The Saint and Mr Teal (Once More the Saint)

by Leslie Charteris

  The manager frowned.

  "If what you say is true, Templar, I shall have to ask for their room," he said; and the Saint had to laugh.

  "You've got your room now, old lad. But whether they've left money to pay the bill is another matter."

  He sat on the table with a glance at the fly, which was still sunken in its coma. He found it difficult to think that it could be dead-although, of course, a drug that a man would survive might be fatal to an insect. But his summary of Abdul Osman's character didn't fit in with such a clean conclusion. The hot irons that had scored their insult on the Egyptian's face would call for something much more messy in the way of vengeance-Abdul Osman would not forget, nor would he be so easily satisfied when his chance came. Then why the drug? And why, anyway, the very presence of those two respectable young men, who on Smithson Smith's own statement had been staying at the hotel for the past fortnight? It seemed improbable that Abdul Osman claimed any of the gifts of necro­mantic clairvoyance which popular novelists attribute to the "mysterious East." And yet . . .

  All at once he recognized a slim figure in wide blue trousers walking up from the harbour towards the hotel, and waved to it joyfully out of the window. He was in a state of puzzlement in which he wanted to think aloud, and he could not have hoped for a better audience. But it struck him, while he was waiting for her to arrive, that it was a remarkable thing that he had not seen the two respectable young men making their way hastily towards the harbour, even as he had seen her coming in the opposite direction.

  "Look here, Templar," began Mr. Smithson Smith worriedly; but the Saint interrupted him with a smile of seraphic blandness.

  "Excuse me-I'll be back in a sec."

  He went out and met Patricia at the gate.

  "What about a spot of tea, boy?" she suggested; and then the electric gaiety of him opened her eyes, and she stopped.

  "Sit down here-this is a conference, but since we aren't politicians we can't fix a date for it next year on the other side of the world." The Saint pulled open the gate, seated himself on the step, and drew her down beside him. "Pat, a very respectable-looking young man, name of Trape, has just put a sleeping draught in my beer."

  "Good Lord-you haven't drunk it, have you?"

  The Saint laughed.

  "I certainly haven't. In fact, I punched the face of Mr. Trape, just to learn him, and kicked him out of the bar-to the pardonable indignation of our friend Mr. Smith. But I think he's beginning to understand- probably more than I wanted him to. I dropped a line about Abdul Osman while interviewing Mr. Trape that must have made Smith think a bit. . . . I'll tell you how it happened. I was having my drink, and these two harmless-looking birds rolled in. They ordered lemon­ade, or something; and then one of them went out. He walked down the path, tripped on this very spot where we're sitting, and appeared to sprain his ankle. I saw it happen, and Smith called his pal over to the window. That was when he did it, of course. He wanted an excuse to come over to our table, with both of us looking out­side, so he could slip in the dope. That's what the whole plant was for-and damned well done it was, too. I didn't see it at all until the injured warrior had been helped back to the hotel and away to his room, and then only because I'm naturally suspicious. I'll tell you the things that struck me as odd later-never mind them now. But all at once it dawned on me that there was something in my beer that hadn't been there when I started it, and also that Mr. Trape might be listening outside the door to see what happened. I opened the door, and there he was-so I pushed his teeth in. Episode over."

  "But what was the idea?"

  "That's just what I want to get-and I want it quick." He was speaking so rapidly that it wasn't easy for her to pick the facts and deductions out of that vital rush of vivid sentences. "I want to reconstruct what might have happened if I'd drunk the beer. Make holes in it anywhere you can."

  "Go ahead."

  "Right. I drink the beer. I appear to go groggy. Smith registers alarm. Trape hears, and walks innocently in-probably requesting brandy for wounded comrade. Apparently I've fainted. Cold water, keys, feathers, smelling salts-all tried and found wanting. Smith departs to summon doctor, leaving me with Trape. Whereupon I'm rushed out of the place --"

  "But what happens when Smith comes back?"

