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

"Yes, I want a search warrant!" he exploded defiantly. "I know what it means. The Saint'll probably get around that somehow. When I get there, the book will have disappeared, or it'll turn out to be a copy of Fairy Tales for Little Children, or something. And Edingham and Quipp will get up and swear it was never anything else." Goaded beyond endurance though he was, the detective checked for an instant at the horrific potentialities of his prophecy; but he plunged on blindly: "I've seen things like that happen before, too. I've seen the Saint turn a cast-iron conviction into a cast-iron alibi in ten seconds. I'm ready to see it happen again. I'm ready to see him give the newspapers a story that'll make them laugh themselves sick fdr two months at my expense. But I'll take that search warrant!"

"I'll see that you have it in half an hour," said the assistant commissioner coldly. "We will discuss your other remarks on the basis of what you do with it."

"Thank you, sir," said Chief Inspector Teal and left the room with the comfortless knowledge that the last word on that subject was a long way from having been said.

VII

"Gents," announced Mr. Uniatz, from a chest swelling with proper pride, "dis here is my pal Mr. Orconi. Dey calls him Pete de Blood. He's de guy youse guys is lookin' for. He'll fix t'ings. . . ."

From that moment, with those classic words, the immortal gorgeousness of the situation was established for all time. Simon Templar had been in many queer spots before, had cheerfully allowed his destiny to be spun giddy in almost every con-ceivable whirlpool of adventure; but never before had he entered such a portentous conclave to discuss solemnly the manner in which he should assassinate himself; and the sheer ecstatic pulchritude of the idea was prancing balmily through his insides in a hare-brained saraband which only a delirious sense of humour like the Saint's could have appreciated to the full.

He stood with his hands in his pockets, survey-ing the two other members of the conference with very clear blue eyes and allowing the beatific fruitiness of scheme which Mr. Uniatz had made possible to squirm rapturously through his system. "Pleased to meet ya," he drawled, with a perfect gangster intonation that had been learned in more perilous and unsavoury surroundings than a fireproof air-conditioned movie theatre.

Mr. Neville Yorkland, M.P., fidgeted with his tie and looked vaguely about the room. He was a broad tubby little man, who looked something like a cross between a gentleman farmer and a dilettante artist--an incongruous souffle of opposites, with a mane of long untidy hair crowning a vintage-port complexion.

"Well," he said jerkily, "let's sit down. Get to business. Don't want to waste any time."

The Honourable Leo Farwill nodded. He was as broad as Yorkland, but longer; and he was not fussy. His black brows and heavy moustache were of almost identical shape and dimensions, so that his face had a curiously unfinished symmetry, as if its other features had been fitted quite carelessly into the decisive framework of those three arcs of hair.

"An excellent idea," he boomed. "Excellent. Perhaps we might have a drink as well. Mr.--ah --Orconi------"

"Call me Pete," suggested the Saint affably, "and let's see your liquor."

They sat, rather symbolically, on opposite sides of the long table in Farwill's library. Hoppy Uniatz gravitated naturally to the Saint's elbow, while Yorkland pulled up a chair beside Farwill.

The Honourable Leo poured sherry into four glasses from a crystal decanter.

"Mr.--er--Uniatz gives us to understand that you are what is known as a--ah--gunman, Mr. Orconi."

"Pete," said the Saint, sipping his drink.

"Ah--Pete," Farwill corrected himself, with visible distaste.

Simon nodded gently.

"I guess that's right," he said. "If there's anyone horning in on your racket, you've come to the guy who can stop him."

"Sure," echoed Hoppy Uniatz, grasping his opportunity and swallowing it in one gulp. "We'll fix him."

Farwill beamed laboriously and produced a box of cigars.

"I presume that Mr. Uniatz has already acquainted you with the basic motives of our proposition," he said.

"Hoppy told me what you wanted--if that's what you mean," said the Saint succinctly, stripping the band from his selected Corona. "This guy Templar has something on you, an' you want him taken off."

"That--ah--might be a crude method of expressing it," rumbled the Honourable Leo. "However, it is unnecessary to go into the diplomatic niceties of the dilemma. I will content myself with suggesting to you that the situation is one of, I might almost say, national moment."

"Tremendous issues involved," mattered Mr. Neville Yorkland helpfully. "World-wide catastrophe. The greatest caution is called for. Tact. Secrecy. Emergency measures."