The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

by Leslie Charteris

  Simon reached for an ashtray.

  "And yet," he said, "it seems rather a fluke. Why should Waldstein have been the right bait? And why should Trelawney have walked into the trap so easily?"

  Cullis shrugged again.

  "Waldstein was the sort of man who might have been the right bait. We took a chance. If it had failed, we'd have had to think of something else. But if Waldstein was the right bait, Trelawney was bound to walk into the trap. If a man takes graft, he can't let his clients down; if he does, they can squeal on him. Waldstein being in Paris put Trelawney in a tight corner, but he had to take his chance. He didn't know how big a chance it was. Ordinarily, you see, he might easily have got away with it. But he didn't know that there was already some sort of evidence against him; he didn't know he was being followed; and he couldn't have guessed that there could be enough suspicion to lead to the opening of his safe deposit."

  "Had he any particular enemies?"

  "No more than the average successful policeman."

  "No name you can remember hearing him mention?"

  Cullis tugged at an iron-grey moustache.

  "Heavens! I don't know!"

  "No one of the name of—Essenden?"

  It was a shot in the dark, but it creased two additional wrinkles into the assistant commissioner's lined forehead.

  "What made you think of that?" he asked.

  "I didn't," said the Saint. "It just fell out of the blue. But Jill was on her way to Essenden's when I first met her, and that was the first time the Angels have been seen out before an arrest. Get me?"

  "But they were there to cover Dyson. Surely it's reason­able for them to have realized that it's easier to prevent a man being arrested than to get him away after the arrest?"

  Simon nodded.

  "I know. Still, I'm keeping an open mind."

  He continued in communion with his open mind for some time after the commissioner had left—and went to bed with the mind, if possible, more open than before.

  Perhaps Sir Francis Trelawney had been framed. Per­haps he had not been framed. If he had been framed, it had been brilliantly done. If he had not been framed . . . Well, it was quite natural that a girl like Jill Trelawney, as he estimated her, might refuse to believe it. And, either way, if you looked at it from the standpoint of a law-abiding citizen and an incipient policeman to boot, the rights and wrongs of the Trelawney case made no difference to the rights and wrongs of Jill.

  Within the past five months, a complete dozen of valuable prisoners had been rescued from under the very arms of the law, long as those arms were traditionally reputed to be; and the manner of their rescue, in every case, betrayed such an exhaustive knowledge of police methods and routine that at times a complete reorganiza­tion of the Criminal Investigation Department's system seemed to be the only possible alternative to impotent surrender. And this, as is the way of such things, accurate­ly coincided with one of those waves of police unpopularity and hysterical newspaper criticism which make com­missioners and superintendents acidulated and old before their time. Clearly, it could not go on. The newspapers said so, and therefore it must have been so. And the Saint understood quite calmly and contentedly that, after the matter in which the Saint had made his debut as a law-abiding citizen, either the Angels of Doom or Simon Templar had got to come to a sudden and sticky end.

  Completely comprehending this salient fact, the Saint drank his breakfast coffee black the next morning, and sent the milk bottle from outside his front door to an analyst. He had the report by lunchtime.

  "At least," he told Cullis, "I'm collecting the makings of a case against the Angels."

  "There was nothing against them before," assented the commissioner sarcastically.

  Simon shook his head.

  "There wasn't. Assaulting the police, obstructing the police—I tell you, in spite of everything, you could only have got them on minor charges. But attempted mur­der——"

  "Or even real murder," said Cullis cheerfully.

  2

  "Slinky" Dyson had squealed. Simon Templar had to admit that nothing but that happy windfall had enabled him to step so promptly upon the tail of the Angels of Doom. Slinky was pulled sin for suspicious loitering one evening, and when they searched him they found on his person a compact leather wallet containing tools which were held to be house-breaking implements within the meaning of the Act. Simon happened to be in Marlbor­ough Street police station at the time, and witnessed the discovery.

