It was a bitter draught for Mr Teal to get past his uvula, but he managed it, even though his gorge threatened to suffocate him. Perhaps it was one of the most prodigious victories of self-discipline that he had ever achieved in his life.
"That's what I want," he said, with a superhuman effort of carelessness that made him look as if he was about to lapse into an apoplectic coma. "Why should we go on fighting each other? We're both really out for the same thing, and this is a case where we could work together and you could save yourself getting into trouble as well. I'll be quite frank with you. I remembered everything you said at Windlay's place, and I made some inquiries on my own responsibility. I've seen a verbatim report of the Kennet inquest, and I've talked with one of the reporters who was there. I agree with you that it was conducted in a very unsatisfactory way. I put it to the chief commissioner that we ought to consider reopening the case. He agreed with me then, but yesterday evening he told me I'd better drop it. I'm pretty sure there's pressure being put on him to leave well alone—the kind of pressure he can't afford to ignore. But I don't like dropping cases. If there's anything fishy about this it ought to come out. Now, you said something to me about the Sons of France, didn't you?"
"I may have mentioned them," Simon admitted cautiously. "But——"
Chief Inspector Teal suddenly opened his baby-blue eyes and they were not bored or comatose or stupid, but unexpectedly clear and penetrating in the round placidity of his face.
"Well, that's why I came to see you. You may have something that puts the whole puzzle together. Bravache and Dumaire are Frenchmen." Mr Teal paused. He fashioned his gum once into the shape of a spindle, and then clamped his teeth destructively down on it. "And I happen to have found out that John Kennet was a member of the Sons of France," he said.
VI
How Mr Fairweather Opened His
Mouth, and Mr Uniatz Put His Foot
in It
"KENNET was a member of the Sons of France?" Simon repeated. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. His mother was French, and he was brought up with French as a second language. He spoke it perfectly. I told you I'd been making inquiries. I've established the fact that he joined the Sons of France six months ago under the name of Jean de la Paix. Incidentally, he was also a member of the French Communist party." Teal went on watching the Saint searchingly and with a glint of malice. "I thought you'd have known that."
The Saint blew a geometrically faultless smoke ring across the table. His face was tranquilly uncommunicative, relieved from blankness only by a faint inscrutable smile; but behind the mask his brain was running like a dynamo.
"I might have guessed," he said.
"Did you?"
"I'm a good guesser. 'Jean de la Paix,' too—he had a sense of humour, after all. And guts. For a registered member of the French Communist party to join the Sons of France at all was guts, and he must have got further than just joining. That would only be another reason why he had to be cremated."
"What was the first reason?"
Simon looked down at his fingernails.
"You want to know a good deal," he said, and looked up again.
"Of course I do."
"Well, so do I." The Saint thought for a while, and made up his mind. "All right, Claud. You asked for it, and you can have it. For about the first time in my life I'll be perfectly frank with you. It 'd be worth while if it only meant that I could get on with my job without having to cope with all your suspicions and persecutions as well as my own troubles. But I don't suppose it 'll do any good, because as usual you probably won't believe me. . . . You see, Claud, the fact is that I don't know any more than you do."
Teal's face darkened.
"I didn't come here to waste my time——"
"And I don't want you to waste mine. I told you you wouldn't believe me. But there it is. I don't know any more than you do. The only difference is that not being a policeman I haven't got so many great open spaces in my brain to start with, so I don't need to know so much."
Mr Teal's spearmint, under the systematic massage of his molars, became in turn a sphere, an hourglass and something like a short-handled frying pan.
"Go on," he said lethargically. "Make allowances for my stupidity, and tell me how much I know."
"As you like. Let's start with Comrade Luker. As you know, he is the current top tycoon of the arms racket."
"I suppose so."
"Comrades Fairweather and Sangore are his stooges in a couple of British armaments firms which he controls."
