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

"There's just one other thing," he said. "I want you to ring me up tonight--or get Pat to do it and say she's you. Just talk as if you were talking to Tim, because somebody may listen on the line. But listen very carefully to what I say at the other end. If there's anything I want, I'll be able to let you know."

Mr. Uniatz, who had been nibbling the end of a black cigar and watching all these proceedings with a vacant expression, cleared his throat and gave utterance to a problem which had been puzzling him ever since he left the breakfast table. "Boss," he interrupted diffidently, "what's wrong wit' my accent?"

"Nothing at all," said the Saint. "It reminds me of a nightjar calling to its mate." He put a hand on the girl's shoulder. "If you're ready now, we'll go."

They walked down a leafy avenue over the hill. There were starlings cheeping in the undergrowth, and the air was hazy with the promise of a fine day. The world was so still, without even a whisper of distant traffic, that her adventure seemed yet more unbelievable.

"Why are you taking so much trouble?" she had to ask; and he laughed.

"You've heard that I'm an outlaw, haven't you? And an outlaw lives by the supply of boodle. I know we still haven't very much to go on; but when a bird like Ivar Nordsten is falling over himself to get in touch with a convicted forger, I kind of get inquisitive. Besides, there's another thing. If I could dump the evidence of some really full-grown ungodliness into Teal's lap, he mightn't feel quite so upset about losing you."

A quarter of an hour's walk brought them to the gates of Hawk Lodge. They went up the broad gravelled drive and came upon the house suddenly round a bend that skirted a clump of trees--a big neo-Jacobean mansion that looked out over terraced gardens to the haze that hid another range of hills far to the south.

A grey-haired saturnine butler with a slight foreign accent took their names.

"Miss Vickery and Mr. Vickery? Will you wait?"

He left them in the great bare hall and passed through a door which opened off it. In a few moments he came back.

"Mr. Nordsten does not need to see Miss Vickery today," he said. "Will Mr. Vickery come in?"

Simon nodded, and smiled at the girl.

"Okay, sister," he murmured. "Thanks for bringing me--and take care of yourself."

Quite naturally he kissed her; and she went back down the broad drive again feeling very much alone.

"SIT down, Mr. Vickery," said Nordsten cordially. "I'm glad we were able to find you. Would you like a cigar?"

He sat behind a wide mahogany desk in a library that was panelled out from floor to ceiling with bookcases, more like the study of a university professor than of an internationally famous financier. The illusion was heightened by his physique, which was broad-shouldered and tall in spite of a scholarly stoop, and his bald domelike skull ringed round at the level of his ears with a horseshoe of sandy grey hair. Only a trace of overemphasis on his guttural consonants betrayed his Scandinavian upbringing; and only a certain unblinking rigidity in his pale blue eyes, a certain tense restraint in the movements of his large white hands, marked the man whose business instincts commanded millions where others played with hundreds.

"Thanks."

Simon took a cigar, sniffed it with an affectation of wisdom, and stuck it between his teeth with the band on. It was an inferior cigar; but Tim Vickery would know no better.

"You look older than I heard you were," said Nordsten, holding out a match.

The Saint shrugged sullenly.

"Prison life doesn't help you to look young," he said.

"Does it teach you any lessons?" asked Nordsten.

"I don't know what you mean," Simon answered defensively.

The financier's mouth made a fractional movement that might have been intended for a smile, but his hard unblinking gaze remained on the Saint's face.

"Only a short while ago," he explained, "you were a young man with a brilliant future. Everyone thought well of you. You might have continued your training and become a very successful artist. But you didn't. You devoted your exceptional talents to forging banknotes--doubtless, not to mince matters, because you thought the rewards would be quicker and bigger than legitimate art would pay. But they weren't. You were arrested and sent to prison. You had leisure to reflect that quick profits are not always so quick as they first appear--that is, as I was trying to find out, if you learnt your lesson."

Simon grimaced.

"Well, is that why you sent for me?"

"I take it that my diagnosis is correct," said Nordsten blandly.

"How do you know?"