The Saint in London: Originally Entitled the Misfortunes of Mr. Teal (13 page)

“How long ago was that?”

“He came out three weeks ago. He was let off some of his sentence for good conduct. I was the only one who knew when he was coming out. Jarving tried to make me tell him, but I wouldn’t. I wanted to try and keep Tim out of his way. And Tim said he wouldn’t go back. He got a job in a printing works at Dulwich, through the Prisoners’ Aid Society; and he was going to take up drawing again in his spare time and try to make a decent living at it. I believed he would. I still believe it.

But—that pound note you changed … it was part of some money he gave me only yesterday, to pay back some that I’d lent him. He said he’d sold some cartoons to a magazine.”

The Saint put down his cigarette and picked up the coffee pot. He nodded.

“I see. But that still doesn’t tell me why you had to go to the Barnyard Club and get pinched.”

“That’s what I still don’t understand. I’m only trying to tell you everything that happened. Jarving rang me up this evening and asked if he could see me. I made excuses—I didn’t want to see him. Then he said there’d be trouble for Tim if I didn’t. He told me to meet him at the Barnyard Club. I had to go.”

“And what was the trouble?”

“He’d only started to tell me when the police came in. He wanted to know where he could get hold of Tim. I wouldn’t tell him. He said, ‘Look here, I’m not trying to get your brother in trouble again. This isn’t anything to do with me. It’s somebody else who wants to see him.’ I still didn’t believe him. Then he said he’d give me this man’s name and address himself, and I could give it to Tim myself, and Tim could go there on his own. But he said Tim had got to go, somehow.”

“Did he give you the name and address?”

“Yes. He wrote it down on a piece of paper, just before––”

“Have you got it?”

She opened her bag and took out a scrap of paper torn from a wine list. Simon took it and glanced over the writing.

And in that instant all his lazy good humour, all the relaxed and patient quiet with which he had listened to her story, were swept away as if a silent bomb had annihilated them.

“Is this it?” he said aimlessly; and she found his clear blue eyes on her, for that moment absolutely without mockery, raking her face with a blaze of azure light that was the most dynamic thing she had ever seen.

“That’s it,” she said hesitantly. “I’ve never heard the name before––”

“I have.”

The Saint smiled. He had been marking time since the last gorgeous climax which his reckless impetuosity had given him, feeling his way towards the next move almost like an artist waiting for renewed inspiration; but he knew now where he was going on. He looked again at the scrap of paper on which outrageous fortune had jotted down his cue. On it was written:

Ivar Nordsten Hawk Lodge, St. George’s Hill, Weybridge.

“I want to know why one of the richest men in Europe is so anxious to meet your brother,” he said. “And I think your brother will have to keep the appointment to find out.”

He saw the fear struggling back into her eyes.

“But––”

The Saint laughed and shook his head. He indicated Hoppy Uniatz, who had transferred his balance to the other foot and his scratching operations to his left ear.

“There’s your brother, darling. He may not have all the artistic gifts of the real Timothy, but he’s a handy man in trouble, as I told you. I’ll lend him to you free of charge. What d’you say?”

“Hot diggety,” said Mr. Uniatz.

IV

WHEN Annette Vickery woke up, the sun was streaming into her bedroom window, and she looked out into a wide glade of pine trees and silver birches lifting from rolling banks of heather and bracken. It was hard to believe that this was less than twenty miles from London, where so many strange things had happened in the darkness a few hours ago, and where all the forces of Scotland Yard would still be searching for her. They had driven down over the dark glistening roads in the Saint’s Hirondel—a very different proposition from the spavined taxi which he had driven before—after a telephone call which he put through to a Weybridge number; and when they arrived there were lights in the house, and a gruff-voiced man who walked with a curious strutting limp waiting to put the car away without any indication that he was at all surprised at his master arriving at four o’clock in the morning with two guests. Whisky, sandwiches, and a steaming pot of coffee were set out on a table in the living room; and the Saint grinned.

“Orace is used to me,” he explained, “If I rang up and told him I was arriving with three hungry lions and a kidnapped bishop, he wouldn’t even blink.”

It was the same man with the limp who came in with a cup of tea in the morning.

“Nice day, miss,” he said.

He put the cup down on the table beside the bed and looked at her pugnaciously—he had a heavy walrus moustache which made it permanently impossible for anyone to tell when he was smiling.