  "Exactly. . . . No, that's easy enough. Trape returns to bewildered Smith, explains that I revived and pushed off. Maybe I saw a man I had to talk to about a dog, or anything like that. Apologies, thanks, and so forth. . . .Well, where do they take me? Answer: the Luxor, of course-Abdul was watching me through field glasses all the time I was on Stride's deck. That's all right till --"

  "But there are holes everywhere!" she protested. "Suppose anyone saw him carrying you away?"

  The Saint's keen blue eyes flicked round the scene.

  "Abdul's a clever man-he doesn't forget much. There's a donkey and jingle two yards away, isn't there? And probably Trape hired it for the occasion. He could also have a sack-and I become cold potatoes. Down to the harbour-into a boat-there'd be no hurry. Once he had me in the cart he could leave me there for hours if it was good dope. And even when I was missing for good, his alibi would hold water. I don't say there was no risk, but it could have been done. And Abdul would be the man to do it. What I want to know is what the scheme is now that I haven't drunk the beer. Those two birds have been here a fort­night, so they were put here for some other job. Have they finished that job, and are they free to get away? I expect they'd have to consult Abdul, and Abdul wouldn't approve of bungling. I haven't seen them come out of the hotel, though I expect they could work round the back of the town-"

  He was still trying to frame his thoughts aloud, but actually the thread of them was racing away ahead of his voice. And a new light dawned on him at the same moment. His fingers clamped on Patricia's wrist.

  "Organization-that's what it is! Gee, I'm as slow as a village concert today!"

  In another second he was on his feet and sprinting back to the bar. He entered it from the path as Mr. Smithson Smith came in at the other end.

  "What have you decided to do about all this un­pleasantness?" asked the Saint; and the manager put his hands on his hips.

  "Well, I've just seen the young fellow with the sprained ankle --"

  The Saint's smile was fast and thin.

  "I thought you would. And if you hadn't gone to see him, he'd have sent for you. Meanwhile the most extraordinary things go on happening to my beer. First a sleeping draught-then it grows legs!"

  Mr. Smithson Smith looked down at the table rather blankly. The fly still reclined in the ashtray, oblivious of all excitement in its rigid stupor; but the glass of beer from which oblivion had overtaken it was gone.

  "Someone may have been in here and moved it," began Mr. Smithson Smith hazily, and Simon showed his teeth.

  "Someone has been in here and moved it-you can write that down in the family Bible. That sprained ankle was good enough for another stall. Did you go up and see the bloke off your own bat ?"

  "As a matter of fact, he asked me to go up --"

  "And naturally you had to go. Organization, that's what it is. What did he say?"

  "He said that his friend had told him what happened, and he couldn't understand it. He wanted to know if I should be asking them to leave."

  "Did you say anything about doped beer?"

  "No."

  "Or flies?"

  "No."

  "Then that lets you out," said the Saint, with some relief. "If they think you don't know anything they won't worry about you. What did you say?"

  "I said I should have to consider the matter."

  "That," said the Saint grimly, "will be all right so long as you don't consider it too deeply."

  Mr. Smithson Smith looked at him. The events he had witnessed, and that rattle of cross-examination, had left that gentle-voiced man utterly bewildered without shifting the foundations of his practical stand­point.

  "Look here, Templar," he said directly. "I don'
t know what you or these two young men are playing at, but I'm in a responsible position. I can't take any risks with this hotel. Unless one of you can give me a satisfactory explanation, I think I shall have to tell the sergeant as much as I know, and leave him to deal with it."

  Simon pondered for a moment; and then he nodded.

  "That's obviously your duty, and I think it would be better from every point of view if you did it. May I go up to Trape's room and see if he'll speak to me ? I don't know if he'll accept an apology, but if he did it might save a little scandal."

  He knew that he was taking rather an unfair ad­vantage, but the idea was one that he had to follow. The bait was tempting; and Mr. Smithson Smith, with the interests of his employers at heart and no conception of the depths of duplicity to which Simon Templar could sink when it was necessary, could scarcely refuse it. Simon obtained permission, and the number of the room which the two respectable-looking young men were sharing, and went upstairs with as much consolation as he could derive from the knowledge that if his plan went through successfully the victims would be most unlikely to complain to the management. If he were caught in the act, of course, he would find himself ten times more unpopular with the controlling powers of that respectable hotel than he was already; but the Saint had an unshakable faith in his guardian angels.

