The Saint and Mr Teal (Once More the Saint)

The two Green Cross boys sat side by side, staring at the face of the man in the heavy leather coat that had been worn by Joe Corrigan when they set out. It was a lean sunburnt face, recklessly clean-cut and swashbuckling in its rakish keenness of line, in which the amazingly clear and mocking blue eyes gleamed like chips of crystal. There was a coolness, an effrontery, a fighting ruthlessness about it that left them momen­tarily speechless. It was the most dangerously challeng­ing face that either of them had ever seen. But it was not the face of Joe Corrigan.

'The jaunt is over, boys,' said the face amiably. 'I hope you've had a good time and caught no colds. And thanks for the job-it was about the best I've been able to watch. You two ought to take it up pro­fessionally-you'd do well.'

Ted Orping wetted his lips.

'Who are you?' he asked.

The driver smiled. It was a benevolent, almost seraphic smile, that bared a glint of ivory white teeth; and yet there was nothing reassuring about it. It was as full of the hair-trigger threat of sudden death as the round hollow snout of the gun that slid up over the back of the seat in the driver's hand. Ted Orping had seen smiles like that in the movies, and he knew.

'I am the Saint,' said the driver gently. 'I see you've heard of me. But perhaps you thought I'd gone out of business. Well, you can work it out. I'm sorry about Joe, but he kind of had an accident coming out of that pub. It seemed as if you were left without a driver, but I hated to disappoint you-so I took his place. . . . You might keep your hands on your lap, Ted-it makes me nervous when they're out of sight.'

The muzzle of the gun shifted slightly, so that Ted Orping looked down the barrel. His hands ceased to stray behind him, and lay still.

The Saint reached a long arm over to the floor at Ted Orping's feet and picked up the bag. He weighed it, speculatively and judiciously, under the two Green Cross boys' noses.

'A nice haul-as you were both saying,' he mur­mured. 'I couldn't have done better myself. But I think it's worth too much money for you lads to have all to yourselves. You might want to move up another stage in life and take to cigars-and cigars, Ted, need a strong tum-tum when you aren't used to them. So I'll just take care of it for you. Give my love to Joe and the rest of the gang; and if you hear any more of those rumours about my having retired you'll know what to say. And I hope you'll say it. It cannot be too widely known -'

Ted Orping came to life, grimly and desperately. It may have been that the actual sight of so much hard-won wealth vanishing into the hands of the mocking hijacker in front spurred him to the gamble; it may have been that he had to prove to himself that he wasn't afraid of any other man who carried a gun; or it may only have been the necessity of retaining Clem Enright's respect. Whatever his motive was, he took his chance, with a blaze of sheer animal courage.

He hurled himself forward out of his seat and grabbed at the gun in the Saint's hand. And the Saint pressed the trigger.

There was no report-only a sharp liquid hiss. A shining jet of ammonia leapt from the muzzle of the gun like a pencil of polished glass, and struck Ted Orping accurately on the bridge of his nose. It sprayed out over his face from the point of impact, burning his eyeballs with its agonizing sting and filling his lungs with pungent choking vapours. Orping fell back with a gasp; and Simon Templar opened the door.

He stepped out onto the pavement, and his gun still covered the two men. Clem Enright cringed away.

'So long, Clem,' said the Saint genially.

He ran down to the other car. The engine was ticking smoothly over as he reached it, and he swung himself nimbly in beside the girl who sat waiting at the wheel. The car swung out and skimmed neatly past the front wheels of the motionless bandit wagon ahead; and the Saint turned to wave a farewell to the two helpless men as they went by.

Then he sank back with a laugh and lighted a ciga­rette.

'Haven't you ever noticed that the simplest ideas are usually the best?' he remarked. 'That old water-pistol gag, for instance: could anything be more ele­mentary, and yet more bright and beautiful? I see that our technique is not yet perfect, Pat-all we need is to discover some trick with the smell of the Ark still wafting fruitily about it, and we could clean up the world.'

Patricia Holm steered the huge Hirondel round another corner, and the wind caught her fair hair as she turned to smile at him.

'Simon,' she said dispassionately, 'you have no conscience.'

'None,' said Simon Templar.

He was wearing a dinner jacket under his leather coat, and Joe Corrigan's cap went into a pocket in the car. Half an hour later they were strolling into the Breakfast Club for a celebratory plate of bacon and eggs and a final turn round the minute dance floor. And to any casual observer who saw the Saint drifting debonairly through the throng of elegant idlers, ex­changing words with an acquaintance here and there, straightening the head waiter's tie, and at last demolish­ing a large dish of the club's world-famous specialty, it would have been difficult to believe that the police and the underworld alike reckoned him the most dangerous man in England-or that a matter of mere minutes earlier he had been giving a convincing demonstration that his hand had lost none of its cunning.

It amused Simon Templar to be taken for one of those elegant idlers, just as it amused him to be known for something totally different in other and no less exclusive circles. He was due to derive a great deal of amusement from the fact that a certain gentleman from St. Louis counted him the most serious obstacle to a well-planned campaign that was just coming to ma­turity.

CHAPTER II THE city of St. Louis was not particularly proud of Tex Goldman. It knew him as a man who had successfully 'beaten the rap' on five notorious occasions, who was no less at home with typewriters and pineapples than he was with the common heater, who had a choice selection of judges and police captains eating out of his hand, and who secured whatever subscriptions to the funds of 'protection' he set out to collect. He ranked third on the city's roll of public enemies, and he made no secret of his aspirations to an even higher position; but nearly nine months ago an unfortunate incident had dictated a lengthy holiday. Tex Goldman had taken on the task of reducing a recalcitrant section of the Chinese laundry proprietors to a proper sense of their responsibilities, and in the process one of his bullets had found its mark in the heart of the leader of a powerful tong. Before nightfall the war gongs were beating for him; and Tex Goldman, who was no coward, took the advice of his friends and left St. Louis for his health.

He headed for New York, and felt homesick. He was used to being recognized as a big shot, but he found that