The Saint and Mr Teal (Once More the Saint)

And then he looked round and saw the oval figure of Chief Inspector Teal crossing the lounge towards them. He hitched himself up and called for more Martinis.

'Tell us about things,' he murmured.

'There's nothing much to tell,' said the detective sleepily, sinking into a chair. 'We're still working, and we'll get our men before long. I suppose you read about the Underground hold-up last night?'

Simon shook his head.

'I haven't seen a morning paper.'

'They wounded two men and got away with over three thousand pounds in cash-the booking-office takings from several stations. That's where it's so diffi­cult. They've got us guessing all the time. First it's jewellers' shops; then we guard those, and it's banks. Then we watch the banks, and it's a night club. Now it's the Underground. We can't possibly protect every place in London where you can find large sums of money, and they know it.'

'No more clues?'

'We're working on several lines,' said the detective, with professional vagueness; but Simon Templar was not impressed.

'As I see it,' he said, 'your trouble is to get hold of the man up top who's producing all these smart ideas. It's no good knocking off Green Cross boys here and there-you can always keep tabs on them in the ordinary way, and it's just this unknown bloke who's got control of 'em who's making 'em dangerous for the time being.'

Teal nodded.

'That's about it.'

'And if you did find this unknown bloke, he'd prob­ably turn out to be so unknown that all the evidence you could get against him wouldn't hang a mosquito.'

'That's often the trouble,' said Teal gloomily. 'But we can't work any other way.'

'Let's have some lunch,' said the Saint brightly.

Throughout the meal he played the perfect host with a stern devotion to the book of etiquette that Patricia could not understand. He talked about racing, beer, aeroplanes, theatres, politics, sparking plugs, dress reform, and cancer-everything that could not be steered to any subject that the detective might find tender. Most particularly he avoided saying anything more about the Green Cross boys or their unknown leader; and more than once Teal looked sideways at him with a kind of irritated puzzlement. It was not like the Saint to show such an elaborate desire to keep possibly painful matters out of discussion, and the symptom made Mr. Teal feel a dim uneasiness.

At two o'clock he excused himself with a muttered hint of official business, and Simon accompanied him to the door. Teal twiddled his bowler hat and stared at him somnolently.

'You're keeping something back,' he said bluntly. 'I can't make you tell me if you don't want to, but I suppose you realize that these shootings will go on until we get the man who's at the back of it.'

'That reminds me,' said the Saint. 'Can you give me the names of all the. people who've been shot up since the fashion started-including the policeman ?'

He wrote down the names Teal gave him on the back of an envelope, and waved the detective a cheery fare­ well without saying anything in answer to his implied question-a fact which did not dawn clearly upon Mr. Teal until he was halfway down Berkeley Street.

Simon went back to Patricia, and his eyes were gay and dangerous.

'This is where we work very fast,' he said. 'London stinks in my throat, and we need a holiday. Wouldn't you like to get hold of a ship and sail out into the great open seas?'

'But what do we do now?' she asked; and the Saint tilted his eyebrows in teasing mysteriousness.

'One of the agenda is to have words with Clem Enright. Thank God, Corrigan told me where he hangs around when he's not doing anything-otherwise it might have been difficult.'

He was lucky enough to find Clem Enright at his third attempt, in a public house near Charing Cross station; but he made no fuss about his discovery. Clem Enright, in fact, did not know that it had been made.

Clem in his earlier days had haunted the public bars of the taverns where he drank; but recently, under the patronizing tuition of Ted Orping, he had learned to walk quite unselfconsciously through the saloon en­trance. Clem was handling more money than he had ever had in his life before, and in the daze of his new­found affluence he was an apt pupil.

He sat behind a whisky and soda-'Only bums drink beer,' insisted Ted-with his derby hat tipped cockily over one ear in what was meant to be an imitation of Ted Orping's swagger, listening to a lecture from his hero.

'Protection,' said Ted Orping impressively. 'That's what we're goin' for. Protection.'

'I thought that was somethink to do wiv politics,' said Clem hazily.

'Not that sort of protection, you chump,' snarled the scornful Ted. 'Who cares about that? I mean protection- like they do it in America. Ain't you never heard of it? What I mean is, you say to a guy: 'Here you are with a big business, an' you never know when some gang may hold you up or chuck a bomb at you. You pay us for protection, an' we'll see nothing hap­pens to you.'

'But I thought we was doing the 'old-ups,' said Clem.

Ted Orping sighed and spat a loose strand of tobacco through his teeth.

'Course we are, fathead. That's just to show 'em what may happen if they don't pay. Then when they're all frightened, we come an' talk about protection. We get just as much money, an' we don't have to work so hard.'

'Sounds all right,' said Clem.

He took a drink from his glass and tried to conceal his grimace. He'd never cared for whisky and never would,