13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal's baby blue eyes looked him over thoughtfully. And in Chief Inspector Teal's mind there were no illusions. He did not share the ignorance of Messrs. Uppingdon and Immelbern. He had known the Saint for many years, and he had heard that he was back. He knew that there was going to be a fresh outbreak of buc­caneering through the fringes of London's underworld, exactly as there had been so many times before; he knew that the feud between them was going to start again, the endless battle between the gay outlaw and the guardian of the Law; and he knew that his troubles were at the beginning of a new lease of life. And yet one of his rare smiles touched his mouth for a fleeting instant.

"See that they pay you," he said, and went on his portly and lethargic way.

Simon Templar went back to the apartment on Clarges Street. Uppingdon let him in; and even the melancholy Mr. Immelbern was moved to jump up as they entered the living-room.

"Did it win?" they chorused.

The Saint held out the paper. It was seized, snatched from hand to hand, and lowered reverently while an exchange of rapturous glances took place across its columns.

"At five to one," breathed Lieut.-Colonel Uppingdon.

"Five thousand quid," whispered Mr. Immelbern.

"The seventh winner in succession."

"Eighty thousand quid in four weeks."

The Colonel turned to Simon.

"What a pity you only had a hundred pounds on," he said, momentarily crestfallen. Then the solution struck him, and he brightened. "But how ridiculous! We can easily put that right. On our next coup, you shall be an equal partner. Immelbern, be silent! I have put up with enough interference from you. Templar, my dear boy, if you care to come in with me next time—"

The Saint shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't mind a small gamble now and again, but for business I only bet on certainties."

"But this is a certainty!" cried the Colonel.

Simon frowned.

"Nothing," he said gravely, "is a certainty until you know the result. A horse may drop dead, or fall down, or be dis­qualified. The risk may be small, but it exists. I eliminate it." He gazed at them suddenly with a sober intensity which al­most held them spellbound. "It sounds silly," he said, "but I happen to be psychic."

The two men stared back at him.

"Wha—what?" stammered the Colonel.

"What does that mean?" demanded Mr. Immelbern, more grossly.

"I am clairvoyant," said the Saint simply. "I can foretell the future. For instance, I can look over the list of runners in a newspaper and close my eyes, and suddenly I'll see the winners printed out in my mind, just as if I was looking at the evening edition. I don't know how it's done. It's a gift. My mother had it."

The two men were gaping at him dubiously. They were incredulous, wondering if they were missing a joke and ought to laugh politely; and yet something in the Saint's voice and the slight uncanny widening of his eyes sent a cold super­natural draught creeping up their spines.

"Haw!" ejaculated the Colonel uncertainly, feeling that he was called upon to make some sound; and the Saint smiled distantly.

He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.

"Let me show you. I wasn't going to make any bets today, but since I've started I may as well go on."

He picked up his lunch edition, which he had been read­ing in the Palace Royal lounge, and studied the racing card on the back page. Then he put down the paper and covered his eyes. For several seconds there was a breathless silence, while he stood there with his head in his hands, swaying slightly, in an attitude of terrific concentration.

Again the supernatural shiver went over the two partners; and then the Saint straightened up suddenly, opened his eyes, and rushed to the telephone.

He dialed his number rather slowly. He had watched the movements of Mr. Immelbern's fingers closely, on every one of that gentleman's five calls; and his keen ears had listened and calculated every click of the returning dial. It would not be his fault if he got the wrong number.

The receiver at the other end of the line was lifted. The voice spoke.

"Baby Face," it said hollowly.

Simon Templar drew a deep breath, and a gigantic grin of bliss deployed itself over his inside. But outwardly he did not bat an eyelid.

"Two hundred pounds on Baby Face for Mr. Templar," he said; and the partners were too absorbed with other things to notice that he spoke in a very fair imitation of Mr. Immel­bern's deep rumble.

He turned back to them, smiling.

"Baby Face," he said, with the quietness of absolute certi­tude, "will win the three o'clock race at Sandown Park."

Lieut.-Colonel Uppingdon fingered his superb white mous­tachios.

"By Gad!" he said.

Half an hour later the three of them went out together for a newspaper. Baby Face had won—at ten to one.

"Haw!" said the Colonel, blinking at the result rather dazedly.