Teal pushed him roughly back, and faced the Saint.
"Templar, if you think you're going to do anything funny-"
"I'm sure of it." Simon glanced at his watch. "That cigar, for instance, is due to function about now. No explosives. No soot. A much better joke than that." . . .
Teal was holding the cigar, staring at it. He felt very weak. His head seemed to have been aching for a long time. With a sudden convulsive effort he pitched the cigar through the window, and his hand began to reach round to his pocket. Then he sprawled limply sideways. A porter woke him at Victoria.
That night there were warrants out for the arrest of Simon Templar and all his friends. But the flat in Brook Street was shut up, and the janitor stated that the owners had gone away for a week-destination unknown. The press was not informed. Teal had his pride.
Three days later, a large coffin, labelled FRAGILE-HANDLE CARELESSLY-ANY OLD SIDE UP, was delivered at New Scotland Yard, addressed to Chief Inspector Teal. When examined, it was heard to tick loudly, and the explosives experts opened it at dead of night in some trepidation in the middle of Hyde Park. They found a large alarm clock-and Cyril Farrast. He was bound hand and foot, and gagged. And his bare back showed that he had been terribly flogged.
Also in the coffin was a slip of paper bearing the sign of the Saint. And in a box, carefully preserved in tissue paper and corrugated cardboard, was a cigar. When Teal arrived home that night he found Simon Templar patiently waiting on his doorstep. "I got your cigar," Teal said grimly.
"Smoke it," said the Saint. "It's a good one. If you fancy the brand, I'll mail you the rest of the box to-morrow."
"Come in," said Teal. He led the way, and the Saint followed. In the tiny sitting-room, Teal unwrapped the cigar, and the Saint lighted a cigarette. "Also," said Teal, "I've got a warrant for your arrest."
"And no case to use it on," said Simon. "You've got your man back."
"You flogged him."
"He's the only man who can bring that charge against me. You can't."
"If you steal something and send it back, that doesn't dispose of the charge of theft-if we care to prosecute."
"But you wouldn't," smiled the Saint, watching Teal light the cigar. "Frankly, now, between ourselves, would it be worth it? I notice the papers haven't said anything about the affair. That was wise of you. But if you charged me, you couldn't keep it out of the papers. And all England would be laughing over the story of how the great Claud Eustace Teal"-the detective winced-"was caught on the bend with the old, old doped cigar. Honestly- wouldn't it be better to call it a day?"
Teal frowned, looking straight at the smiling young man before him. From the hour of his first meeting with the Saint, Teal had recognized an indefinable superiority. It lay in nothing that the Saint did or said. It was simply there. Simon Templar was not common clay; and Teal, who was of the good red earth earthy, realized the fact without resentment. "Seriously, then, Templar," said Teal, "don't you see the hole you put me in? You took Farrast away and flogged him-that remains. And he saw you talking to me in the train. If he liked, he could say in court that we were secretly aiding and abetting you. The police are in the limelight just now, and a lot of the mud would stick."
"Farrast is dumb," answered Simon. "I promise you that. Because I told him that if he breathed a word of what had happened, I should find him and kill him. And he believes it. You see, I appreciated your difficulty."
Teal could think fast. He nodded. "You win again," he said. "I think the commissioner'll pass it-this once-since you've sent the man back. But another time-"
"I never repeat myself," said the Saint. "That's why you'll never catch me. But thanks, all the same."
He picked up his hat, but he turned back at the door. "By the way-has this affair, on top of the diamonds, put you in bad with the commissioner?"
"I won't deny it."
The Saint looked at the ceiling. "I'd like to put that right," he said. "Now, there's a receiver of stolen goods living in Netting Hill, named Albert Handers. Most of the big stuff passes through his hands, and I know you've been wanting him for a longish while."
Teal started. "How the deuce-"
"Never mind that. If you really want to smooth down the commissioner, you'll wait for Handers at Croydon Aлrodrome tomorrow morning, when he proposes to fly to Amsterdam with the proceeds of the Asheton robbery. The diamonds will be sewn into the carrying handle of his valise. I wonder you've never thought of that, the times you've stopped him and searched him. . . . Night-night, sonny boy!" He was gone before the plump detective could stop him; and that night the Saint slept again in Brook Street.
