11 The Brighter Buccaneer

"You meant well, Claud," said the Saint kindly. "And it was quite easy really. The only difficult part was that insomnia-tablet business. But I figured that the culprit might want to make quite sure that Joseph would be sleeping soundly when he buzzed up for the key, and the method was just an idea of mine. Then I saw that Joseph's insomnia dope was white, while his indigestion muck was light grey, and I guessed he must have been short-sighted to fall for the change-over.

"When I looked up at the house it was quite obvious that if anyone could climb down that flying buttress, someone else could just as easily climb up. That's why I was going to say something about your brilliant police ideas."

The Saint patted the detective consolingly on the back. "Policemen are swell so long as they plod along in their methodical way and sort out facts-they catch people that way quite often. But directly they get on to a really puzzling case, and for some reason it strikes them that they ought to be Great Detectives just for once-they fall down with the gooseberries. I've noticed those symptoms of detectivosis in you before, Claud. You ought to keep a tighter hand on yourself."

"How long have you known it wasn't Whipplethwaite?" asked Teal.

"Oh, for months," said the Saint calmly. "But when your elephantine hints conjured up the vision of Joseph creeping stealthily down from the balcony upon his foe, couldn't you see a sort of grisly grotesqueness about it? I could. To stage a crime so that another man would naturally be suspected re­quires a certain warped efficiency of brain. To think for a mo­ment that Joseph could have produced a scheme like that was the sort of brilliant idea that only a policeman in your condi­tion would get. How on earth could Joseph have worked all that out?"

The Saint smiled blandly. "He's only a politician."

The Unpopular Landlord

THERE were periods in Simon Templar's eventful life when that insatiable wanderlust which had many times sent him half-way round the world on fantastic quests that somehow never materialised in quite the way they had been intended to, invaded even his busy life in London. He became bored with looking out on to the same street scene from his windows every day, or he saw some other domicile on the market which appealed to his catholic taste in residences, or else he moved be­cause he thought that too long an interval of stability would weaken his resistance to regular hours and Times-reading and other low forms of human activity. At these periods he would change his address with such frequency that his friends des­paired of ever establishing contact with him again. It was one of the few aimless things he did; and it never provided any exciting sequels-except on this one historic occasion which the chronicler has to record.

Simon Templar awoke on this particular morning with that familiar feeling of restlessness upon him; and, having nothing else of importance to distract him that day, he sallied forth to interview an estate agent. This interviewing of estate agents is a business that is quite sufficient to discourage any migratory urges which may afflict the average man; but Simon Templar had become inured to it over the course of years. He sought out the offices of Messrs. Potham & Spode, obtained the services of Mr. Potham, and prepared to be patient.

Mr. Potham was a thin, angular man with grey hair, gold-rimmed spectacles, and a face that receded in progressive stages from his eyebrows to the base of his neck. He was a harmless man enough, kind to his children and faithful to his wife, a man whose income tax returns were invariably honest to the uttermost farthing; but twenty years of his profession had had their inevitable effect.

"I want," said the Saint distinctly, "an unfurnished non-serv­ice flat, facing south or west, with four large rooms, and a good, open outlook, at not more than five hundred a year."

Mr. Potham rummaged through a large file, and eventually, with an air of triumph, drew forth a sheet.

"Now here," he said, "I think we have the very thing you're looking for. No. 101, Park Lane: one bedroom, one reception-room --"

"Making four rooms," murmured the Saint patiently.

Mr. Potham peered at him over the rims of his glasses and sighed. He replaced the sheet carefully, and drew forth an­other.

"Now this," he said, "seems to suit all your requirements. There are two bed, two reception, kitchen and bath; and the rent is extremely moderate. Our client is actually paying fifteen hundred a year, exclusive of rates; but in order to secure a quick let he is ready to pass on the lease at the very reasonable rent of twelve hundred --"

"I said five hundred," murmured the Saint.

Mr. Potham turned back to his file with a hurt expression.

"Now here, Mr. Templar," he said, "we have No. 27, Cloudesley Street, Berkeley Square --"

"Which faces north," murmured the Saint.

"Does it?" said Mr. Potham in some pain.