The Saint and Mr Teal (Once More the Saint)

Ted Orping scowled. He wanted all his colleagues to acknowledge him as the boss, the Big Fellow, whose word was law-to be obeyed promptly and implicitly. Joe Corrigan didn't seem to cotton to the idea. And he had broad shoulders too-and grey Irish eyes that didn't flinch readily. Independent. Maybe too inde­pendent, Ted Orping thought. It was Joe Corrigan who had insisted that they should go into a pub and have a bracer before they did the job, and who had got his way against Ted Orping's opposition. Maybe Joe was getting too big for his boots. . . . Ted ran a hand over the hard bulge at his hip, thoughtfully. Four or five years ago the independence of Joe Corrigan would never have stimulated Ted to thoughts of murder, but he had been taught that when a guy got too big for his boots he was just taken for a ride.

The car swung left, violently, and then to the right again. They were droning down a street of sombre houses on the east side of the park. One or two upper windows were lighted, but there were no pedestrians about-only another long-nosed silver-grey speed wagon drawn up by the curb with its side lights dimmed facing towards them.

All at once their brakes went on with a screaming force that jerked the two men behind forward in their seats. They skidded to a stop by the pavement, with their bonnet a dozen feet away from the nose of the silver car.

Ted Orping cursed and hitched himself further for­ward. His broad hand crimped on the driver's shoulder.

"What the hell --"

He fell back as the driver turned, with his jaw drop­ping.

The two Green Cross boys sat side by side, staring at the face of the man in the heavy leather coat that had been worn by Joe Corrigan when they set out. It was a lean sunburnt face, recklessly clean-cut and swashbuckling in its rakish keenness of line, in which the amazingly clear and mocking blue eyes gleamed like chips of crystal. There was a coolness, an effrontery, a fighting ruthlessness about it that left them momen­tarily speechless. It was the most dangerously challeng­ing face that either of them had ever seen. But it was not the face of Joe Corrigan.

"The jaunt is over, boys," said the face amiably. "I hope you've had a good time and caught no colds. And thanks for the job-it was about the best I've been able to watch. You two ought to take it up pro­fessionally-you'd do well."

Ted Orping wetted his lips.

"Who are you?" he asked.

The driver smiled. It was a benevolent, almost seraphic smile, that bared a glint of ivory white teeth; and yet there was nothing reassuring about it. It was as full of the hair-trigger threat of sudden death as the round hollow snout of the gun that slid up over the back of the seat in the driver's hand. Ted Orping had seen smiles like that in the movies, and he knew.

"I am the Saint," said the driver gently. "I see you've heard of me. But perhaps you thought I'd gone out of business. Well, you can work it out. I'm sorry about Joe, but he kind of had an accident coming out of that pub. It seemed as if you were left without a driver, but I hated to disappoint you-so I took his place. . . . You might keep your hands on your lap, Ted-it makes me nervous when they're out of sight."

The muzzle of the gun shifted slightly, so that Ted Orping looked down the barrel. His hands ceased to stray behind him, and lay still.

The Saint reached a long arm over to the floor at Ted Orping's feet and picked up the bag. He weighed it, speculatively and judiciously, under the two Green Cross boys' noses.

"A nice haul-as you were both saying," he mur­mured. "I couldn't have done better myself. But I think it's worth too much money for you lads to have all to yourselves. You might want to move up another stage in life and take to cigars-and cigars, Ted, need a strong tum-tum when you aren't used to them. So I'll just take care of it for you. Give my love to Joe and the rest of the gang; and if you hear any more of those rumours about my having retired you'll know what to say. And I hope you'll say it. It cannot be too widely known -"

Ted Orping came to life, grimly and desperately. It may have been that the actual sight of so much hard-won wealth vanishing into the hands of the mocking hijacker in front spurred him to the gamble; it may have been that he had to prove to himself that he wasn't afraid of any other man who carried a gun; or it may only have been the necessity of retaining Clem Enright's respect. Whatever his motive was, he took his chance, with a blaze of sheer animal courage.

He hurled himself forward out of his seat and grabbed at the gun in the Saint's hand. And the Saint pressed the trigger.