“Yer barfs ready,” he said, as if he were addressing a dumb recruit on a parade ground, “an’ brekfuss’ll be ready narf a minnit.”

It was only another curiosity in the stream of fantastic happenings that had carried her beyond all the horizons of ordinary life.

She was down to breakfast in twenty minutes; but even so she found the Saint drinking coffee and reading a newspaper, while Hoppy Uniatz finished up the toast. Simon served her with eggs and bacon from the chafing dish.

“You’ll probably find the egg a bit tough,” he remarked, “but we have to toe the line at meal times. When Orace says ‘Brekfuss narf a minnit’ he means breakfast in exactly thirty seconds, and you can check your stop watch by him. I hid a piece of toast for you, too; or else Hoppy would have had it. How d’you feel?”

“Fine,” she told him; and, tackling succulent rashers and eggs that were not too tough to make the mouth water, she was surprised to find that a fugitive from justice could still eat breakfast with a good appetite.

She looked out of the French doors that opened from the dining room onto the same view as she had seen from her bedroom when she awoke, the sunlit glade striped with the shadows of the trees, and said: “Where am I?—isn’t that what everyone’s supposed to say when they wake up?”

The Saint smiled.

“Or else they call for Mother.” He pushed back his chair and tapped a cigarette on his thumbnail. “This is Mr. George’s hill itself, though you mightn’t believe I can drive you from here to Piccadilly Circus without hurrying in half an hour. I bought this place because I don’t know anywhere else like it where you can forget London so easily and get there so quickly if you have to; but it seems as if it has other uses. By the way, there’s some news in the paper that may appeal to your sense of humour.”

He passed her the folded sheet and marked a place with his forefinger. It was a brief paragraph in a minor position which simply recorded that Scotland Yard detectives had entered the Barnyard Club in Bond Street and taken away a man and a young woman “for questioning.”

“Of course, the part where I butted in may have been too late for this edition,” said the Saint. “But I still don’t think the public will hear any more about it just now. If there’s anything in the history of England which Claud Eustace Teal would perjure his immortal soul to keep out of the news, I’m willing to bet it’s that little game we played last night. But it still wouldn’t be fatal if the story did leak out—you’ve only got to see Nordsten long enough to introduce your brother, and then you push off. If he did get inquisitive afterwards, Tim wouldn’t know anything—would you, Hoppy?”

“No, boss,” said Mr. Uniatz, shaking his head vigorously. “I don’t know nut’n about nut’n.”

“But what about Jarving?” put in the girl.

“Jarving is safe in clink,” said the Saint with conviction. “If the first person who found him wasn’t a policeman, which it probably was at that hour of the morning, I don’t think anyone who found him could get those handcuffs off without a policeman happening along. So the coast seems to be as clear as we’re ever likely to have it.”

She finished her breakfast and drank the coffee which he poured out for her; and then he gave her a cigarette.

“Get hold of yourself, kid,” he said. “I want you to be starting soon.”

For an instant her stomach felt empty as she realized that, once outside the shelter of that house, she was a fugitive again, even if the very idea of policemen seemed absurd in that peaceful place. And then she felt his blue eyes resting on her appraisingly and managed a smile.

“All right, Don Q,” she said. “What is it?”

“Your share is easy. You’ve only got to walk up to Hawk Lodge and introduce Hoppy as your brother. I don’t expect you’ll be asked to stay, and I’ll be waiting right round the corner to drive you back. The rest is Hoppy’s funeral—or it may be if he doesn’t get the lead out of his sleeve on the draw.”

Looking towards Mr. Uniatz, she saw his hand move with the speed of a bullet, and stared into the muzzle of an automatic which had somehow appeared in his grasp.

“Was dat fast,” he asked indignantly, “or was dat fast?”

“I think it was fast,” said the girl gravely.

“Say, an’ can I shoot wit’ it?” proclaimed Mr. Uniatz, rewarding her with a beam that displayed all his gold fillings. “Say, I betcha never see a guy t’row two cups in de air an’ bean ‘em wit’ one shot.”

“Yes, she has,” said the Saint, moving Hoppy’s cup rapidly away from under his eager fingers. “And she doesn’t like it. Now for heaven’s sake put that Betsy away and listen. Your name’s Tim Vickery—have you got that?”

