gently in his hands and a blindingly beatific smile creeping by hesitant degrees into the lines of his chiselled fighting mouth, so that the girl looked at him in uncomprehending wonderment.
'. . . And there, ladies and gentlemen, you have the opinions of the writers whose letters are numbered one thousand and six, one thousand and fourteen, and one thousand and twenty-seven in our files,' said the voice of the announcer, speaking with tedious deliberation. 'These good people cured themselves by drinking Miracle Tea. Let me urge you to buy Miracle Tea—tonight. Buy Miracle Teal . . . And now the string quartet will play
There were two more short numbers and the broadcast was over. Simon switched off the radio as the next advertiser plunged into his act.
'Well,' said Patricia mutinously, 'are you going to talk ?'
'You heard as much as I did.'
'I didn't hear anything worth listening to.'
'Nor did I. That's the whole point. There wasn't anything worth listening to. I was looking for an elaborate code message. An expert like me can smell a code message as far off as a venerable gorgonzola—there's always a certain clumsiness in the phrasing. This was so simple that I nearly missed it.'
Patricia gazed into the depths of her glass.
She said: 'Those numbers——'
He nodded.
'The 'thousand' part is just coverage. Six, fourteen, and twenty-seven are the operative words. They have to buy Miracle Tea—tonight. Nothing else in the programme means a thing. But according to that paper I brought in, Miracle Tea broadcasts every night of the week; and that means that any night the Big Shot wants to he can send out a call for the men he wants to come and get their orders or anything else that's waiting for them. It's the last perfect touch of organization. There's no connecting link that any detective on earth could trace between a broadcast and any particular person who listens to it. It means that even if one of his operatives should be under suspicion, the Big Shot can contact him without the shadow of a chance of transferring suspicion to himself. You could think of hundreds of ways of working a few numbers into an advertising spiel, and I'll bet they have a new one every time.'
She looked at him steadily.
'But you still haven't told me what——'
The telephone rang before he could answer.
Simon picked it up.
'Metropolitan Police Maternity Home,' he said.
'Teal speaking,' said a familiar voice with an unnecessarily pugnacious rasp in it. 'I've got the information you asked for about that phone number. The subscriber is Baron Inescu, 16 North Ashley Street, Berkeley Square. Now what was that information you were going to give me in return ?'
The Saint unpuckered his lips from a long inaudible whistle.
'Okay, Claud,' he said, and the words lilted. 'I guess you've earned it. You can start right now. Rush one of your squads to Osbett's Drug Store, 909 Victoria Street—the place where you bought your Miracle Tea. Three other guys will be there shopping for Miracle Tea at any moment from now on. I can't give you any description of them, but there's one sure way to pick them out. Have one of your men go up to everyone who comes out of the shop and say: 'Are you six, fourteen, or twenty-seven ?' If the guy jumps halfway out of his skin, he's one of the birds you want. And see that you get his Miracle Tea as well!'
'Miracle Tea!' sizzled the detective, with such searing savagery that the Saint's ribs suddenly ached with awful intuition. 'I wish——' He stopped. Then he said: 'What's this about Miracle
