The Saint and Mr Teal (Once More the Saint)

there was in that quiet man a mystic sensitiveness, a tenseness of poetry struggling rather puzzledly for the expression he could not give it, that made his memories more dreamy with a quaint kind of reverence than most others.

'I've been over by Tresco,' said the Saint, lifting his face presently from the beer.

'Oh. Did you see those yachts-are they still there?'

Simon nodded.

'As a matter of fact, I managed to scrounge lunch on one of them.'

' Was it Abdul Osman's?'

'No-Galbraith Stride's. I saw Osman's, though. It's a long way for him to come all the way over here.'

He knew that the other would need the least possible encouragement to delve into the past; and his expectations were founded on the soundest psychology. Mr. Smithson Smith sat down and accepted a cigarette.

'I think I said in my letter that I thought I'd heard his name before. I was thinking about it only yesterday, and the story came back to me. He hasn't visited St. Mary's-at least, if he has, I don't think I've seen him- but I should know this Abdul Osman if he was the same man, because he was branded on both cheeks.'

The Saint's eyebrows rose in innocent surprise.

'Really?'

The other nodded.

'It's quite a story-you could almost put it in a book. An Englishman did it-at least, the rumour said he was an Englishman, although they never caught him. This Abdul Osman was supposed to have a monopoly of various unpleasant things in the East-brothels and gambling dens and drug-trafficking, all that sort of thing. I don't know if it was true, but that was what they told me. He had a fine house in Cairo, anyway, so he must have made plenty of money out of it. I re­member what happened distinctly. It was a local sen­sation at the time. ... I hope I'm not boring you?'

Mr Smithson Smith was oddly afraid of being boring, as if he felt that any mundane restlessness in his audi­ ence would break the fragile glamour of those wonderful things he could remember.

'Not a bit,' said the Saint. 'What happened?'

'Well, apparently this Abdul Osman disappeared one night. He was supposed to be driving back to Cairo from Alexandria, just himself and his chauffeur. It was a beautiful car he had; I've often seen it driving past Shepheard's Hotel. Well, he didn't arrive when they were expecting him; and as the time went on, and he was three or four hours late and hadn't sent any mes­sage to say what had held him up, his household became anxious and went out to look for him. They drove all the way to Alexandria without seeing him, but when they got there they were told by the place where he'd been staying that he'd left about eight hours previously. Then they went to the police, and there was another search. No trace of him was found.'

A couple of young men in white open shirts and flannel trousers came in and sat down. Mr. Smithson Smith excused himself to go and take their order, and while he was filling it the Saint lighted a cigarette and glanced at them disinterestedly. They were quiet, very respectable young men; but their faces were sallow and the arms exposed by their rolled-up sleeves were white above the elbows.

'Well,' said Mr. Smithson Smith, returning to his chair, 'they searched for him half the night, but he seemed to have vanished into thin air. Of course, it wasn't easy to make a thorough search in the dark, so in the morning they tried again. And then they found him. His car was on the road-they found tracks that showed it had been driven off quite a long way into the desert, and brought back again; and out in the desert where it had been turned round there were the remains of a fire. The chauffeur was just recovering consciousness-he'd been knocked on the head and tied up and gagged-and Abdul Osman was in the back of the car with this brand on both his cheeks. Whoever did it had burnt it in almost to the bone with a red-hot iron-it was an Arabic word, and it meant just what this man was.'

'Stout piece of work,' murmured the Saint, pushing his glass forward for replenishment.

'Probably it was.' Mr. Smithson Smith provided another pint of beer, and resumed his seat. 'And the only clue they had was a sort of drawing that had been painted on the sides of Osman's beautiful car-the paint was still wet when they found it. It was a sort of figure made out of straight lines, with a round head, like you see kids drawing on walls, only this one had a circle on top like the haloes in those mediaeval church pictures. I've often wondered what it was meant to be. It couldn't have been a picture of Abdul Osman, be­cause he had no right to a halo. Perhaps it was meant for a picture of the man who did it.'

'It sounds possible,' murmured the Saint.

One of the respectable young men rose and left the bar: idly, Simon watched him going slowly down the sloping path to the gate.

'Yes,' said Mr. Smithson Smith thoughtfully. ... 'I mind another time when I heard of him. This was in Beirut. A friend of mine met a girl there in a dance place-it was the sort of dance place that wouldn't be allowed at all in England. She told him a story about Abdul Osman-I don't think I should like to repeat the details to anyone, but if it was true he couldn't be painted any blacker than he is. As a matter of fact, I did tell this story to a man I met on a boat going across to Marseilles, who had just retired from the Egyptian police, and he said it was probably true. It was --'

'Hullo,' said the Saint. 'Bloke seems to have fallen down.'

The respectable young man who had gone out had stumbled as he stepped down to the road, and at that moment he was sprawled in the dust just beyond the gate. He was clutching one ankle, and his face was turned back towards the veranda with a twisted ex­pression of agony.

Mr. Smithson Smith looked out, then round to the respectable young man's companion.

'Your friend seems to have hurt himself,' he said. 'It looks as if he has sprained his ankle.'

The respectable young man came over to their table arid also looked out.

'I'll go and see,' he said.