The Saint and Mr Teal (Once More the Saint)

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.