"I don't——"
"Call them what you like, and they're still his stooges. Between them, those three are running a combine that practically constitutes a monopoly of the arms industry in this country. Their only job is manufacturing engines and instruments and gadgets that kill people, and the only way they can make good money is in having a good demand for their products. I shall also ask you to grasp the idea that one customer's money will buy as much champagne and caviar as another's, whoever he wants to kill. But under the laws we suffer from there's nothing criminal in any of that— nothing that you could take any professional interest in. If a man gets drunk and kills somebody with his car, it's your job to put him in jail; but if he organizes the killing of several thousand people they make him an earl, and it's your job to stop the traffic when he wants to cross the street. The technical name for that is civilization. Correct?"
"Go on."
The Saint poured out some more coffee.
"Now let's go to France. There they have a political Fascist organization called the Sons of France. It may or may not be illegal. I seem to remember that they passed a law not long ago to ban all organizations of that kind, and the old Croix de Feu was disbanded on account of it. The Sons of France may have found a way to get round the law, or the law may not give a damn, or they may have too much pull already, or something; or they may just be illegal and proud of it, and even if that's the case it's nothing to do with you. It's a matter for the French police."
"I'm listening."
"That's something. Well, from one indication and another it seems pretty clear that Luker is backing the Sons of France. That's natural enough. Dictators always go in for rearmament in a big way, and therefore Fascist regimes are good for business. Besides which, if you can get enough synthetic Caesars thumping their chests and bellowing defiance at each other it won't be long before you have a nice big war, which means a boom for the armourers. But it isn't a crime to finance a political party, or else half the titled people in England would be in the hoose-gow. Unless the Sons of France are an illegal organization, in which case it's still a matter for the French police and not for you."
"You haven't got down to Kennet yet," Teal said sluggishly.
"Kennet was a pacifist, a Communist, and all kinds of idealistic 'ist.' He thought he could do a lot of good by showing up the arms racket. Old stuff. Dozens of people have done it before, and everybody says 'How shocking!' and 'Why can't something be done about it ?' and then they go off and forget about it. But Kennet went on. He joined the Sons of France. And by some fluke he must have found out something that really was worth finding out; so he had an accident. But you still can't do anything about it."
"I can do something about wilful murder."
"I did say he was murdered, but that's just what seems obvious to me. I've no evidence at all. We both know Windlay was murdered, but I've no evidence to pin it on any particular person any more than you have. It's no good just saying that whoever did the actual jobs we know that Luker was at the back of them. What are you going to tell a jury ? With people like we're dealing with, you'd want an army of eyewitnesses before you could even get a warrant. Even then I don't know if you could get it. They're too big. Look how you've already had the word from up top to lay off the case. British justice is the most incorruptible in the world, so they tell you; but you can always whitewash a crook if he's big enough because it isn't what they call 'in the pub
lic interest' that he should be shown up. And look at the circumstances of these Kennet and Windlay cases. It's a million to one that you could never get any conclusive evidence on either of them if you worked until you could tuck your beard into your boots."
Mr Teal rolled the pink wrapping of his chewing gum into a ball and went on rolling it. His china-blue eyes were still unwaveringly inquisitorial.
"I'll agree with some of that up to a point. But you know more than that. You know something else that you're still working on."
"Only one thing." Simon was calm and collected: he had made up his mind to be candid, and he was going through with it—it could do him no harm, only perhaps reduce the complications of Teal's interference. "Kennet fell pretty hard for Lady Valerie Woodchester, who was set on to him by Fairweather to try and steer him off. He talked to her a lot—I don't know how much he told her. And he left some of his evidence in writing. That's why the flat was torn apart when Windlay was murdered. They were looking for it. But it wasn't there. Lady Valerie's got it."
The detective's eyes suddenly opened wide.
"But——"
"I know," said the Saint wearily. "You're too brilliant, Claud, that's what's the matter with you. I know all about it. So all you've got to do is to go to Lady Valerie and say, 'Where's that stuff that Kennet gave you?' Well, you try it. I have."