  "I was waiting for a friend," said Slinky. "Honest I was."

  "Honest you may have was," said the inspector heavily. "But you grew out of that years ago."

  Shortly after Slinky had been locked up, he asked to speak to the inspector again, and the inspector thought the squeal sufficiently promising to fetch Teal in to hear it. And then Teal sent in the Saint.

  "I told you I was waiting for a friend," said Slinky, "and that's gospel. But if you'd pulled me to-morrow ... I was going down to take a look at Lord Essenden's party. I had a tip from the Angels. You'll find the letter in my room---I put it in the Bible on the shelf over the bed. They said I was to take what I liked, how I liked, and they'd see I made a good getaway. Now, you ain't told me why I'm here, but I know. There's been a scream. I don't know why they should want to shop me, but there's been a scream. . . . An' I'd take is as a favour, sir, if you'd tell me who was the screamer."

  "I don't know," said the Saint truthfully. "Maybe you talk in your sleep."

  They found the letter as Slinky had said they would find it, and it was short and to the point.

  And the Saint, acting upon it, went to Lord .Essenden's party unknown to Lord Essenden, and thus met Jill Tre­lawney and Stephen Weald and Pinky Budd; and what followed we know.

  After the jokes of the machine gun and the milk, the Saint saw Slinky Dyson again, and was able to give some unhelpful information to that puzzled man.

  "There was no scream," he said. "That is official. It was just your bad luck, Slinky."

  Dyson scratched his head.

  "I'll believe you, Mr. Templar. It was bad luck all right. But you'll remember my squeak, sir?"

  "You were remanded for a week, weren't you?"

  "Yes, Mr. Templar."

  "If we let you out, will you take a job?"

  "What sort of job?" asked Slinky suspiciously.

  "Oh, not work," said the Saint soothingly. "I wouldn't dream of asking you to do that."

  Slinky relaxed.

  "I'll hear about it, Mr. Templar."

  "How much do you want for a black eye?"

  Slinky stared.

  "Beg pardon, Mr. Templar?"

  "You heard me."

  The man shifted his eyes nervously, and giggled.

  "Wh-what?"

  "I didn't ask you to give an imitation of a consumptive Wyandotte laying a bad egg," said the Saint patiently. "I asked you how much you wanted for a black eye."

  "You want to give me a black eye, Mr. Templar?"

  "Very much indeed."

  "What for?"

  "Five pounds."

  "What for after that?"

  "Do you know how to get in touch with the Angels?"

  Slinky shook his head.

  "Never mind that," said the Saint. "I guess they'll hear about it, if you carry it round and talk a lot about how I gave it to you—without mentioning the five pounds. Tell the world how I beat you up and tried to make you howl on the Angels, and how you're going to get even with me one day. The Angels don't like me, and they'd be glad to find a man who hates me as much as you're going to. If we're lucky, you'll find yourself enlisted in the gang in less than no time. Then you keep me posted."

  "You mean," said Slinky, "you want me to be your nose?"

  "That's the idea."

  Dyson sighed.

  "I've never been a nose," he said solemnly. "No, Mr. Templar, it can't be done."

  "You will be paid," said the Saint deliberately, "twenty pounds' cash for every genuine piec
e of news you send in about what the Angels are going to do next and how they're going to do it."

  Slinky closed his eyes sanctimoniously.

  "My conscience," he said, "wouldn't allow me to do a thing like that, Mr. Templar."

  "You'll remember," the Saint reminded him persua­sively, "that I could get you sent down for six months' hard right now."

  Dyson blinked.

  "If it wasn't for my principles," he said sadly, "I'd be very happy to oblige you, Mr. Templar."

  Eventually, when he found that the Saint had no inten­tion of raising his price, except in the matter of ten pounds instead of five for the black eye, he managed to choke down his conscience and accept. Simon arranged for him to be brought before the magistrate again the next morning, when he would be released, and started back to Scotland Yard in a taxi. But on the way he had an idea.