  He knocked on the door and went in with the fore­finger of his right hand prodding out the shape of his trouser pocket in an ostentatious untruth. Both the respectable-looking young men were there.

  "Put your hands up, and don't even think of shout­ing," he said genially. "You'd only give the chambermaids hysterics."

  For a moment the two young men were speechless.

  "Sorry to arrive so late, boys," Simon went on in the same friendly tone. "I should have been here long ago, but your organization was so slick it took me a little while to catch up with you. I congratulate you on getting rid of the evidence of that doped beer so smartly. We gather that you haven't yet told Abdul about our mutual misunderstanding. I guess you were wise-he wouldn't have been very sympathetic, and you had lots of time to take a second shot at me."

  Their faces gave him confirmation. And then Mr. Trape, who was nearest, brought himself a couple of paces nearer, with his head twisted viciously on one side.

  "Why not, Templar?" he said. "You wouldn't dare to shoot here."

  "Maybe you're right, Eric," admitted the Saint, with astonishing meekness, and removed his hand from his empty pocket. "But then it mightn't be necessary-considering the evidence you've got on your ceiling."

  He glanced upwards as he spoke; and Mr. Trape would not have been human if he had not followed that compelling gaze. He also glanced upwards, and in so doing he arranged his chin at an angle that could not have been posed better. Simon's fist shot up to the inviting mark, and impacted with a crisp click. . . .

  The Saint had been long enough in the game to know that even a modest two to one is bigger odds than any sane man takes on for his health, and at that mo­ment he was feeling more hurried than heroic. Mr. Trape was sinking limply towards the carpet before his companion realized that he was left to carry the banner alone, and by that time it was a bit late for realizations. The second respectable-looking young man was only beginning to scramble up off the bed when the Saint's flying leap caught him irresistibly round the shoulders and hurled his face mufflingly back into the pillow; then Simon aimed his fist in a scientifically merciless jolt to the nape of the exposed neck.

  The Saint returned coolly to the floor and smoothed his hair. The second respectable-looking young man would not recover from the effects of that blow for several minutes; but it was the aggressive Mr. Trape whom Simon selected automatically for his experiment. There was a large gunny sack and a coil of manila under the bed-Simon could not have deduced the plans for his own transportation better if he had been in the know from the beginning like any story-book detective -and in a few seconds he had Mr. Trape inside the sack and the sack fastened. Then he went to the window and looked out. It was only a short drop to a small garden at the rear of the hotel, which was built on a steep slope; and Simon dumped Mr. Trape over the sill unceremoniously. That was the greatest risk he took, but a searching glance round before he did it revealed a landscape apparently bare of watchers. Then he followed himself, and went back to Patricia.

  "Let's exercise the donkey," he said.

  The ensacked Mr. Trape was loaded into the cart, and they were moving placidly down towards the har­bour, before Patricia asked the inevitable question.

  "I'm giving Abdul a visitor," said the Saint cheer­fully. "He's expecting one, and why should he be disappointed ? If you want another reason, write it down as my everlasting love of exasperating the ungodly. I have no other mission in life. . . You'd better stay back here-I'm banking on the sea gang not knowing the land operators, but they'd certainly ask questions about you."

  The girl fell back, and Simon led the donkey out onto the jetty, For a very brief space he wondered if he would be able to locate the tender that awaited him; and then he saw a glistening white speedboat moored by some steps running down to the water. Its crew was dark-complexioned and swarthy, and to remove all doubt it flew a red burgee with the name Luxor woven into it.

  Simon hitched the sack onto his shoulder and walked brazenly down the steps.

  "Here he is," he said.

  Not one of the crew raised an eyebrow. Simon lowered his burden into the boat, saw the engine started, and went back along the causeway in an anguish of noise­less laughter.

