The Saint and Mr Teal (Once More the Saint)

"Eb, A, G," insisted the Saint adenoidally. "Bag. With a code id the doze."

They were having breakfast in the kitchen, for the sitting room was uninhabitable. A representative from a firm of decorators whom the Saint had telephoned came round at eleven and inspected the mess wisely.

"It looks as if there'd been an explosion, sir," he said.

"You're wrong," said the Saint. "A man came in here and sat on a pin after putting baking powder on his gooseberries in mistake for sugar. We're still looking for him."

An assurance was given that the firm would set to work to make good the damage as quickly as possible, and Simon bathed and dressed himself with unaltered cheerfulness. Any philosophically minded man in his position could have found something to be cheerful about that morning, for it was a miracle that the Saint was alive. If the pineapple expert had not misjudged the length of his fuse the end of all Saint stories would have been written in a sticky splash.

Chief Inspector Teal himself called in later. He had the report of the explosives man who had been sent down from the Yard to view the damage. The bomb was a home-made affair of the jam-tin type, but it might have been none the less effective for that. The assort­ment of broken nails and scrap iron with which it had been lined had pocked the walls and ceiling like a burst of shrapnel, and slit to ribbons the upholstery that had saved the Saint's and Patricia's lives.

"I'm wondering why they should have bothered about you," said Teal.

"Passing over the insult to my fame," drawled the Saint, "maybe someone overheard your suggestion to me last night. Or else there's someone in the gang with a grudge against me-Basher Tope is a Green Cross boy, and you may remember that I once had words with him. But don't take it to heart, Claud-I expect your turn will come."

Teal turned his chewing gum over somnolently.

"You haven't been interfering already, have you?" he inquired; and the Saint smiled.

"I never interfere, Claud. You know that."

"All the same, I think I'd change my address if I were you," said the detective.

Simon stood at the broken window after he had gone, and gazed down the road. The motorcycle man was no longer in sight, and it was unlikely that he would return. The crowd which had filled the road after the explosion the night before had had its eyeful and dispersed, and there were no curious sightseers to replace it that morning. London had taken the attempt on the Saint's life with considerable sang-froid. There were no sus­picious loiterers in the vista on which the Saint looked out, but Simon Templar was not deceived.

"There might be something in Claud's idea as far as you're concerned, Pat," he said. "Ted Orping will be trying again, if none of the others do."

"How long is this going on for?" she asked.

"Until Tex Goldman is the Big Shot of London, or material for a front-page inquest," said the Saint. "Tex thinks the first and I think the second."

She slipped a hand through his arm. He was not utterly surprised at her gaiety.

"Gee, boy, it's thrilling!"

"You're a wicked little girl," said the Saint solemnly, "and if anybody hears you talk like that you'll find yourself thrown out of the Y.W.C.A. on your ear. . . . But don't get the idea that London is going to be like Chicago. There are no gangs coming over here. It's just a wildcat scheme out of Tex Goldman's head, but there may be lots of skylarking and song before the swelling goes down."

The general public's interest in Simon Templar's fate was demonstrated more enthusiastically in news­print than in person. Harassed editors in search of new headlines connected with the gang menace to London seized on the bombing incident joyfully, with an un­spoken prayer of thanksgiving for the fact that it hap­pened in time for them to find a position of suitable prominence for it before the country editions went to bed. Morning newspapers work under a tragic dis­advantage compared with their brethren of the evening, for they are unable to rush out special editions at any hour of the day in order to scoop an exclusive story. This was the kind of event that they lived for.

The pashas of Fleet Street shared the Saint's knowledge that no seriously Chicagoesque wave of lawlessness was on its way, but it takes more than that to stop an experienced news editor. Fleet Street grabbed at the temporary orgy of violent crime, as it appeared to the public at the moment, with both hands. The Saint's escape was featured on the front page of every national daily; and in it, naturally, was mentioned the essential point that Simon Templar had survived the attack.

This fact was the subject of a short-tempered conference in the neighbourhood of Baker Street.

"Let me go after him with a gun, boss," said Ted Orping. "I'll get him for you."