went back upstairs,