  CHAPTER V

  IT HAD been a simple gesture of a kind that Simon Templar could never resist, and it gave him exactly the same unfathomably primitive satisfaction that an urchin derives from putting his thumb to his nose and extending his fingers outwards. It was a moral catharsis that touched the well-springs of all unsophisticated human bliss. And if he could have witnessed the re­ception of his jest his pleasure would have been almost too ecstatic to be borne.

  Abdul Osman himself came out on deck to supervise the hoisting up of the sack, and the leer on his face did not improve his beauty. Mr. Trape was beginning to recover by that time, and the sack was squirming vigorously to an accompaniment of hoarse grunts and indistinguishable words.

  "He must have a head of iron, that Englishman," muttered Osman. "He should have slept for many hours."

  The thought crossed his mind that a man with a constitution like that would stand much torture, and his mouth watered at the prospect. He lifted his foot and kicked the sack cold-bloodedly, and it yelped at each thump of his shoe.

  "Before you die you shall have much more to shout for," said Osman gloatingly. "Take him to the saloon."

  Rough hands dragged the sack below, and Abdul Osman followed. Then it was cut open, and the storm broke.

  Osman, it must be admitted, had never been con­sidered even attractively ugly. He was a short, pot­bellied man with a fat sallow face and black hair that covered his head in tight curls. Out of his own hearing, it was said that much of his family tree was as black as his hair, and certainly he had a squat nose and a yellow­ish tinge in the whites of his pig-like eyes that supported the theory. A closely clipped black moustache curved in a broad arch over his thick, pouting lips and gave his face, even in repose, an expression of sensual bestiality that was nauseating.

  And his rage at the sight of Mr. Trape emerging from the sack put him right out of comparison with anything human. His face resembled nothing so much as the fat end of a bloated and malignant slug. His eyes almost disappeared in the rolls of unhealthy-looking fat that creased down on them. Clearly marked circles of bright red sprang up and burned on his cheeks, plainly revealing the edges of the skin-grafting oper­ations that had obliterated the Saint's brands; the rest of his jowl was blotched yellow and grey. And out of his distorted mouth flowed a stream of shrill profanity that was horrible to hear.

  Nor was his wrath purely vocal. He kicked Trape again, and kicked and tore at the men who had c
arried in the sack until they fled from the room. And then, with the most lasting and concentrated malignance, he kicked his secretary, who had played no part in the proceedings at all.

  But that was nothing unusual. Mr. Clements was there to be kicked. He was kicked whenever anything went wrong, and just as impartially when everything went right. Abdul Osman kicked him, cuffed him, and spat in his face; and his secretary cringed. There was something hideous about his quivering submission.

  For Clements was a white man. His hair was almost ash-blond, his shrinking eyes grey.

  "Swine!" Osman hissed.

  His sunken eyes glittered with the vindictive pleasure that soothed his senses whenever he heaped humiliations on that cowering travesty of a man. Even in that paroxysm of fury the sensation was like balm to his uncontrolled nerves--perhaps it was the very thing that finally turned the tide of his unleashed savagery and began to restore him to reason. For that crawling servile thing that had once been a man was the most permanently soothing monument to Abdul Osman's vanity in the world. Simon Templar, as a helpless prisoner, might supplant him; but until the day came when Osman could look down and spit in the face of that ultimate triumph the degradation of Clements reigned as his supreme achievement.

  Less hastily, ten times more malignantly, Osman reached out a hand, grasped his secretary by the nose, and forced him to his knees. He stared at him con­temptuously for a moment; then he put a foot in his face and sprawled him over.

  "Get up, pig."

  Clements obeyed.

  "Look at me."

  The white man raised his eyes slowly. Abdul Osman saw the red sparks of futile hate glowing in their depths like hot embers, and laughed.

  "You know that I always have my revenge, don't you?" His almost perfect English had a sibilant accent, as if a snake had spoken. "How unfortunate it was that my misguided parents should have sent me to an English school! Unpleasant for me, perhaps; but how much more enduringly regrettable for you! I was a dirty nigger then, wasn't I? And it seemed so humorous to you to humiliate me. I trust you look back on those days with satisfaction, Clements ?"