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

"This constable was also knocked on the head," he went on, getting the words out somehow through his contracting larynx; "and when he woke up----"

"The garden gate had been forced open and March House had been stolen," murmured Simon. "I know. The bloke flew off with it in the aeroplane."

"He reported to the local station, and they telephoned me. The other thing I want to know is what you were doing at that time."

"We were driving round and round Regent's Park; and I'll give you half a million pounds if you can prove we weren't!"

The detective bit on his long-forgotten chewing gum with a force that almost fractured his jaw.

"Do you think you can make a monkey out of me?" he roared.

Simon shook his head.

"Certainly not," he replied solemnly. "I wouldn't try to improve on God's creation."

The chronicler has already submitted, perhaps somewhat rashly, his opinion that the human organism is not capable of literally expanding into small and separate pieces under no other influence than the dilation of its own wrath. But he has, fortunately, offered the suggestion that some outside prod might succeed in procuring this phenomenal disruption.

Mr. Teal did not burst, physically. But he performed the psychological equivalent. Moved by a cosmic passion which stronger men than he might have failed lamentably to control, he grasped destiny in both his quivering hands. He did something which he had never in all his life contrived to do before.

"All right," he said throatily. "I've heard all I want to hear tonight. You can tell the rest of it to a jury. I'm arresting you on charges of common assault, burglary, and willful murder."

V

Simon extinguished his cigarette in an ashtray. The ticking of his heart was going faster, but not so very much faster. It was Curious how Teal's ultimate explosion surprised him; curious also that it did not find him unprepared. Perhaps, in his heart of hearts, he had always known that something of the kind must happen, some day. The gay career of Teal-baiting could not go on for ever: it had gone on for a long time, but Mr. Teal was human. There was no more concrete evidence now than there had ever been; but the Saint had a good deal of belated psychological understanding. In Teal's place, he would probably have done the same.

The detective was still speaking, with the same rather frantic restraint and rather frantic consciousness of the awful temerity of what he was going to do:

"I caution you that anything you say now will be taken down and may be used in evidence at your trial."

The Saint smiled. He understood. He deeply

sympathized. In Teal's place, he would probably have done the same. But he was not in Teal's place.

"If you want to make a fool of yourself, Claud, I can't stop you," he said; and his left fist leapt out and crashed like a cannon ball into the furrow between Chief Inspector Teal's first and second chins.

The expression of compressed wrathfulness vanished startlingly from the detective's face. For a moment it was superseded by a register of grotesque surprise; and then every other visible emotion was smudged out by a vast blank sleepiness which for once was entirely innocent of pose. Mr. Teal's legs folded up not ungracefully beneath him; he lay down on the floor and went to sleep.

Mr. Teal's mute equerry was starting forward, and his mouth was opening: it is possible that at any moment some human sound might have emerged from that preternaturally silent man, but Simon gave it no-chance. The man was grabbing for his wrists, and the Saint obligingly permitted him to get his hold. Then he planted his left foot firmly in the detective's stomach and rolled over backwards, pushing his foot vimfully upwards as he pulled his wrists down. The man sailed over his head in an adagio flying somersault and hit the carpet with an explosive "wuff!" which any medium-sized dog could have vocalized much better; and Simon somersaulted after him more gently and sat astride his chest. He grasped the man's coat collar in his hands and twisted his knuckles scientifically into the carotid arteries-- unconsciousness can be produced in two or three seconds by that method, when employed by a skilful exponent, and Sergeant Barrow's resistance had been considerably impaired already by the force with which his shoulder blades had landed on the floor. It was all over in far less time than it takes to describe; and Simon looked up at Mr. Uniatz, who was prancing about like a puppy with his revolver reversed in his hand.

"Fetch me a towel from the bathroom, Hoppy," he ordered. "And for heaven's sake put that blasted cannon away. How many more times have I got to tell you that this is the closed season for policemen?"

While he was waiting, he handcuffed the two detectives with their own bracelets; and when the towel arrived he tore it into two strips and gagged them.

"Get your hat," he said, when the job was finished. "We're going to travel."