“Sure. Tim Vickery—dat’s my name.”

“You’re an artist.”

“What, me?” protested Mr. Uniatz plaintively. “Say, boss, you know I can’t do dat pansy stuff.”

“You don’t have to,” said the Saint patiently. “That’s just your profession. You were brought up in America—that’ll account for your accent— but you’re really English. About fifteen months ago you were––”

“Say, boss,” suggested Mr. Uniatz pleadingly, “why can’t I be a bootlegger? You know, one of de big shots. Wit’ dat emerald ya gimme last night, I could do it poifect.”

Simon breathed deeply.

“I tell you, you’re an artist,” he said relentlessly. “There aren’t any bootleggers in this story. About fifteen months ago you were arrested for forgery––”

“Say, boss,” said Mr. Uniatz, with his homely brow deeply wrinkled in the effort of following a train of thought that was incapable of being hurried, “what was dat crack about de pansy stuff bein’ my perfession?”

The Saint sighed and got up. For a minute or two he paced up and down the room, smoking his cigarette and staring at the carpet; and then he turned abruptly.

“The hell with it,” he said. “I’m going to be Tim Vickery.”

“But dat’s my name,” complained Hoppy.

“I’ll borrow it,” Simon said bluntly. “I don’t think it suits you.” He looked at the girl. “I was going to put Hoppy in because I thought the most important part of the job would be outside, but now I’m not so sure. I don’t think there’s much difference—and I’m afraid the inside stand is a bit out of Hoppy’s distance. Are you all set to go? I want to show you something, and I’ve got to make a phone call.”

He led her across the hall to the study which adjoined the living room, and picked up the telephone on the desk. In a few moments he was through to London.

“Hullo, Pat,” he said. “I thought you’d be back. Did you have a swell time? … Grand. I’m down at Weybridge. Now listen, keed—can you catch the next train down? … Well, we’ve had a certain amount of song and skylarking while you’ve been away, and I’ve got a damsel in distress down here, and now I’ve got to push off again. That only leaves Hoppy and Orace, so you’ll have to do your celebrated chaperoning act… . No, nothing desperate; but Claud Eustace may be puffing and blowing a bit in the near future… . Good girl. Then the damsel in distress will tell you all about it when you arrive. So long, darling. Be seein’ ya.”

He hung up the instrument and turned back with a smile.

“You’re going to meet Patricia Holm,” he said.

“Which is rather a privilege. When she gets here, tell her everything—from the beginning right down to where I take up your brother’s name. Do you understand? If there’s any trouble—whether it’s from Act of God or Chief Inspector Teal— Pat will be able to handle it better than anyone else I know.”

She nodded.

“I’ll be all right.”

“If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t be leaving you,” he said and went to a bookcase beside the desk. “Now here’s the next thing: If there’s any trouble—and if Pat isn’t here, Grace will know —this is your way out.”

The entire bookcase opened like a door on well-oiled hinges, giving her a glimpse of what appeared to be a passage.

“It isn’t a passage,” he explained, closing the bookcase again. “It’s just a space between two walls. I built it myself. But they’re both solid, so it can’t be found by tapping around to see if anything sounds hollow. There’s an armchair and some magazines, and it’s ventilated; but you’d better not smoke. This is how it works: If the door’s closed, and you open this drawer of the desk till it clicks, and then pull out the second shelf …”

He showed her how to manipulate the series of locks which he had devised.

“There’s just one other thing,” he said. “I want you to ring me up tonight—or get Pat to do it and say she’s you. Just talk as if you were talking to Tim, because somebody may listen on the line. But listen very carefully to what I say at the other end. If there’s anything I want, I’ll be able to let you know.”

Mr. Uniatz, who had been nibbling the end of a black cigar and watching all these proceedings with a vacant expression, cleared his throat and gave utterance to a problem which had been puzzling him ever since he left the breakfast table. “Boss,” he interrupted diffidently, “what’s wrong wit’ my accent?”

“Nothing at all,” said the Saint. “It reminds me of a nightjar calling to its mate.” He put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “If you’re ready now, we’ll go.”

They walked down a leafy avenue over the hill. There were starlings cheeping in the undergrowth, and the air was hazy with the promise of a fine day. The world was so still, without even a whisper of distant traffic, that her adventure seemed yet more unbelievable.