The Saint and Mr Teal (Once More the Saint)

They were crossing the road when the Saint's keen ears became aware that the music inside the club had stopped. There was nothing very remarkable in that, for even the most energetic orchestras must rest for a few moments now and then to expand their lungs and gargle. And yet it made the Saint hesitate. Somehow he associated that stoppage with the arrival of the two men who had just gone in-and the peculiar fact that their car was still standing outside, where parking was not allowed. Perhaps the glimpse he had had of Tex Gold­man leaving the same premises a few minutes before had made him unduly suspicious. He turned off diago­nally along the road, drawing Patricia with him. He seemed to hear the muffled sounds of some commotion inside the club-a commotion that was rather more than the usual babble of conversation that springs up between dances.

And then he heard the sound of feet pelting down the stairs.

He guided Patricia into the nearest porch, as if he were merely an innocent young citizen taking his girl friend home from a movie, and again used her mirror inconspicuously. He saw the two men dash out of the doorway and plunge into their car, and before they disappeared he had seen that the lower halves of their faces were covered by their white evening scarves.

The car pulled out and whirled up the street, passing them where they stood. Other feet were pounding down the steps of the club, and Simon looked round and saw the owner of the first pair reach the pavement. He was a frantic-looking young man with his bow tie draggling loose down his shirt front, and he yelled "Police!" in a voice that echoed down the street. In a few seconds he was joined by others with the same cry. One or two pale-faced girls crowded out behind the leading men.

Simon glanced after the departing car. He could still see its tail light as it was swinging round the next corner, and his hand flew to his hip. . . .

It stayed there. His other hand followed suit, on the other hip. With his coat swept back behind his forearms, he lounged over towards the panic-stricken mob on the pavement. A police whistle was shrilling somewhere near by. He might have been able to do some damage to the bandits' car, but the official attention to his tactics might have been more embarrassing than the damage would have been worth. He was not yet ready to take the law into his own hands.

The frantic-looking young man confirmed his guess of what had happened.

"They held us up-it must have been the gang that's been holding up all the banks. Took all our money and the girls' jewellery. We couldn't do anything, or some of the girls might have got hurt. ... I say! Officer --"

A running policeman had appeared, and the young man joined the general surge towards him. Simon faded away from the group and rejoined Patricia.

"Let's stick around," he said. "If I know anything, Claud Eustace will be along."

He was right in his diagnosis. The chattering crowd gradually filtered back into the club to make its several statements, under the constable's pressure; and a couple of plain-clothes men arrived from Marlborough Street. After a while another taxi entered the street and released a plump, familiar figure. Simon buttonholed him.

"What ho, Claud!" he murmured breezily. "This is a bit late in life for you to take up dancing. Or has some­one been trying to buy a box of chocolates after nine o'clock?"

The detective looked at him with a rather strained weariness.

"What are you doing here, Saint?"

"Taking an after-dinner breather. Giving the gastric juices their ozone. I just happened to be around when the fun started."

" Did you see the men ?"

Simon nodded.

"Yes. But they were half-masked, of course. I got the number of the car; but it looked new, so I suppose it was stolen."

Teal rubbed his chin.

"If you can wait till I've finished here I'd like to have a talk with you."

"Oke. We'll toddle along to Sandy's and sniff some coffee. See you there."

The Saint took Patricia's arm, and they strolled through to Oxenden Street. Three quarters of an hour later Chief Inspector Teal came in and took his place at the counter.

"Did you get anything useful?" asked the Saint.

"Nothing," said Teal shortly. "The men had scarves over their faces, as you said. They were both in evening dress, which lets you out."

Simon sighed.

"That bee in your bonnet buzzes an awful lot," he protested. "Can't you think up anything better than that?"

"You've been abroad for a week, haven't you?"

"I have. Drinking good beer and associating with some stout Huns. The Secret Service must have been working overtime."

"I didn't suspect you seriously." Teal stirred three lumps of sugar into his cup. "This wholesale murder isn't in your line, is it ? A wretched clerk and one of our own uniformed men shot down in a week-and nothing to show for it. It fairly makes your blood boil."

The detective's round face was unwontedly hollow in the cheeks. The failures of the last few hectic days were making their mark on his ponderous self-assurance.