  "The machine gun," he reflected, "was Pinky's vol­untary. Weald would have thought of the prussic acid in the milk. We're still waiting for Jill's contribution—and it might be very cunning to meet it halfway."

  The inspiration, duly considered, appealed to him; and he gave fresh instructions to the driver.

  The door of the house in Belgrave Street was a long time opening in response to his peal on the bell. Perhaps to make up for this, it was very quick in starting to shut again as soon as Frederick Wells had recognized the call­er. But Simon Templar was more than ordinarily skilful at thrusting himself in where he was not wanted.

  "Not good enough, Freddie," he drawled regretfully, and closed the door himself—from the inside.

  The butler glowered.

  "Miss Trelawney is out," he said.

  "You lie, Ferdinand," said the Saint pleasantly, and went on up the stairs.

  He really had no idea whether the butler was lying or not, but he gave him the benefit of the doubt. As it happened, this generous impulse was justified, for Jill Trelawney opened the door of the sitting room just as Simon put his hand on the knob.

  "Hullo," said the Saint amiably.

  His eyes flickered with an offensively secret mirth, and he caught the answering blaze from hers before she veiled them in a frozen inscrutability.

  "Lovely day, Jill," remarked the Saint, very amiably.

  She relaxed wearily against the jamb.

  "My—sainted—aunt! Have you got away from your keeper again?"

  "Looks like it," said the Saint apologetically. "Yes, I will stay to tea, thanks. Ring down to the kitchen and tell them not to mix arsenic with the sugar, because I don't take sugar. And it's no use putting strychnine in the milk, because I don't take milk. Just tell 'em to shovel the whole bag of tricks in the teapot."

  He walked calmly past her into the room, and sat down in the best chair. As an afterthought, he removed his hat.

  The girl followed him in.

  "Is your posse outside again?"

  "I wonder?" said the Saint. "Why don't you go out and ask? You don't know where you are just now, do you? One time I tell you I haven't a posse, and I haven't. Another time I tell you I have a posse and I haven't. Now suppose I tell you I haven't a posse you'll know I have, won't you?"

  She shrugged and took a cigarette from a silver box. Then she offered the box to him.

  "Have one?"

  "Not with you, darling."

  "Did I hear you say 'No, thanks'?"

  "Er—no, I don't think so," said the Saint seriously. "Did you?"

  With the smoke trickling through her lips the girl looked at him.

  "Have you come on business this time?" she inquired. "Or is this just another part of the official persecution?"

  "Partly on business, partly on pleasure," said Simon, unabashed. "Which will you have first?"

  "The business, please."

  "It's a pleasure," said the Saint accommodatingly. "I've come to do you a good turn, Jill."

  "Is that so?"

  "Yes, that is so. Oh, yeah? Yeah. Ses you? Ses me. In fact, yes ... I want to warn you. A dark man is going to cross your path. Beware of him. His name is Slinky Dy­son."

  The name roused no more response than a flicker of her eyelids.

  "What about him?"

  "He is a police spy," said the Saint solemnly. "I have been able to buy him over. In return for a cash reward he is going to try to join your gang and give me all the information about you that he can get hold of. So, whatever happens, don't be taken in by him."

  She read with glittering eyes the dancing devil of amusement behind his expressionlessness.

  "Is this another of your funny stories?"

  "It is." The Saint sighed. "In fact, it's one of my best. Do you know, Jill, I'm afraid you're going to get in a devil of a muddle about me, aren't you? First the business of the posse, then this. Now, do you think I'm telling you the truth in the hope that you will think I'm bluffing and fall into the trap, or do you think I'm inventing the yarn to keep you away from a man I don't want you to have? I can't help thinking that some of these questions are going to make life very difficult for you for the next few days."

  She tapped her cigarette delicately on the edge of an ashtray.

  "Is that all you came to say?" she asked patiently.

