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

England has today, and for that very reason––”
    The sharp trill of the telephone bell cut him off. He looked at the instrument for a moment and then lifted the receiver.
    “Hullo,” he said.
    “This is Outrell, sir,” said an agitated voice. “Those two detectives I told you about—they’ve just bin here again. They’re on their way up to you now, sir.”
    Simon gazed dreamily at the ceiling for a second or two, and his fingertips played a gently syncopated tattoo on the side table.
    “Okay, Sam,” he said. “I’ll give them your love.”
    He replaced the instrument and stood with his hand on it, looking at Patricia. His level blue eyes were mocking and enigmatic, but this time at least she knew enough of his system to read beyonc them.
    “Hadn’t you better hide the book?” she said.
    “It is hidden,” he answered, touching the gaudy wrapper. “And we may as well have a look at these sleuths.”
    The ringing of another bell put a short stop to further discussion, and with a last smile at her he went out to open the door. The trouble was coming thick and fast, and there were tiny chisellings at the corners of his mouth to offset the quiet amusement in his eyes. But he only stopped long enough in the little hall to transfer the automatic from his hip pocket to a pocket in his raincoat, and then he opened the door wide with a face of seraphic tranquillity.
    Two men in dark suits stood on the mat outside. Both of them wore bowler hats; neither of them carried sticks or gloves.
    “Mr. Simon Templar?” queried one of them, in a voice of astounding refinement.
    Simon nodded, and they moved determinedly through the door with a concerted solidity which would certainly have obstructed any attempt he might have made to slam it in their faces.
    “I am Inspector Nassen,” said the genteel spokesman, “and I have a warrant to search your flat.”
    “Bless my soul!” ejaculated the Saint, with his juiciest lisp. “So you’re one of our new public-school policemen. How perfectly sweet!”
    The other’s lips tightened.
    “We’ll start with searching you,” he said shortly.
    His hands ran over the Saint’s pockets in a few efficient movements which were sufficient to assure him that Simon had no lethal weapon on his person. The Saint restrained a natural impulse to smack him on the nose and smiled instead.
    “This is a great game, Snowdrop, isn’t it?” he said. “Personally I’m broad-minded, but if you did these things to a lady she might misunderstand you.”
    Nassen’s pale face flushed wrathfully, and an unholy gleam came into the Saint’s eye. Of all the detectives who ought never to have called upon him, one who was so easily baited was booked for a rough passage before he ever set out.
    “We’ll go over the flat now,” he said.
    Simon led them into the living room and calmly set about refilling his sherry glass.
    “Pat,” he explained casually, “these are two little fairies who just popped through the keyhole. They seem to want to search the place and see if it’s all cleany-weeny. Shall we let them get on with it?”
    “I suppose so,” said Patricia tolerantly. “Did they wipe their tootsy-wootsies before they came in?”
    “I’m afraid not,” said the Saint. “You see, they | aren’t very well-bred little fairies. But when you have a beautiful Oxford accent you aren’t supposed to need manners as well. You should just hear Snowdrop talking. Sounds as if all his teeth were loose… .”
    He went on in the same vein throughout the search, with an inexhaustible resource of wicked glee, and it was two very red and spluttering men who faced him after they had ransacked every room under the running commentary with which he enlivened their tour.
    “Get your hat,” Nassen said. “You’re comin| along with us.”
    Simon put down his glass—they were back in the living room then.
    “On what charge, Snowdrop?” he inquired.
    “The charge is being in possession of informa-tion