to the things on his desk.
'He had a Spanish passport--nothing seems to have been stolen from him. The name is--here it is--Enrique. Manuel Enrique. Age thirty; domi-cile, Madrid.'
'Occupation?'
The inspector frowned over the booklet.
'Aviator,' he said.
Simon took out his cigarette case, and his eyes travelled thoughtfully back to the drawing which was not his. It was certainly rather squiggly.
'Who were these men who picked him up on the road?'
Again the inspector hesitated, and again Teal's attitude repeated the interrogation. The inspector compressed his lips. He disapproved of the proceedings entirely. If he'd had his way, the Saint would have been safely locked away in a cell in no time--not taking up a cross-examination of his own. With the air of a vegetarian being forcibly fed with human flesh, he picked up a closely written report sheet.
'Sir Hugo Renway, of March House, Betfield, near Folkestone, and his chauffeur, John Kel-lard,' he recited tersely.
''I suppose they didn't stay long.'
The inspector leaned back so that his chair creaked.
'Do you think I ought to have arrested them?' he inquired ponderously.
The doctor smirked patronizingly and said: 'Sir Hugo is a justice of the peace and a permanent official of the Treasury.'
'Wearing top hat and spats?' asked the Saint dreamily.
'He was not wearing a top hat.'
The Saint smiled; and it was a smile which made Mr. Teal queerly uneasy. The little beetle of dubiety in his mind laid another clutch of eggs and sat on them. In some way he felt that he was losing his depth, and the sensation lifted his temperature a degree nearer to boiling point.
'Well, Claud,' the Saint was saying, 'we're making, progress. I arrested myself to come down here, and I'm always ready to go on doing your work for you. Shall I charge myself, search myself, and lock myself up in a cell? Or what?'
'I'll think it over and let you know,' said the detective jaggedly.
'Go on a fish diet and give your brain a chance,' Simon advised him.
He trod on his cigarette end and buttoned his coat; and his blue eyes went back to Mr. Teal with a level recklessness of challenge which was like a draught of wind on the embers of Teal's temper.
'I'm telling you again that I don't know a thing about this bird Manuel Enrique, beyond what I've heard here. I don't expect you to believe me, because you haven't that much intelligence; but it happens to be the truth. My conscience is as clean as your shirt was before you put it on------'
'You're a liar,' brayed the detective.
'Doubtless you know your own laundry best,' said the Saint equably; and then his eyes chilled again. 'But that's about all you do know. You're not a detective--you're a homing pigeon. When in doubt, shove it on the Saint--that's your motto. Well, Claud, just for this once, I'm going to take the trouble to chew you up. I'm going to get your man. I've got a quarrel with anyone who takes my trade-mark in vain; and the lesson'll do you some good as well. And then you're going to come crawling to me on your great fat belly------'
In a kind of hysteria, Teal squirmed away from the sinewy brown forefinger which stabbed at his proudest possession.
'Don't do it!' he blared.
'--and apologize,' said the Saint; and in spite of himself, in spite of every obdurately logical belief he held, Chief Inspector Teal thought for a moment that he would not have liked to stand in the shoes of the man who ventured to impersonate the owner of that quiet satirical voice.
III
MARCH HOUSE, from one of the large-scale ordnance maps of which Simon Templar kept a complete and up- to-date library, appeared to be an estate of some thirty acres lying between the village of Betfield and the sea. Part of the southern boundary was formed by the cliffs themselves, and a secondary road from Betfield to the main Folkestone highway skirted it on the northwest. The Saint sat over his maps with a glass of sherry for half an hour before dinner the following evening, memorizing the topography--he had always been a firm believer in direct action, and, wanting to know more about a man, nothing appealed to him with such seductive simplicity as the obvious course of going to his house and taking an optimistic gander at the scenery.
'But whatever makes you think Renway had anything to do with it?' asked Patricia Holm.
'The top hat and spats,' Simon told her gravely. He smiled. 'I'm afraid I haven't got the childlike faith of a policeman, lass, and that's all there is to it. Claud Eustace would take the costume as a badge of respectability, but to my sad and worldly mind it's just the reverse. From what I could gather, Hugo wasn't actually sporting the top hat at the time, but he seems to have been that kind of man. And the picture they found on the body was rather squiggly--as it might have been if a bloke had drawn it in a car, traveling along. ... I know it's only one chance in a hundred, but it's a chance. And we haven't any other clue in the whole wide world.'
Hoppy Uniatz had no natural gift of subtlety, but he did understand direct action. Out of the entire panorama of human endeavour, it was about the only thing which really penetrated through all the layers of bullet-proof ivory which protected his brain. Detaching his mouth momentarily from a tumbler of gin nominally diluted with ginger ale, he said: 'I'll come wit' ya, boss.'
'Is it in your line?' asked the Saint.