But the information which the Saint had given came from Dicky Tremayne, another of the gang, and it signalled the beginning of the end of the coup to which Tremayne had devoted a year of patient preparation. This is the story of Dicky Tremayne.
Chapter II DICKY TREMAYNE walked into the Saint's flat late one night, and found the Saint, in pajamas and dressing-gown, reading by the open window. Dicky Tremayne was able to walk in at any hour, because, like Roger Conway, he had his own key. Dicky Tremayne said: "Saint, I feel I'm going to fell in love."
The Saint slewed round, raising his eyes to heaven.
"What-not again?" he protested.
"Again," snapped Dicky. "It's an infernal nuisance, but there you are. A man must do something."
Simon put away his book and reached for a cigarette from the box that stood conveniently open on the table at his elbow. "Bum it," said Simon. "I always thought Archie Sheridan was bad enough. Till he went and got married, I used to spend my spare time wondering why he never got landed. But since you came out of your hermitage, and we let you go and live unchaperoned in Paris-"
"I know," snapped Dicky. "I can't help it. But it may be serious this time."
Match in hand, Simon regarded him. Norman Kent was the most darkly attractive of the Saints; Archie Sheridan had been the most delightfully irresponsible; Roger Conway was the most good-looking; but Dicky-Dicky Tremayne was dark and handsome in the clean keen-faced way which is the despairing envy of the Latin, and with it Dicky's elegance had a Continental polish and his eye a wicked Continental gleam. Dicky was what romantic maidens call a sheik-and yet he was unspoiled. Also he had a courage and a cheerfulness which never failed him. The Saint had a very real affection for Dicky. "Who is it this time, son?" he asked.
Tremayne walked to the window and stared out. "Her house in Park Lane was taken in the name of the Countess Anusia Marova," he said. "So was the yacht she's chartered for the season. But she was born in Boston, Mass., twenty-three years ago, and her parents called her Audrey Perowne. She's had a lot of names since then, but the Amsterdam police knew her best as 'Straight' Audrey. You know who I mean."
"And you-"
"You know what I've done. I spent all my time in Paris working in with Hilloran, who was her right-hand man in the States, because we were sure they'd get together sooner or later, and then we'd make one killing of the pair. And they are together again, and I'm in London as a fully accredited member of the gang. Everything's ready. And now I want to know why we ever bothered."
Simon shrugged. "Hilloran's name is bad enough, and she's made more money-"
"Why do they call her 'Straight' Audrey?"
"Because she's never touched or dealt in dope, which is considered eccentric in a woman crook. And because it's said to be unhealthy to get fresh with her. Apart from that, she's dabbled in pretty well everything-"
Dicky nodded helplessly. "I know, old man," he said. "I know it all. You're going to say that she and Hilloran, to us, were just a pair of crooks who'd made so much out of the game that we decided to make them contribute. We'd never met her. And it isn't as if she were a man-"
"And yet," said the Saint, "I remember a woman whom you wanted to kill. And I expect you'd have done it, if she hadn't died of her own accord."
"She was a-"
"Quite. But you'd've treated her exactly the same as you'd've treated a man engaged in the same traffic."
"There's nothing like that about Audrey Perowne."
"You're trying to argue that she's really hardly more of a crook than we are. Her crime record's pretty clean, and the man she's robbed could afford to lose."
"Isn't that so?"
Simon studied his cigarette-end. "Once upon a time," he observed, "there was a rich man named John L. Morganheim. He died at Palm Beach- mysteriously. And Audrey Perowne was-er- keeping him company. You understand? It had to be hushed up, of course. His family couldn't have a scandal. Still-"
Tremayne went pale. "We don't know the whole of that story," he said.
"We don't," admitted the Saint. "We only know certain facts. And they mayn't be such thundering good facts, anyhow. But they're there-till we know something better." He got to his feet and laid a hand on Dicky's shoulder. "Let's have some straight talk, Dicky," he suggested. "You're beginning to feel you can't go through with the job. Am I right?"
Tremayne spread out his hands. "That's about the strength of it. We've got to be sure-"
"Let's be sure, then," agreed the Saint. "But meanwhile, what's the harm in carrying on? You can't object to the thrashing of Farrast. You can't feel cut up about the shopping of Handers. And you can't mind what sort of a rise we take out of Hilloran. What we do about the girl can be decided later- when we're sure. Till then, where's the point in chucking in your hand?"