The Saint Abroad: The Art Collectors/ the Persistent Patriots (22 page)

He turned not toward his garage
door,
but toward the
van. He walked up to it and looked in at the
white-capped, white-jacketed driver.

“I’ll have a pint of vanilla,
 
please,” he
 
said politely.

The driver gulped and looked sturdily straight
ahead.

“Closed,” he muttered. “All
out of everything.”

The wide opening behind the driver, which
gave him easy
access
to the interior of the van, was covered by a heavy
curtain.

“Surely you must have something,”
Simon insisted, draw
ing closer. “A slab of tripe
…
or a fat
cheese?”

“Nothing,” said the driver.

But by then the Saint had put his hand on the
door
opposite the driver. He jerked it open and stepped quickly
in to
fling aside the hanging curtain. There like a great rosy-
jowled
toad squatted Chief Inspector Teal of Scotland Yard.

“Well, ‘pon my soul, if it isn’t ol’ Mister Snowball him
self!” cried the Saint. “As I live and
breathe! Will wonders
never cease?
It’s a small world.”

“Would you at least shut the door?”
growled Teal without
moving.

“Gladly.”

There was no passenger seat in the van. Simon stepped
inside, closed the door, and moved through the
curtains
into the cargo area, where
he took a seat on a carton facing
Teal.
The detective regarded him with a baleful eye and
kept his hands stuffed deep inside his overcoat
pockets.

“On closer inspection,” Simon said
cannily, “I believe
you’re not really Mister Snowball at all,
but that old over
weight operative, Claud Eustace Teal,
disguised
as
Mister
Snowball!”

“What are you up to, Templar?” Teal
asked coldly.

“I might ask you the same, Claud,”
the Saint said re
proachfully. Simon glanced around the frigid interior of
the
van, which in addition to Inspector Teal contained nothing
more comfortably padded than a
cardboard box. There was
a two-way radio
in one corner and a few notepads and maps
in another. “It’s not much, I suppose,” Simon observed,
“but
I’m sure it’s an
improvement over what you used to do—at
least from a moral point of view.”

Chief Inspector Teal heaved a deep sigh and
pulled a hand from his pocket. The hand contained a stick of chewing gum,
which he
proceeded to unwrap and fold into his mouth.
. “Are you
through being funny?” he asked with exaggerated
boredom.

“I’m not sure,” said the Saint honestly.

“You’ve gotten mixed up with the Prime
Minister of
Nagawiland,”
Teal said.

“I’ve been to dinner with him, if
that’s what you mean,” Simon admitted.

“And you went to the Chelsea Police Station today and
asked a lot of questions.”

“It was entirely a mission of
mercy,” the Saint said. “I took
along a food parcel
and said a few cheery words. It’s the least
one can do. Don’t you
…”

“You were asking questions about a
burglary that was
reported
by Liskard’s old girlfriend.”

“She’s hardly old,” Simon inserted.
“I doubt that she’s a
day over twenty-five.”

“You won’t get me off the subject,”
Teal said. “I know
that Liskard got involved with this
girl—romantically in
volved—when he was here before.”

Simon leaned back and rested his shoulders
comfortably
against the side of the van.

“Nosey old goat, aren’t you?”

“It’s our job to know things about the
men we’re supposed
to protect,” Teal went on. “Apparently
something funny is
going on and you’re involved in it.”

“Just what do you think is funny?”
Simon enquired.

“That’s what I’m asking you,” said
Teal.

“All over England,” said the Saint
accusingly, “stately
homes are being burgled, payrolls and
bullion are being hi
jacked, safe deposits and bank vaults are
being blown—and
you want to sit here and swap funny stories. As a public-
spirited
citizen, I can’t help you to goof off like this.”

He started to get up.

“Wait,” Teal said. “You’ve got
no reason to keep vital information to yourself. And if you’re thinking you can
pull
one of your tricks and get some money out of Liskard by
teaming
up against him with his old girlfriend, you’re out of
your head. Pull any
of your Robin Hood stuff with an im
portant man like that, and
you’ll—”

“Oh, I see, Claud,” said the
Saint. “I see it all. You’ve got
it figured out, have you?”

“I have,” Teal said proudly.
“You may as well give up your little scheme right now.”

Simon leaned forward and placed a long finger firmly
against Teal’s fat paunch.

“And you listen to me, old plum
pudding,” he said affectionately, prodding with the finger. “You’re
on the wrong
track as usual. Yes, there is something going on, but no,
I won’t tell you what it is. Because if I did, you’d jump in
with all your three flat left
feet and bungle it. Let’s just get
this
straight, though. We’re both on the same side. I’m no
more anxious for Liskard to get in trouble than you
are,
and if you’ll lay off I may be
able to keep him out of it. Lay
off
Mary Bannerman, too, unless you want to foul things up
so badly that you’ll be knocked back down to
giving breath
alyser tests to
nursemaids pushing baby buggies in the park.
Is that clear?”

The Saint’s final emphasis with his finger
was so forceful
that Teal choked on his chewing gum.

