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

Mr. Teal's tonsils came up into his mouth, and he gulped them back. The effort brought his complexion two or three shades closer to the tint of the sun-kissed damson.

"Pulling my leg," he repeated torridly. "Yes, I suppose you were."

"You see, Claud," Simon explained frankly, "when I heard you were on your way round here looking for a bloke named Vickery, I thought it would be rather priceless if you beetled in and found that the place was simply infested with Vickerys. I could just see your patient frog-like face------"

"Could you?" Teal's voice was thick and curdled with the frightful tension of his restraint. "Well, I'm not interested in that. WThat I want to hear from you is why you've been going under the name of Vickery yourself." Nordsten cleared his throat. "I suppose," he remarked coldly, "you consider that you have some right to come in and behave like this, Mr.--er------"

"Teal is my name, sir," said the detective tersely. "Chief Inspector Teal." "Inspects anything," said the Saint. "Gas meters, drains, hen roosts------"

"I'm from Scotland Yard," Teal almost shouted. "Where the Highlanders hang out their washing," Simon explained.

Mr. Teal's collar strained on its studs; and Nordsten nodded.

"That need not prevent you stating your business in a proper manner," he said stiffly. "What is all this fuss about?"

"That man," said the detective, with a sweltering glance at the Saint, "is a well-known criminal. His real name is Simon Templar; and I want to know what he's doing in this house pretending to be Vickery!"

"I can easily tell you that," answered Nordsten promptly. "Mr. Templar is an intimate friend of mine. I know his reputation, though I should hardly go so far as to call him a criminal. But he is certainly well known, and of course servants will always talk. I think he exaggerates the powers of gossip, but whenever he comes to stay with me he always insists on calling himself Vickery to save me from any embarrassment."

"And how long has he been staying with you this time, sir?" Teal inquired roughly.

"Since last night--or perhaps I should say yesterday morning."

"Can you remember the time exactly?"

"It must have been a few minutes after two o'clock. I met him in Bond Street, and he had just left the Barnyard Club. I was driving home rather late from a dinner, and I asked Mr. Templar to come down with me."

It may be confessed at once that Chief Inspector Teal had never been kicked in the stomach by a sportive mule. But if that sublime experience had ever befallen him, it is safe to affirm that the expression on his face would have been practically indistinguishable from the one which came over it as he gaped speechlessly at Nordsten. Twice he attempted to force words through his larynx, which appeared to have become clogged with glue; and at the third attempt he succeeded.

"You tell me," he said, "that you met Templar in Bond Street at two o'clock yesterday morning and brought him straight down here?"

"Of course," answered Nordsten shortly. "Why not?"

Mr. Teal took in a mouthful of air and wedged his bouncing tonsils down with it. Why not? When a taxi driver had been found that very afternoon who said that a man whom he identified from Simon Templar's photograph had paid him fivc hundred pounds for his taxi, his overcoat, and his cap, shortly after two o'clock. It was true that this man had said that he wanted the taxi for a museum . . .

"Did he have a taxi with him?" Teal blurted sudorifically.

"As a matter of fact, he had," said Nordsten with faint surprise. "He had just bought it because he wanted to present it to a museum. We had to take it to a garage before we drove down."

"How on earth did you guess that, Claud?" asked the Saint admiringly.

Mr. Teal's pudgy fists clenched.

"Guess it?" he yapped and cleared his obstructed throat. There were so many other things he wanted to say. How did he guess it? Words failed him. It was true that no one had been able to take the number of the taxi in which that par- ticular train of trouble had begun, on account of its defective rear light; it was true that no one could positively identify the taxi, which was exactly the same as any other standard cab of prewar vintage; it was true that no one could positively identify the man who had driven it; but there was a limit to coincidences. The Saint had met Mr. Teal outside the club and seen him go in. The Saint had bought a taxi. Mr. Teal had ridden in a taxi shortly afterwards and sustained adventures such as only the Saint's evil genius could have originated. How did he guess it? Mr. Teal's protruding eyes turned glassily back to the Saint; but what court in the kingdom would ac-cept his description of Simon's smile of gentle mockery as evidence? Teal swung round on Nord-sten again. "How long had he had this taxi when you met him?" he croaked.

"It can't have been many minutes," said Nord-sten. "When I came down Bond Street he was standing beside it, and he pointed out the driver walking away and told me what had happened.'