The Saint and Mr. Teal: Formerly Called "Once More the Saint" (11 page)

He came to England, looked around, and thought of business.

He was a big man running to fat, a little thin on top, with a round blue jowl and cold black eyes. A killer by nature and experience, of the authentic type that Ted Orping tried to emulate. He wore a yellow belted overcoat and a solitaire diamond in his tie; and the one thing he knew all about was how to pay for such adornments without wearing himself out in honest labour. He studied London and called it soft.

“There’s a fortune to be picked up here by any man who ain’t too particular,” he said. “But you got to get organized. What’s the use of a few bum stick-up men who’ve scarcely learnt to tell one end of a rod from the other? They’re just nibbling at it-and they got the police scared already. All they want is pulling together by a man who knows the racket, and that guy’s name is Tex Goldman.”

He said that to Mr. Ronald Nilder, who was not a willing audience.

“You won’t get away with it over here,” said Mr. Nilder. “They’re hot on murder in this country, and you can’t bribe the police over anything big.”

“You gotta show me,” said Tex Goldman.

He extinguished a half-smoked cigar and lighted a fresh one. Tex Goldman never smoked more than half a cigar, and he paid two bucks for each of them.

“Can’t bribe the dicks, huh? Are you tellin’ me that no policeman ever took graft? Sure, the London police are wonderful-they ain’t even human… . Forget it, Nilder. You can bribe anyone if you make it big enough. Cuts in police pay mean men who want more money, and they got a sense of grievance that eases their consciences.”

Mr. Nilder sat on the edge of a chair and twirled the handle of his umbrella. He was a well-fed and nattily dressed little man with close-set eyes and a loose lower lip. Tex Goldman knew what he was, despised him heartily, and intended to make use of him.

“I don’t like it, Mr. Goldman.”

“You ain’t asked to like it or not like it,” said the man from St. Louis bluntly. “All you got to do is take your orders from me and cash your shakedown, and you can put your feelings where they belong. You got a dandy little motor launch, and you got connections on the other side of the ditch. You just be a good boy and run the guns over for me as I order ‘em, or do anything else I tell you with that boat of yours, and you and me will mix in fine. Otherwise Scotland Yard might hear some more about your vice racket.”

Mr. Nilder winced slightly. He disliked hearing his business described so candidly. The Cosmolite Vaudeville Agency, which he controlled, was a prosperous organization that supplied cabaret artistes to every part of Europe and South America. Frequently the cabarets concerned were not so purely artistic as they might have been; but since the girls who went there had no relatives there were no embarrassing inquiries. Mr. Nilder was not troubled with moral scruples. He was a simple tradesman, like a greengrocer or a butcher, supplying a continuous demand; and his sole object was to avoid the attention of the police. The “cabaret” game was already almost played out, but there were other and less widely advertised channels which Mr. Ronald Nilder knew.

“It means prison if we’re caught, Mr. Goldman,” he said.

“It means prison if you’re caught doing other things,” said Goldman significantly. “But don’t worry-I shouldn’t ask you to do any shooting. All you gotta do is run those heaters, and you start Monday.”

He peeled a dozen ten-pound notes off a thick pack and slipped them contemptuously across the table. Nilder picked them up, fingered them nervously, and pushed them into his pocket. He knew that Goldman could order him about as he willed-he was afraid of the big man from St. Louis, afraid of his cold black eyes and deep masterful voice, even more afraid of what the man from St. Louis could have told the police. But he was not happy. Violence was not in his line-not even when he had to take no active part in it, and was still paid generously.

He rose and picked up his hat.

“All right, Mr. Goldman. I’ll be going.”

“Just a minute.”

Tex Goldman came out of his chair, stepped across to the smaller man. He caught Nilder by the lapel of his coat, quite gently; but his cold black eyes drilled into the other’s brain like jagged iron.

“Talking of telling things to the dicks don’t sound so good between friends, Nilder. Let’s say I just mentioned it in case you didn’t feel like listening to reason. You don’t want to go thinking up any ideas like that by yourself. You play ball with me, and I’ll play ball with you. But any time you think it might pay you to squeal …”

He never sounded like finishing the sentence. And Ronald Nilder went away with that deliberate half-threat ringing in his head, and the memory of Tex Goldman’s grim stare before his eyes.

