The Saint and Mr Teal (Once More the Saint)

like, because this time I haven't a thing on my conscience-just for once.'

'What made you pass up the idea?' asked Teal.

Simon took the cigarette from his mouth, and an­swered with an utter frankness that could have been nothing but the truth.

'It would have made life too damned dull!'

Teal scratched his chin and stared at the toecap of one shoe. The odd man had finished digging out bullets: he dropped them into a matchbox and stood by, listen­ing like the others.

'You know me, Claud,' said the Saint. 'I was just tempted-just in imagination-for that second or two while I watched Jones die and his bullets were crashing round me. And I saw what a deadly frost it would have been. No more danger-no more risk-no more duels with Scotland Yard-no more of your very jolly back-chat and bloody officiousness as per this evening. Claud, I'd have died of boredom. So I gave you your break. I left everything as it was, and phoned you straight away. There was no need to, but that's what I did. Jones was dead of his own accord, and I'd nothing to be afraid of. I haven't even touched an ounce of the gold-it's there for you to take away, and I suppose if the Quell family's extinct the government will get it and I won't even be offered a rebate on my income tax. But naturally, like the poor dumb boobs you are, you have to sweat blood trying to make me a murderer the one time in my life I'm innocent. Why, you sap, if I'd wanted to get away with anything --'

'It's a pity you couldn't have saved Jones and done what you thought of all the same,' said Teal; and the change in his manner was so marked that the Saint smiled. 'It might have done the country some good.'

Simon drew at his cigarette and hunched his shoulders.

'Why the hell should I bother? The country's got its salvation in its own hands. While a nation that's always boasting about its outstanding brilliance can put up with a collection of licensing laws, defense-of-the-realm acts, seaside councillors, Lambeth conven­tions, sweepstake laws, Sunday-observance acts, and one fatuity after another that's nailed on it by a bunch of blathering maiden aunts and pimply hypocrites, and can't make up its knock-kneed mind to get rid of 'em and let some fresh air and common sense into its life-when they can't do anything but dither over things that an infant in arms would know its own mind about -how the devil can they expect to solve bigger prob­lems ? And why the blazes should I take any trouble to save them from the necessity of thinking for themselves . . . ? Now for heaven's sake make up your mind whether you want to arrest me or not, because if you don't I'd like to go home to bed.'

'All right,' said Teal. 'You can go.'

The Saint held out his hand.

'Thanks,' he said. 'I'm sorry about that gramo­phone record. Maybe we can get on better in the future -if we're both very good.'

'I'll believe that of you when I see it,' said Teal; but he smiled.

Simon pushed his way through the knot of waiting men to the door.

At the foot of the stairs the detective who had been left with Patricia barred his way. Teal looked over the gallery rail and spoke down.

'It's all right, Peters,' he said. 'Mr. Templar and Miss Holm can go.'

Simon opened the front door and turned to wave the detective a debonair good-bye. They went out to where the Saint had left his car, and Simon lighted another cigarette and waited in silence for the engine to warm. Presently he let in the clutch and they slid away south­wards for home.

'Was it all right?' asked Patricia.

'Just,' said the Saint. 'But I don't want such a narrow squeak again for many years. There was one vital piece of evidence I'd overlooked, and Teal thought of it. I had to think fast-and play for my life. But I collared the evidence as I went out, and they'll never be able to make a case without it. And do you know, Pat?-Claud Eustace ended up by really believing me.'

'What did you tell him?'

'Very, very nearly the whole truth,' said the Saint, and hummed softly to himself for a long while.

He drove home by a roundabout route that took them over Westminster Bridge. In the middle of the bridge he dipped into his pocket and flung something sideways, far out over the parapet.

It was a small box that weighed heavily and rattled.

Back at Scotland Yard, a puzzled detective sergeant turned his coat inside out for the second time.

'I could have sworn I put the matchbox with those bullets in my pocket, sir,' he said. 'I must have left it on the bench or something. Shall I go back and fetch it?'

'Never mind,' said Mr. Teal. 'We shan't be needing it.'

PART II THE MAN FROM ST. LOUIS

CHAPTER I

A CERTAIN Mr. Peabody, known to his wife as Oojy-Woojy, was no fool. He used to say so himself, on every possible occasion; and he should have known. He was a small and rather scraggy man with watery eyes, a melancholy walrus moustache, and an unshakable faith in the efficiency of the police and the soundness of his insurance company-which latter qualities may pro­vide a generous explanation of an idiosyncrasy of his which in anyone else would have been described as sheer and unadulterated foolishness.

Mr. Peabody, in fact, is herewith immortalized in print for the sole and sufficient reason that he was the proprietor of a jewellery shop in Regent Street which the Green Cross gang busted one night in August. Apart from this, the temperamentalities, destiny, and general Oojy-Woojiness of Mr. Peabody do not concern us at all; but that busting of his shop was the beginning of no small excitement.

Mr. Peabody's idiosyncrasy was that of displaying his choicest wares in his window-and leaving them there for the passing crowd to feast their eyes upon. Not for him the obscurity of safes and strong rooms: that was only the fate of the undistinguished bulk of his stock, the more commonplace articles of virtu. His prize pieces were