The Saint and Mr Teal (Once More the Saint)

"And naturally you had to go. Organization, that's what it is. What did he say?"

"He said that his friend had told him what happened, and he couldn't understand it. He wanted to know if I should be asking them to leave."

"Did you say anything about doped beer?"

"No."

"Or flies?"

"No."

"Then that lets you out," said the Saint, with some relief. "If they think you don't know anything they won't worry about you. What did you say?"

"I said I should have to consider the matter."

"That," said the Saint grimly, "will be all right so long as you don't consider it too deeply."

Mr. Smithson Smith looked at him. The events he had witnessed, and that rattle of cross-examination, had left that gentle-voiced man utterly bewildered without shifting the foundations of his practical stand­point.

"Look here, Templar," he said directly. "I don't know what you or these two young men are playing at, but I'm in a responsible position. I can't take any risks with this hotel. Unless one of you can give me a satisfactory explanation, I think I shall have to tell the sergeant as much as I know, and leave him to deal with it."

Simon pondered for a moment; and then he nodded.

"That's obviously your duty, and I think it would be better from every point of view if you did it. May I go up to Trape's room and see if he'll speak to me ? I don't know if he'll accept an apology, but if he did it might save a little scandal."

He knew that he was taking rather an unfair ad­vantage, but the idea was one that he had to follow. The bait was tempting; and Mr. Smithson Smith, with the interests of his employers at heart and no conception of the depths of duplicity to which Simon Templar could sink when it was necessary, could scarcely refuse it. Simon obtained permission, and the number of the room which the two respectable-looking young men were sharing, and went upstairs with as much consolation as he could derive from the knowledge that if his plan went through successfully the victims would be most unlikely to complain to the management. If he were caught in the act, of course, he would find himself ten times more unpopular with the controlling powers of that respectable hotel than he was already; but the Saint had an unshakable faith in his guardian angels.

He knocked on the door and went in with the fore­finger of his right hand prodding out the shape of his trouser pocket in an ostentatious untruth. Both the respectable-looking young men were there.

"Put your hands up, and don't even think of shout­ing," he said genially. "You'd only give the chambermaids hysterics."

For a moment the two young men were speechless.

"Sorry to arrive so late, boys," Simon went on in the same friendly tone. "I should have been here long ago, but your organization was so slick it took me a little while to catch up with you. I congratulate you on getting rid of the evidence of that doped beer so smartly. We gather that you haven't yet told Abdul about our mutual misunderstanding. I guess you were wise-he wouldn't have been very sympathetic, and you had lots of time to take a second shot at me."

Their faces gave him confirmation. And then Mr. Trape, who was nearest, brought himself a couple of paces nearer, with his head twisted viciously on one side.

"Why not, Templar?" he said. "You wouldn't dare to shoot here."

"Maybe you're right, Eric," admitted the Saint, with astonishing meekness, and removed his hand from his empty pocket. "But then it mightn't be necessary-considering the evidence you've got on your ceiling."

He glanced upwards as he spoke; and Mr. Trape would not have been human if he had not followed that compelling gaze. He also glanced upwards, and in so doing he arranged his chin at an angle that could not have been posed better. Simon's fist shot up to the inviting mark, and impacted with a crisp click. . . .

The Saint had been long enough in the game to know that even a modest two to one is bigger odds than any sane man takes on for his health, and at that mo­ment he was feeling more hurried than heroic. Mr. Trape was sinking limply towards the carpet before his companion realized that he was left to carry the banner alone, and by that time it was a bit late for realizations. The second respectable-looking young man was only beginning to scramble up off the bed when the Saint's flying leap caught him irresistibly round the shoulders and hurled his face mufflingly back into the pillow; then Simon aimed his fist in a scientifically merciless jolt to the nape of the exposed neck.