The interview took place at Tex Goldman’s apartment. Tex had started his sojourn in London at a West End hotel, but with the prospect of a longer stay in front of him he had moved out to an apartment of his own in an expensive modern block near Baker Street. It was the nearest approach he could find to the American model to which he was accustomed, and on the whole it suited him very well. The rent was exorbitant, but it had the advantage of being on the first floor with an, emergency fire-escape exit down to an alleyway which communicated with a dirty lane in the rear.

It was eight o’clock when Nilder left. Goldman dressed himself leisurely in a new suit of evening clothes, put on a white Panama hat, and went down to W. 1.

He dined at the Berkeley, without haste, and went on later to a night club that was still waiting to be invaded by the after-theatre patrons. There was a girl there who came to his table-he had met her there regularly before. Tex Goldman ordered champagne.

“Guess you’re too good for this, baby,” he said. “Why don’t you take a rest?”

He had asked that before; and she made the equivalent of every other answer she had given him.

“Would I get a lot of rest in your flat?”

Tex Goldman grinned and discarded another half-smoked cigar. He knew what he wanted, knew how to get it, and had an infinite capacity for patience in certain directions.

It was after two o’clock when he left the club-and the girl-and took a taxi back to Baker Street. In his apartment he exchanged his tail coat for a silk dressing gown, removed his collar and tie, and settled himself in an armchair over an evening paper.

Half an hour later his bell rang, and he went to open the door. A red-eyed Ted Orping stood outside, looking rather dishevelled in spite of his flashy clothes, with Clem Enright a little behind him.

“Well?”

There was trouble plainly marked on every feature of Ted Orping’s face, ratified in the peaked countenance of Clem Enright; but Tex Goldman showed no emotion. He let the Green Cross boys pass, closed the door after them, and followed them through to the sitting room. Clem Enright sat awkwardly on the edge of an upright chair, while Ted Orping flung himself asprawl in an armchair and kept his hat on. Naturally it was Ted Orping who was the spokesman.

“Boss-we were hijacked.”

Goldman gauged the length of his cigar butt calmly.

“How?”

“It was Corrigan’s fault. Joe said he must have a drink before we did the job, an’ he drove us round to Sam Harp’s. Sam don’t care what time it is if he’s awake. We had a couple, an’ came out-Clem an’ me first, an’ Joe last. Least, we thought it was Joe. We got in the car and drove off. We could only see what we thought was Joe’s back, driving, an’ we went up Regent Street to Peabody’s. Did the job properly, just as it’d been fixed, an’ hopped back in the wagon. There was a copper-a bull-on the beat, but he never got near us. We went around Regent’s Park, an’ then this guy cut out of it an’ stopped. I still thought it was Joe. I asked him what he was playin’ at, an’ then he turned round. It wasn’t Joe.”

“Who was it?”

“The Saint.” Ted looked at Goldman grimly and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “He stuck us up with a gun, an’ took the bag. I went for him, an’ his gun squirted ammonia in my face. He had another wagon fixed for his getaway. I was blind for a quarter of an hour. Clem had to drive me here.”

Tex Goldman’s cigar had gone out. He shredded it into the wastepaper basket.

” Where’s Corrigan?”

“I dunno. We come straight here. There wasn’t nothing we could do.”

Goldman sat down. His square stubby fingers drummed on the arm of his chair, while his narrowed black eyes remained fixed on Ted Orping’s face.

“We ain’t here to be hijacked,” he said. “We’re here for all we can get. Get it quick-no mistakes-and scram. No one’s gonna give us the runaround. Not dicks, Saints, nor anyone else. Anyone that gets in the way-well, it’ll be just too bad about him. You got a gun. It’s meant to be used. Back where I come from, we shoot fast and often. It saves trouble.”

“Sure.”

The black eyes swivelled round to Clem.

“You got a gun, Enright?”

“N-no, sir.”

Goldman hitched open a drawer and dragged out a heavy blue-black automatic and a box of cartridges. He tossed the items, one after another, across the room to the little cockney.

“You got one now-and I didn’t give it you for ornament. There’s no room for pikers or double-crossers in this racket. Anyone that don’t toe the line is only safe in one place. Anyone-understand ?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Clem Enright turned the gun over in his hand, felt the weight of it, tested his fingers round the grip. He put it away in his pocket, reluctantly, with the box of cartridges, his eyes gleaming. He drew a deep breath and held some of it back, giving himself a chest, and conscious all the time of Ted Orping’s critical scrutiny.

