12 The Saint in London (The Misfortunes of Mr Teal)

"Do you?" he murmured interestedly. "Yes, I do!" barked the detective. "And I mean to see it before I go. I mayn't be much of a critic, but I'll soon find out whether this literary work is worth two hundred thousand pounds a chapter. I'll get my own ideas about whether it's libellous. Now are you going to show me that book or am I going to look for it?"

"Where's your search warrant?" inquired Simon imperturbably.

Teal gritted his teeth.

"I don't need a search warrant. You're a sue pected person------"

"Only in your wicked suspicious mind, Claud. And I'm telling you that you do need a search war-rant. Or, if you're going to take my home apart without one, you need three or four strong men with you. Because if you try to do it yourself, I shall pick you up by the scruff of your neck and the seat of your pants and throw you over the Ritz, and there's no magistrate in England who could give you a comeback!"

The Saint was smiling; but Mr. Teal had no illusions about that smile. It was not a smile of simple-hearted bonhomie and good will towards policemen. It was a smile that could have been worn by no one but that lean dangerous privateer who was never more dangerous than when he smiled.

And Mr. Teal knew that he hadn't a leg to stand on. The Saint had tied him in a knot again. There were no menaces, no threats of any kind, in the letter with which the Honourable Leo Farwill had gone to Scotland Yard--it was a pleasant polite epistle with no unlawful insinuations whatsoever, and any fairly clever advocate could have convinced a normally half-witted jury that the suspicions attached to it arose from nothing but the notorious Simon Templar's signature at the end. And without a definite charge of blackmail, there were no grounds at all for demanding an inspection of the literary work on which the whole case lunged.

Mr. Teal knew all these things as well as anyone and knew also that in spite of the strictly legal appearances no man had ever given the Saint two hundred thousand pounds except as the reward of some devilish and unlawful cunning that had been born in that gay unscrupulous brain. He knew all these things as well as he knew his own birthday; but they did not cheer him. And Simon Templar's forefinger went out and tapped him on the stomach in the Saintly gesture that Mr. Teal knew and hated best of all.

"You're too full of naughty ideas and uncharitable thoughts these days," said the Saint. "I was hoping that after I'd been away for a bit you might have got over them; but it seems as if you haven't. You're having one of your relapses into detectivo-sis, Claud; and it offends me. You stand there with your great stomach wobbling------"

"It doesn't wobble!" yapped the detective furi-ously.

"It wobbles when I poke it with my finger," said the Saint coldly and proceeded to demonstrate.

Teal struck his hand aside.

"Now listen," he brayed. "You may be able to twist the law around to suit yourself for a while------"

"I can twist the law around to suit myself as long as I like," said the Saint cheerfully; "and when I fall down on it will be soon enough for you to come and see me again. Now you've completely spoiled my breakfast; and I've got an important appointment in ten minutes, so I can't stop to play with you any more. Drop in again next time you wake up, and I'll have some more to say to you."

Chief Inspector Teal settled his bowler hat. The wrath and righteous indignation were steaming together under his waistcoat; but with a terrific effort he recovered his pose of torpid weariness.

"I'll have some more to say to you," he replied curtly, "and it'll keep you out of trouble for several years."

"Let me know when you're ready," murmured the Saint and opened the door for him with Old World courtesy.

A couple of minutes later, with his wide-brimmed felt hat tipped challengingly over his right eye, he was knocking at the door of the adjoining apartment.

"Come along, Hoppy," he said. "We've left it late enough already--and I can't afford to miss this date."

Mr. Uniatz put down a bottle of whisky regretfully and took up his hat. They left the building by the entrance in Stratton Street; and as they came out onto the pavement a shabby and ancient touring car pulled away from the curb and went past. Simon felt as if a gust of wind plucked at his swashbuckling headgear and carried it spinning: the crack that went with the gust of wind might have been only one of the many backfires that a big city hears every hour.

VI