The Saint Abroad: The Art Collectors/ the Persistent Patriots (29 page)

“Thank me?” the Saint said.
“Just one thing. Try to get
the past in perspective, and be nice to your
husband. Until
anyone
better comes along, Nagawiland really needs him.
He’s a good man.”

She looked at him seriously, and then her
tired face soft
ened into a smile.

“I’m way ahead of you on that,” she
said. “I’ve already
made enough good resolutions to last me through a dozen
New Years’.”

Simon looked back over his shoulder as he
walked away.

“And take care of yourself,” he
said. “That’s a worthy
cause too.”

At ten in the morning of the same day the
Saint settled
down beside the telephone in his own home in Upper Berke
ley Mews.
It had begun to snow lightly, and his own personal view of London was beginning
to look like sugared cake. The
fog was already gone, and by nightfall the
stars would
probably be as sharp as crystals in a clear sky.

And there would be no Mr Snowball truck
lurking in a
gray street. Mr Snowball would be happily taking credit
for
his latest victory over evil, and the gray street would no
longer be
gray but pure and sparkling white in the pale sun
light.

“Good morning—London Hilton,” came the response to
his dialing.

“Miss Bannerman, please,” Simon said.

A little later Mary Bannerman answered.

“Did you think I’d forgotten you?”
Simon asked.

“Oh, thank goodness it’s you!” she
exclaimed. “Are you
all right? I’ve heard everything on the
radio—about Jeff and the others being arrested, and Todd, and … and you
were
right. They were planning to take over in Nagawiland.”

“In fact, their buddies down there
murdered two good
men before word got there that Liskard was still alive——
contrary
to their expectations. But it could have been much
worse. If the tribes
had gone on a rampage …”

“I can imagine,” she said. “And
Tom … how is he?”

“He’ll be all right. Todd must have panicked
when he got word that Peterson had been picked up, and his hands were shaking
when he tried to fake a Liskard suicide by himself.
Then he had to make
one last mad try at the hospital—but
he blew that, too.”

“I’m glad.” The girl’s voice was
subdued. “Tom’ll be able
to carry on, then?”

“Yes. In fact this could make him a hero. And his wife
shows signs of being something more than an
anchor, for the
first time in
years.”

Mary was silent for some moments before she
spoke again.

“I suppose the police will be around to
get me soon.”

Simon deliberated.

“I’ve thought it over,” he said.
“Until now I’ve never gone
in much for psychologists’ theories about
the treatment of
criminals, but I’ll give even a bad idea a chance. You
can
consider yourself under suspended sentence. I’m taking per
sonal
responsibility for your rehabilitation. You’ll have to
own up to your
little insurance swindle, of course; but if you
give the money back
I’m sure the Company won’t prosecute
you.”

“But Jeff will tell——”

“Tell what? That you gave him those
letters? They were
yours
to do what you liked with—except use for blackmail.
But nobody was ever asked for money, except me. And that
was only a pretext for something else, so I’ve
decided to for
get it. You weren’t
involved in any of the real violence.

Which seems to leave you in the clear. Aside
from the usual
requirement of keeping in close touch with your probation
officer.”

“Oh, Simon!” she said with
incredulous relief shaking in
her voice. “Tell me when …”

WATCH FOR THE SIGN OF

THE SAINT

HE WILL BE BACK!