“You haven’t done anything yet,”
the detective said sul
lenly. “If you do, I’ll be
waiting.”

“That will give you more sleepless nights
than it will
me,” Simon told him. “And now, if you’ll excuse
me I have a
date.”

He got out on to the cobblestones, and looked
at the van
and shook his head.

“I’m a little surprised,” he said. “This seems so
crude, even
for you.”

“You don’t think we’d have it repainted
just for your bene
fit, do you?” Teal said, with injured indignation.

“I guess you’re right,” Simon said. “An ice cream
truck in
winter would scare off any crook with
a better brain than
yours. But in
these days of government economy, think how much you could save on prison
maintenance by never catch
ing
anyone.”

7

The Saint drove his car on an elusive route
through side streets
guaranteed to lose Mister Snowball, and then
hurried on to
Belfort
Close, which was in the neighborhood of Maida Vale.

The short street, with the decrepit antiquity
of its brick
fa
ç
ades, was like a
score of other streets in northwest Lon
don. Beyond the
turning circle at the end of the cul-de-sac
was a rusty iron
fence with a gate sagging from the cumulative
weight of generations
of swinging children. The church
yard, an old one, was shadowed by trees and populated by a
pygmy army of squat tombstones. Simon could see
only
dark outlines. The feeble lamps
of Belfort Close behind him
were made
doubly ineffective by the misty night.

Someone with a rather unreal sense of
melodrama had
chosen the setting, if not the mists. The Saint, with his
flashlight in hand, moved without particular stealth into the
stoney
darkness. If he had wanted to come on stage secretly
he would not have
chosen the entry planned for him by the
telephone caller. But
his object was not to surprise anybody,
but to be surprised
himself. Only in that way would he stand
much chance of
getting to the truth about Liskard’s enemy.

“Come into my parlor, said the fly to
the spider,” he murmured to himself.

If he had tried to capture the blackmailer he might only
have frightened him away. And if, as seemed more
than
likely, there was more than one
person involved, the capturing of one might lead to the immediate release of
Liskard’s
letters to the papers.

The lights of an automobile swung through
the trees of the
churchyard. Simon turned. A taxi was pulling into the
circle at the end of Belfort Close and a man was getting out. The
Saint could
see only that he was tall and quite thin, even
frail. The taxi
left, and the man came into the churchyard.
Simon aimed the flashlight at the
stranger’s face and turned
it on when he was
within twenty feet.

“Good evening,” Simon said.

The man held a hand in front of his face
until the light
was switched off. Even so the Saint got a look at him,
and he
was unfamiliar.

“You’re Simon Templar?” the man
asked.

“What if I say I’m not?”

“I’ve come to talk business,” said the thin man
irritably.
“Do you want me to
leave?”

“Yes, but I’ll have to put personal
feelings aside for the
moment. What’s your deal?”

“Twenty-five thousand pounds for the
return of certain
letters,” the man answered curtly.

“Very expensive,” the Saint said
mildly.

“It should be worth it to Liskard.”

Most men would not have noticed the almost
impercepti
ble change in the blackmailer’s carriage. He was scarcely
more than a silhouette, but Simon sensed the sudden rise in
tension.

“Do you have any proof that you have the
letters?” Simon
asked.

He moved closer to the man, until he was
within striking
distance.

“I’ll give you one,” the blackmailer
said.

He reached into his pocket and produced an
envelope.
The Saint moved to take it, and then suddenly shifted his
weight and
jabbed his flashlight straight into the man’s ribs.
In the same motion he
whirled and confronted the man he
knew would be just behind him. His
eyes were accustomed to
the darkness how, and he could see the second
man’s heavy-
featured face and the wadded white cloth he was holding
forward in
one hand.

The Saint reached a quick decision. Obviously if there were
two men involved, it was unlikely that the plot
against Liskard
was based on a simple
desire for revenge on Mary Bannerman’s
part.
Whether the demand for twenty-five thousand pounds
had been genuine or a mere ruse to hold the
Saint’s attention,
there was very
possibly a wider membership in the scheme
than had gathered together in the churchyard.

Simon decided—since his assailant was not about to use a
knife or gun—to let himself be captured. He lunged
at the
thug behind him, took a
glancing blow on his shoulder, and
slipped
to his knees. Immediately the thin man and his
hefty friend pounced, and Simon held his breath and went
quickly limp as the chloroformed cloth was pressed
against his face.

“Easy,” muttered the hefty one.

“These chaps live on their
reputations,” the thin one con
curred. “Let’s get him out to the
car.”

The Saint held his breath again as he was
given a pre
cautionary second dose of the anesthetic. Then the men
picked up
his apparently unconscious body and hurried with
it to the side of the
churchyard opposite Belfort Close. Si
mon could not open his eyes more than
a crack, but he saw
that
he was being taken to a very ordinary black car parked
on a deserted lane. His porters put him into the back seat,
and the thin one sat next to him.

“Get rid of that rag,” the thin one
said.

“How long will it keep him under?”
the other asked.