The Saint and Mr Teal (Once More the Saint)

'Would I get a lot of rest in your flat?'

Tex Goldman grinned and discarded another half-smoked cigar. He knew what he wanted, knew how to get it, and had an infinite capacity for patience in certain directions.

It was after two o'clock when he left the club-and the girl-and took a taxi back to Baker Street. In his apartment he exchanged his tail coat for a silk dressing gown, removed his collar and tie, and settled himself in an armchair over an evening paper.

Half an hour later his bell rang, and he went to open the door. A red-eyed Ted Orping stood outside, looking rather dishevelled in spite of his flashy clothes, with Clem Enright a little behind him.

'Well?'

There was trouble plainly marked on every feature of Ted Orping's face, ratified in the peaked countenance of Clem Enright; but Tex Goldman showed no emotion. He let the Green Cross boys pass, closed the door after them, and followed them through to the sitting room. Clem Enright sat awkwardly on the edge of an upright chair, while Ted Orping flung himself asprawl in an armchair and kept his hat on. Naturally it was Ted Orping who was the spokesman.

'Boss-we were hijacked.'

Goldman gauged the length of his cigar butt calmly.

'How?'

'It was Corrigan's fault. Joe said he must have a drink before we did the job, an' he drove us round to Sam Harp's. Sam don't care what time it is if he's awake. We had a couple, an' came out-Clem an' me first, an' Joe last. Least, we thought it was Joe. We got in the car and drove off. We could only see what we thought was Joe's back, driving, an' we went up Regent Street to Peabody's. Did the job properly, just as it'd been fixed, an' hopped back in the wagon. There was a copper-a bull-on the beat, but he never got near us. We went around Regent's Park, an' then this guy cut out of it an' stopped. I still thought it was Joe. I asked him what he was playin' at, an' then he turned round. It wasn't Joe.'

'Who was it?'

'The Saint.' Ted looked at Goldman grimly and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. 'He stuck us up with a gun, an' took the bag. I went for him, an' his gun squirted ammonia in my face. He had another wagon fixed for his getaway. I was blind for a quarter of an hour. Clem had to drive me here.'

Tex Goldman's cigar had gone out. He shredded it into the wastepaper basket.

' Where's Corrigan?'

'I dunno. We come straight here. There wasn't noth­ing we could do.'

Goldman sat down. His square stubby fingers drummed on the arm of his chair, while his narrowed black eyes remained fixed on Ted Orping's face.

'We ain't here to be hijacked,' he said. 'We're here for all we can get. Get it quick-no mistakes-and scram. No one's gonna give us the runaround. Not dicks, Saints, nor anyone else. Anyone that gets in the way-well, it'll be just too bad about him. You got a gun. It's meant to be used. Back where I come from, we shoot fast and often. It saves trouble.'

'Sure.'

The black eyes swivelled round to Clem.

'You got a gun, Enright?'

'N-no, sir.'

Goldman hitched open a drawer and dragged out a heavy blue-black automatic and a box of cartridges. He tossed the items, one after another, across the room to the little cockney.

'You got one now-and I didn't give it you for ornament. There's no room for pikers or double-crossers in this racket. Anyone that don't toe the line is only safe in one place. Anyone-understand ?'

'Y-yes, sir.'

Clem Enright turned the gun over in his hand, felt the weight of it, tested his fingers round the grip. He put it away in his pocket, reluctantly, with the box of cartridges, his eyes gleaming. He drew a deep breath and held some of it back, giving himself a chest, and conscious all the time of Ted Orping's critical scrutiny.

'I'll use it, Mr. Goldman,' he said.

The whir of the front-door buzzer broke in on them sharply, sounding again and again, insistently.

Tex Goldman raised the lid of a cigar box.

'See who it is, Ted.'

Orping slouched up and went out. The front door opened, and Joe Corrigan came bursting through into the sitting room. Ted Orping followed him in. Cor­rigan's hair was awry, his tie loose and askew; and his clothes looked as if he had been pulled backwards through a hedge. He stood just inside the room, breath­ing heavily, glancing from one face to another.

Goldman surveyed him with distaste.

'What d'you mean by coming here like that?' he demanded harshly. 'Are you aiming to tell the world I'm in the habit of entertaining a pack of hoboes in my apartment at three o'clock in the morning ?'

'I'm sorry,' Corrigan said stolidly. 'I thought I'd better come here at once and tell you what happened.'

'I've heard most of it. What happened to you?'

Corrigan rubbed the palms of his hands down his trousers.

'We went to Sam Harp's, and I was coming out last. Ted was in a hurry to go, and I stayed to pay for the last