“I’ll use it, Mr. Goldman,” he said.

The whir of the front-door buzzer broke in on them sharply, sounding again and again, insistently.

Tex Goldman raised the lid of a cigar box.

“See who it is, Ted.”

Orping slouched up and went out. The front door opened, and Joe Corrigan came bursting through into the sitting room. Ted Orping followed him in. Corrigan’s hair was awry, his tie loose and askew; and his clothes looked as if he had been pulled backwards through a hedge. He stood just inside the room, breathing heavily, glancing from one face to another.

Goldman surveyed him with distaste.

“What d’you mean by coming here like that?” he demanded harshly. “Are you aiming to tell the world I’m in the habit of entertaining a pack of hoboes in my apartment at three o’clock in the morning ?”

“I’m sorry,” Corrigan said stolidly. “I thought I’d better come here at once and tell you what happened.”

“I’ve heard most of it. What happened to you?”

Corrigan rubbed the palms of his hands down his trousers.

“We went to Sam Harp’s, and I was coming out last. Ted was in a hurry to go, and I stayed to pay for the last round. There’s a dark corridor between Sam’s private room and the side door, and as I came down there I was caught from behind. There was two of ‘em- whoever they were-and they had a handkerchief with chloroform on it. I sort of passed out. When I woke up I was lying on a heap of bricks in a building lot just next to Sam’s.”

“What did Harp say about it?”

“He didn’t know anything. Said he locked the door after he let us in, and couldn’t see that anyone had forced it.”

“Have you any idea who the other guy was-besides the Saint?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Goldman. I didn’t hear neither of them speak —”

Corrigan’s voice died away. The cold black eyes of Tex Goldman, screwed down to vicious pinpoints, were boring into his face with an inclement ferocity that appalled him. Ted Orping started up-one abrupt menacing movement. Clem Enright moved his feet restlessly, his mouth opening in stupid perplexity.

Tex Goldman’s cigar waved a slight gesture of restraint.

“You didn’t seem surprised when I mentioned the Saint, Corrigan,” said the gunman silkily. “Who told you that was who it was ?”

“I don’t … Nobody told me, Mr. Goldman. I-I s’pose —”

“You skunk!”

Goldman moved with startling suddenness, swiftly and savagely. He pulled himself out of his chair and stepped up to within a foot of the Irishman. His eyes never left the other’s face. One of his hands grasped the man’s coat collar; the other dived into Corrigan’s pockets, one after another, like a striking snake. It came out of one trouser pocket with a roll of new one-pound notes.

He flung Corrigan back. Ted Orping seized Corrigan from behind as the Irishman’s fists clenched.

“You dirty double-crossing rat! So you sold us to the Saint!”

Goldman tore the notes across and across, and scattered them over the floor.

“Get out of here!”

“Listen, Goldman-I didn’t —”

“Get out!”

Ted Orping twisted the man round and pushed him towards the door. Corrigan’s eyes flamed, and he took a pace back into the room. Orping’s hand touched his hip.

Then Joe Corrigan turned on his heel and left the apartment.

Tex Goldman looked at Orping steadily. There was a question in Ted Orping’s gaze, another question in Tex Goldman’s. Temporarily forgotten in his corner, Clem Enright shuffled his feet again, open-mouthed.

“There’s only one way to deal with traitors,” Goldman said.

Ted Orping nodded. He shrugged, with the callous understanding that he had been taught, and pulled down the brim of his hat. He went out without a word.

He caught Joe Corrigan in the street.

“Walk a little way with me, Joe?”

“You get away from me,” grated Corrigan surlily. “I don’t want your company.”

Ted Orping took his arm.

“Aw, come on, Joe. You don’t understand the boss. He’s a great guy, but naturally he has to be suspicious. You must admit what you said didn’t sound right. I just took his part so’s I could try an’ make things right for you when he cools off.”

“I never double-crossed anyone,” said Corrigan. “I dipped a toff’s wallet on a bus this morning, and got those notes.”

“O’ course, Joe. That’s what he ought to have thought of. I understand.”

They walked up Baker Street from the Marylebone Road crossing. Near the top, a few yards from Regent’s Park, Orping steered the other off to the right into a dimly lighted mews. They went a little way down it, and Corrigan stopped.