11 The Brighter Buccaneer

"It does," Teal said, without moving a muscle.

At that moment the fantastic idea that had been creeping round the Saint's mind sprang into incredulous life. "Good God! Teal-you don't mean --"

"I don't mean anything," said Teal in the same toneless voice. "I can't possibly tell you any more than I've told you already. If I mentioned that Whipplethwaite was badly hit in the Doncaster Steel Company's crash three months ago-that a Cabinet Minister's salary may be a large one, but you need a lot more than that to keep up the style that the Whipple­thwaites like to live in-I should only be mentioning things that have nothing to do with the case. If I said that the man who could open that safe without damaging it in any way would be a miracle worker, I'd only be theorizing."

Simon's cigarette had gone out, but he did not notice it.

"And I suppose," he said, in a slightly strained voice-"just taking an entirely mythical case-I suppose that if the details of that treaty got about, the Powers would know that there'd been a leakage? I mean, if there was only one man through whom the leakage could have occurred, he'd have to cover himself by staging some set of circumstances that would ac­count for it without hurting his reputation?"

"I suppose so," agreed Teal formally. "Unfortunately there's no Third Degree in this country, and when you get into high places you have to walk very carefully. Sometimes we're set almost impossible tasks. My orders are to avoid a scandal at any cost."

The Saint sat quietly, taking in the full significance of that astounding revelation that was so much more momentous for having been made without any direct statement. And, as he looked up at the house in a kind of breathlessness, he visual­ized the scene.

There was no space for secret passages in such an edifice as that; but for reasons known only to the architect a sun balcony on the first floor, built over the study, was linked with the ground by two flying buttresses on either side of it that angled down on either side of the study windows like gigantic stair­cases of three-foot steps. He could see the podgy figure of Sir Joseph Whipplethwaite creeping out with exaggerated caution, like a rhinoceros walking on tiptoe, and surveying the scene below. He saw the man clambering down the steps of the flying buttress, one by one, hampered by the sandbag clutched in one hand . . . saw him creeping up behind the unconscious artist . . . striking that single clumsy blow. With a scapegoat whom he disliked so heartily ready to be accused, why should he think he ran any risk?

"I know what you think of our abilities at the Yard," Teal was saying, in the same passionless way. "But we do get ideas sometimes. What you don't make allowances for is the fact that in our position we can't act on nothing more substantial than a brilliant idea, like detectives do in stories."

He was chewing monotonously, with his cherubic blue eyes fixed expressionlessly on the flying white ball on the court. "I think that if the treaty could somehow be recovered and put back where it was taken from, the guilty man would have to confess. An adventurer in a story, I suppose, might kidnap the suspected person and force him to say where it was hidden; but we can't do that. If anything like that happened in real life and the kidnapper was caught, he'd be for it.

"By the way, Whipplethwaite will be driving back from London this evening. He has a green Rolls Royce, number XZ9919. ... I expect you've had enough of this, haven't you?"

The detective stood up; and for the first time in a long while he looked at the Saint again. Simon had rarely seen those baby blue eyes so utterly sleepy and impassive.

"Yes-it's about time for my morning tankard of ale," Simon murmured easily.

They strolled slowly back to the house.

"That's Joseph's room-the one with the balcony-is it?" Simon asked idly.

Teal nodded. "Yes. That's where he was lying down."

"Does he suffer from indigestion?"

The detective flashed a glance at him. "I don't know. Why?"

"I should like to know," said the Saint.

Back in the house, he asked to be shown the dining-room. On the sideboard he discovered a round cardboard box care­fully labelled-after the supererogatory habit of chemists- "The Pills." Underneath was the inscription: "Two to be taken with water after each meal, as required."

The Saint examined the tablets, and smiled gently to him­self.

"Now could I see the bathroom?"

A very mystified Mr. Teal rang for the butler, and they were shown upstairs. The bathroom was one of those magnificent halls of coloured marble and chromium plate which the most modern people find necessary for the preservation of their personal cleanliness; but Simon was interested only in the cupboard over the washbasin. It contained an imposing array of bottles, which Simon surveyed with some awe. Sir Joseph was apparently something of a hypochondriac.

Simon read the labels one by one, and nodded. "Is he short­sighted?"

"He wears glasses," said the detective.