The Saint in London: Originally Entitled the Misfortunes of Mr. Teal Read Free

was one thing, but coincidence of such a radical change of direction as he had ordered his driver to carry out was quite another matter.
    “Now we’ll go through the Green Park and up St. James’s Street,” he said through the telephone.
    The driver was so moved that he opened the door an inch and performed incredible contortions to yell back through it.
    “Wot is this?” he demanded. “A game of 選‘d and seek?”
    “You have no idea,” said the Saint.
    The apartment he was heading for was on the north side of Piccadilly, overlooking the Green Park. It was only one of many addresses that he had had at various times, to several of which he still owned the keys; but it was the one which had been prepared for his return, and he had no intention of being prevented from going there. The only question was how the shadowing party was to be shaken off.
    As they ran up St. James’s Street he looked at the meter and counted off the necessary change to pay the fare with a substantial tip. When the next traffic light reddened against them he stretched a long arm through the window and thrust the money into the driver’s hand.
    “I shall be leaving you any minute now, Al-phonse,” he said. “But don’t let that stop you. Keep right on your way, and don’t look back till you get to Hyde Park Corner. And have a bob on J Samovar for the Derby.”
    He had the door on the latch as they passed the Ritz, and his steel-blue eyes were watching the traffic intently. Three buses were taking on pas-sengers at the stop just west of the hotel, and as they went past the leader was edging out into the stream. Simon looked back and saw it cut out close behind him, baulking the following taxi; and that was his chance. In a flash he was out of his cab, dropping nimbly to the road, and the red side of the bus thundered by a couple of inches from his shoulder. It hid him perfectly from whoever was trailing him in the other cab, which was trying to pass the obstruction and catch up again; and he stood on the sidewalk and watched the whole futile procession trundling away westwards with a relentless zeal which brought an irresponsible twinkle of sheer urchin mischief into his eyes.
    A few minutes later he was sauntering into his apartment building and nodding cheerily to the janitor.
    “Anybody called while I’ve been away, Sam?” he asked, as if he had only been away for a weekend.
    Sam Outrell’s beam of delight gave way to a troubled gravity. He looked furtively about him.
    “There was two detectives here the other day, sir,” he said.
    The Saint frowned at him thoughtfully for a moment. Although Sam Outrell was nominally employed by the management of the building, he was on Simon Templar’s private payroll as well; but no stipend could have bought the look of almost doglike devotion with which he waited anxiously for the Saint’s reaction. Simon looked up at him again and smiled.
    “I expect they were the birds I hired to try and find a collar stud that went down the waste pipe,” he said and went whistling on his way to the lift.
    He let himself into his apartment noiselessly. There were sounds of someone moving about ir the living room, and he only stopped to throw his hat and coat onto a chair before he went through and opened the second door.
    “Hullo, Pat,” he said softly. “I thought you’d be here.”
    Across the room, a tall slender girl with fair golden hair gazed at him with eyes as blue as his own. There was the grace of a pagan goddess in the way she stood, caught in surprise as she was by the sound of his voice, and the reward of all journeys in the quiver of her red lips.
    “So you have come back,” she said.
    “After many adventures,” said the Saint and took her into his arms.
    She turned away presently, keeping his arm round her, and showed him the table.
    “I got in a bottle of your favourite sherry,” she said rather breathlessly, “in case you came.”
    “In case?” said the Saint.
    “Well,