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

She might have been going to say more, but she didn't; for at that moment a bell rang faintly at the back of the house. Annette looked up at her quickly, and for a second even Mr. Uniatz forgot that he was grasping a bottle of Bourbon which was as yet only half empty. But Patricia shook her head with a very tiny smile.

"Simon wouldn't ring," she said.

They listened and heard Orace's dot-and-carry footfalls crossing the hall. The front door opened and there was a sound of other feet treading over the threshold. A voice could be heard inquiring for Mr. Templar.

"Mr. Templar ain't 'ere," Orace said brusquely.

"We'll wait for him," stated the voice imperturbably.

"Like 'ell you will," retorted Orace's most belligerent accents. "You'll wait ahtside on the bleedin' doorstep, that's wot you'll do------"

There were the sounds of a scuffle; and Mr Uniatz, who understood one thing if there was nothing else he understood, gave a surprising demonstration of his right to his nickname. He hopped out of his chair with a leap which an athletic grasshopper might have envied, reaching for his hip. Patricia caught the other girl by the arm.

"Through the bookcase--quick!" she ordered. "Hoppy, leave the door shut, or we can't open this one."

She bundled Annette through the secret panel, saw that it was properly closed, and grabbed Hoppy's wrist as he snatched at the door handle again.

"Put that gun away, you idiot," she said. "That'll only make things worse."

Hoppy's jaw fell open aggrievedly.

"But, say------"

"Don't say," snapped Patricia, in a venomous whisper. "Get the darn thing back in your pocket and leave this to me."

She thrust him aside and opened the door herself. Outside in the hall, Orace was engaging in a heroic but one-sided wrestling match in the arms of Chief Inspector Teal and another detective. As she emerged, one of his boots landed effectively on Mr. Teal's right shin and drew a yelp of anguish in response. Patricia's cool voice cut across the brawl like a blade of honey.

"Good-evening--er--gentlemen," she said.

The struggle abated slightly; and Orace's purple face screwed round out of the tangle with its walrus moustache whiffling.

"Sorl right, miss," he panted valiantly. "You jus' wait till I've kicked these plurry perishers down the thunderin' 'ill------"

"I'm afraid they'd only come back again," said Patricia regretfully. "They're like black beetles-- once you've got them in the house, you can't get rid of them. Take a rest, Orace, and let me talk to them. How are you, Mr. Teal?"

Mr. Teal glared pinkly at Orace and shook him off. He picked up his bowler hat, which had been dislodged from his head during the melee and had subsequently been somewhat trampled on, and glared at Orace again. He appeared to have some difficulty in controlling his voice.

"Good-evening, Miss Holm," he said at last, breathing deeply and detaching his eyes from Orace's stormy countenance with obvious diffi-culty. "I have a search warrant------"

"You must be collecting them," murmured Patricia sweetly. "Come in and tell me what it's all about this time."

She turned and went back into the study, anc Mr. Teal and his satellite followed. Mr. Teal' eyes discovered Mr. Uniatz and transferred their smouldering malevolence to him. It is a regret-l table fact that Mr. Teal's soul was not at that moment overflowing with courtesy and good wil towards men; and Mr. Uniatz had crossed his path on another unfortunate occasion.

"I've seen you before," Teal said abruptly. "Who are you?"

"Tim Vickery," replied Hoppy promptly, with an air of triumph.

"Yes?" barked the detective. "You're the forger, eh?"

There was something so consistently unfriendly in his china-blue gaze that Hoppy reached around nervously for the whisky bottle. He had been let down. This was not what the Saint had told him. He had to think, and that always gave him a pain somewhere between his ears.

"I ain't no forger, boss," he protested. "I'm a fairy."

"You're what?" blared the detective.

"A bootlegger," said Mr. Uniatz, gulping hastily. "I mean, de udder business is my perfes-sion. I got an accent like a nightingale------"

Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal grabbed at the scattering fragments of his temper with both hands. If only he could master the art of remaining tranquil under the goad of that peculiar form of baiting in which not only the Saint indulged, but which seemed to infect all his associates like a malignant disease, he might yet be able to score for law and order the deciding point in that ancient feud. He had missed points before by letting insult and injury get under his skin-- the Saint's malicious wit had stung him, ragged him, baited him, rattled him, tied him up in a series of clove hitches and stood him on his head and rolled him over again, till he had no more chance of victory than a mad bull would have had against an agile hornet.