The Saint and Mr Teal (Once More the Saint)

"I certainly haven't. In fact, I punched the face of Mr. Trape, just to learn him, and kicked him out of the bar-to the pardonable indignation of our friend Mr. Smith. But I think he's beginning to understand- probably more than I wanted him to. I dropped a line about Abdul Osman while interviewing Mr. Trape that must have made Smith think a bit. . . . I'll tell you how it happened. I was having my drink, and these two harmless-looking birds rolled in. They ordered lemon­ade, or something; and then one of them went out. He walked down the path, tripped on this very spot where we're sitting, and appeared to sprain his ankle. I saw it happen, and Smith called his pal over to the window. That was when he did it, of course. He wanted an excuse to come over to our table, with both of us looking out­side, so he could slip in the dope. That's what the whole plant was for-and damned well done it was, too. I didn't see it at all until the injured warrior had been helped back to the hotel and away to his room, and then only because I'm naturally suspicious. I'll tell you the things that struck me as odd later-never mind them now. But all at once it dawned on me that there was something in my beer that hadn't been there when I started it, and also that Mr. Trape might be listening outside the door to see what happened. I opened the door, and there he was-so I pushed his teeth in. Episode over."

"But what was the idea?"

"That's just what I want to get-and I want it quick." He was speaking so rapidly that it wasn't easy for her to pick the facts and deductions out of that vital rush of vivid sentences. "I want to reconstruct what might have happened if I'd drunk the beer. Make holes in it anywhere you can."

"Go ahead."

"Right. I drink the beer. I appear to go groggy. Smith registers alarm. Trape hears, and walks innocently in-probably requesting brandy for wounded comrade. Apparently I've fainted. Cold water, keys, feathers, smelling salts-all tried and found wanting. Smith departs to summon doctor, leaving me with Trape. Whereupon I'm rushed out of the place --"

"But what happens when Smith comes back?"

"Exactly. . . . No, that's easy enough. Trape returns to bewildered Smith, explains that I revived and pushed off. Maybe I saw a man I had to talk to about a dog, or anything like that. Apologies, thanks, and so forth. . . .Well, where do they take me? Answer: the Luxor, of course-Abdul was watching me through field glasses all the time I was on Stride's deck. That's all right till --"

"But there are holes everywhere!" she protested. "Suppose anyone saw him carrying you away?"

The Saint's keen blue eyes flicked round the scene.

"Abdul's a clever man-he doesn't forget much. There's a donkey and jingle two yards away, isn't there? And probably Trape hired it for the occasion. He could also have a sack-and I become cold potatoes. Down to the harbour-into a boat-there'd be no hurry. Once he had me in the cart he could leave me there for hours if it was good dope. And even when I was missing for good, his alibi would hold water. I don't say there was no risk, but it could have been done. And Abdul would be the man to do it. What I want to know is what the scheme is now that I haven't drunk the beer. Those two birds have been here a fort­night, so they were put here for some other job. Have they finished that job, and are they free to get away? I expect they'd have to consult Abdul, and Abdul wouldn't approve of bungling. I haven't seen them come out of the hotel, though I expect they could work round the back of the town-"

He was still trying to frame his thoughts aloud, but actually the thread of them was racing away ahead of his voice. And a new light dawned on him at the same moment. His fingers clamped on Patricia's wrist.

"Organization-that's what it is! Gee, I'm as slow as a village concert today!"

In another second he was on his feet and sprinting back to the bar. He entered it from the path as Mr. Smithson Smith came in at the other end.

"What have you decided to do about all this un­pleasantness?" asked the Saint; and the manager put his hands on his hips.

"Well, I've just seen the young fellow with the sprained ankle --"

The Saint's smile was fast and thin.

"I thought you would. And if you hadn't gone to see him, he'd have sent for you. Meanwhile the most extraordinary things go on happening to my beer. First a sleeping draught-then it grows legs!"

Mr. Smithson Smith looked down at the table rather blankly. The fly still reclined in the ashtray, oblivious of all excitement in its rigid stupor; but the glass of beer from which oblivion had overtaken it was gone.

"Someone may have been in here and moved it," began Mr. Smithson Smith hazily, and Simon showed his teeth.

"Someone has been in here and moved it-you can write that down in the family Bible. That sprained ankle was good enough for another stall. Did you go up and see the bloke off your own bat ?"

"As a matter of fact, he asked me to go up --"