"But if she's concealing evidence——"
"Who said she was? She did. To me alone—without witnesses. If you pulled her into court, she could deny every word of it, and you couldn't prove anything different."
"But what is she doing it for?"
"Champagne coupons."
"What?"
"Dough. Geetus. Mazuma. Boodle. Crackle paper. She's in business for the money, the same as I used to be. And she knows that that evidence is worth cash to Fairweather and Co. The only way you could break her down would be to talk her language, which means putting up more cash than the others will, which personally I don't propose to do and you in your job couldn't do." The Saint shook his head. "It's no good, Claud. You still aren't in the running. You can't even go after her and batter her with your sex appeal —not with a figure like yours. You're sunk. Why don't you pack up and go home to chivvying the poor little street bookmakers in Soho, where you can't go wrong?" .
Chief Inspector Teal's ruminant jaws continued their monotonous mastication. The logic of the Saint's argument was irrefutable, but there was in Mr Teal an ineradicable scepticism, founded on years of bitter disappointment, that fought obstinately against the premises from which that logic took its flying start. The Saint might for once be telling the truth, but there had been many other occasions when he had been no less plausible when he was lying. All of Mr Teal's prejudices fought back from the dead end to which credulity inevitably led.
"That's all very well," he said doggedly. "But you're still working on something. And when did you stop thinking about money? Suppose you get this evidence—what's going to happen?"
"I wouldn't turn it over to you. I don't imagine it would help you. I only want it to make perfectly sure—to find out just how much there is behind this racket. I could deal with Luker and Company today without it. Mind you I don't want to put any ideas into your head, although there must be lots of room for them, but if Luker for instance should meet with a minor accident, such as falling off the roof of his house into Grosvenor Square——"
The telephone bell rang while the Saint was speaking.
He went over and picked it up while Teal watched him with broody eyes.
Simon said "Hullo," and then his eyebrows lifted. He said: "Speaking. . . . Yes. . . . Yes. . . . Yes. . . ."
Darkness gathered on Teal's face. Something leaden crept into his light blue eyes, like clear skies filling with thunder. Sudden brilliance flashed across them like the snap of lightning as a storm breaks. He came out of his chair like a whale breaking the surface. Surprisingly quick for his adipose dimensions, he plunged across the intervening space and snatched the phone out of Simon's hand.
"Hullo!" he bawled. "Chief Inspector Teal speaking. . . . No, that wasn't me before. . . . Never mind that, go on. . . . What? . . . What's that? . . . Yes. . . . Yes. . . . ."
An indistinguishable mutter droned on from the receiver, and as Teal listened to it his cherubic round face grew hard and strained. His eyes stayed fixed upon the Saint, hot and jagged with a seethe of violent emotions of which the most accurately identifiable one was wrath rising to the temperature of incandescence. His mouth was a clenched trap in the lurid mauve of his face, which now and again opened just sufficiently to eject a sizzling monosyllable like a blob of molten quartz.
"All right," he bit out at last. "Stay there. I'll be round presently."
He slammed the instrument back on its bracket and stood glaring at the Saint like a gorilla that has just got up from sitting down on a drawing pin.
"Well?" he snarled. "Let's hear what you've got to say about that."
"What have I got to say?" Simon's voice was the honey of spotless innocence. "Well, Claud, since you ask me, it does seem to me that if you're going to turn this place into a club and tell your low friends to ring you up here you oughtn't to mind my having a bit of fun out of——"
"I'll see that you get your fun! So you thought you were taking me in with all that slop you were giving me. You've been . . . You're . . ."
"You're getting incoherent, Claud. Take a deep breath and speak from the diaphragm."
Chief Inspector Teal took the deep breath, but it came out again like an explosion of compressed air.
"You heard enough on the telephone——"
"But I didn't. It just looked like getting interesting when you so rudely snatched it away. Apparently one of your minions had been out trying to persecute somebody who wasn't at home."