  "Not quite," said the Saint, in that tone of gentle mockery that would have been like sandpaper rasped across the nerves of anyone less self-possessed. "I just wanted to ask one thing—about your father."

  She faced him.

  "Haven't I told you," she said dangerously, "to leave my father out of this?"

  "I know," said the Saint. "And I've told you that I shall bring anyone into it whom I choose to bring in. So we know where we are. And now listen to this. I've been making some inquiries about your father, and I've come on a name which interests me. It may mean something to you. The name is—Waldstein."

  She stared at him narrowly.

  "Well?"

  The monosyllable dropped like a flake of hot metal.

  "I thought you might be after him," said the Saint. "Do you mind telling me if I'm right?"

  Slowly she nodded. . "You're quite right—Templar!"

  The Saint beamed.

  "That's one of the most sensible things I've heard you say," he remarked. "In fact, if you concentrated your attention on Waldstein you'd be doing yourself and every­one else much more good than you're doing at present. If your father was framed, Waldstein knows all about it. I'll tell you that. But what good you expect to do by simply making yourself a nuisance to the police force in general is more than my logical mind can see."

  She pointed to the table.

  "I suppose you've seen the papers?"

  "We have. All about the inefficiency of the police. Of course, everybody doesn't know that I'm in charge of the situation. But does it give you the satisfaction you want?"

  "It gives me some satisfaction."

  "We are also amused," said Simon. "The chiefs of the C. I. D. meet together twice a day to roar with laughter over it. ... And I think that's all for today. I'll see you again soon. If you like, I'll drop you a line to say when I'm coming, so that you can arrange to be out."

  "Perhaps," she said silkily, "you will not be in a posi­tion to come again. So you might save the stamp."

  "That's all right," said the Saint easily. "I shouldn't have stamped the letter."

  He stood up and picked up his hat, which he brushed carefully with his sleeve. She made no move to delay him.

  At the door he turned for his parting shot.

  "Just for information," he said, "is there going to be any trouble about my leaving this time?"

  "No," she said quietly. "Not just now."

  He smiled.

  "Something else arranged, I suppose. Not machine guns, I hope. And no more poisoned milk. I don't want you to let yourself down by repeating yourself too often, you know."

  "You won't be in suspense for long," she said.

  "I'm glad to hear it," said the Saint, with intense ear­nestness. "Well, bye-bye, old dear."

  He strolled d
own the stairs, humming a little tune.

  No one attempted to stop him. The hall was deserted. He let himself out and sauntered down Belgrave Street, swinging his stick.

  As a bluffing interview it had not borne the fruit he had hoped for. Since their first encounters, the girl had recovered a great deal of the poise and self-control that his studied impudence had at first been able to flurry her into losing. On that occasion she had given nothing away of importance—only that she had an interest in Waldstein. This was perhaps one interest that Simon Templar shared with her wholeheartedly.

  Chapter III

  HOW SIMON TEMPLAR MADE A SLIGHT ERROR,

  AND PINKY BUDD MADE A BIG ONE

  Two days later, Simon Templar went unostentatiously to a certain public house in Aldgate. He was not noticed, for he had made some subtle alterations to his appear­ance and bearing. One man, however, recognized him, and they moved over to a quiet corner of the bar.

  "Have they been in touch with you again?" was the Saint's immediate question.

  Mr. Dyson nodded.

  His right eye was still disfigured by a swollen black-and-blue bruise. Mr. Dyson, thinking it over subsequently, had decided that ten pounds was an inadequate compensation for the injury, but it was too late to reopen that discussion.

  "They sent for me yesterday," he said. "I went at once, and they gave me a very good welcome."

  "Did you drink it?" asked the Saint interestedly.

  "They've definitely taken me on."

  "And the news?"

  "It was like this ..."

  Simon listened to a long recital which told him nothing at all of any value, and departed a pound poorer than he had been when he came. It was the highest value he could place upon Mr. Dyson's first budget of information, and Slinky's aggrieved pleading made no impression upon the Saint at all."