"I sent a man round to interview Lady Valerie Woodchester," said Mr Teal, speaking like a locomotive ascending a steep gradient. "I thought she might know more than she'd told anyone. No, she wasn't at home. But her maid was, and she'd already been wondering whether she ought to call the police. Apparently Lady Valerie went out last night and didn't come back. When the maid came in this morning, her bed hadn't been slept in, but the whole flat had been turned inside out and there were pieces of rope and sticking plaster on the floor as if someone had been tied up. It looks exactly as if she'd been kidnapped—and if she has been I'll know who did it!"
The Saint had sat down again on the edge of the table. He came off it as if it had turned red hot under him.
"What!" he exclaimed in horrified amazement. "My God, if anything's happened to her——"
"You know damn well what's happened to her!" Teal's voice was thick with the rage of disillusion. "You've told me enough to make that obvious. That's why you were so sure I couldn't get her information! Well, you're wrong this time. I'm going to see that you're taken care of till we find her." Unconsciously Teal drew himself up, as he had done in those circumstances before, if he could only have remembered, so many fruitless times. "I shall take you into custody——"
Perhaps after all, as Mr Teal had so often been driven to believe in his more despondent moments, there was some fateful interdiction against his ever being permitted to complete that favourite sentence. At any rate, this was not the historic occasion on which completion was destined to be achieved. The sound of a bell cut him off in mid-flight, like a gong freezing a prizefighter poised for a knockout punch.
This time it was not the telephone, but a subdued and decorous trill that belonged unmistakably to the front door.
Teal looked over his shoulder at the sound. And as the Saint started to move he moved faster.
"You stay here," he flung out roughly. "I'll see who it is."
Simon sat down again philosophically and lighted another cigarette. His first smoke ring from that new source was still on its way to the ceiling when Mr Teal came back.
After him came Mr Algernon Sidney Fairweather.
2
Mr Fairweather wore a dark suit with a gold watch chain looped across the place where in his youth he might once have kept his waist. He carried a light gray Homburg and a tightly rolled umbrella with a gold handle. He looked exactly as if a Rolls Royce had just brought him away from an important board meeting.
The Saint inspected him with sober admiration mingled with cordial surprise; and neither of those expressions conveyed one per cent of what was really going on in his mind.
"Algy," he said softly, "what have I done to deserve the honour of seeing you darken my proletarian doors?"
"I ... er—— Um!" said Mr Fairweather, as if he had not made up his mind what else to say. Teal interposed himself between them. "I was just about to take Mr Templar under arrest," he explained grimly.
"You were—— Um! Were you? May I ask what the charge was, Inspector?"
"I suspect him of being concerned in kidnapping Lady Valerie Woodchester."
Fairweather started.
"Lady——" He swallowed. "Kidnapped? But——"
"Lady Valerie Woodchester has disappeared, and her apartment has been ransacked," Teal said solidly. "I'm glad you came here, sir. You may be able to give me some information. You knew her well, I believe?"
"Er—yes, I suppose I knew her quite well."
"Did she ever say anything to make you think that she was afraid of anyone—that she considered herself in any sort of danger?"
Fairweather hesitated. He glanced nervously at the Saint.
"She did mention once that she was frightened of Mr Templar," he affirmed reluctantly. "But I'm afraid I didn't pay much attention to it at the time. The idea seemed so—— But you surely don't think that anything serious has really happened to her?"
"I know damn well that something has happened to her—I don't know how serious it is." Teal turned on the Saint like a congealed cyclone. "That's what you'd better tell me! I might have known you couldn't be trusted to tell the truth for two minutes together. But you've told me too much already. You told me that Lady Valerie had something you wanted. Now she's disappeared, and her place has been ransacked. Ralph Windlay was murdered, and his flat was ransaked. In both places someone was looking for something, and from what you've told me the most likely person is you!"
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