The Saint and Mr Teal (Once More the Saint)

The law on the Scilly Islands was represented by one Sergeant Hancock, a pensioner of the Coldstream Guards, who must have found his rank a very empty honour, for there were no common constables to salute him. In times of need he could call upon a force of eight specials recruited from among the islanders, but in normal times he had nothing to make him swollen-headed about his position. Nor did he show any signs of ever having suffered from a swollen head-a fact which made him one of the very few officers of the law whom Simon had ever been able to regard as even human. Possibly there was something in the air of the islands, that same something which makes the native islanders themselves the most friendly and hospitable people one could hope to meet, which had mellowed the character of an ex-sergeant-major to the man who had become, not only the head, but also the personal body and complete set of limbs, of the Scilly Islands Police; but certainly the Saint liked him. Simon had drunk beer with him, borrowed his fishing line and fished with it, and exchanged so many affable salutes with him that the acquaintance was in danger of becoming an historic one in the Saint's life.

"What is it, Sergeant?" asked the Saint cheerfully. "Have I been seen dropping banana peel in the streets or pulling faces at the mayor?"

"No, it's nothing like that. I want to know what's been going on up at Tregarthen's."

"Mr. Smith has seen you, has he?"

"Yes, he came down and told me about it. I went to have a talk with those two young men, but they'd just paid their bill and gone. Then I came looking for you."

Simon offered a cigarette.

"What did Smith tell you?"

"Well, sir, he told me that you were having a drink in the bar, and one of those fellows put dope in your beer, and you punched his nose. Then one of them came down and threw the beer away, so there was no evidence except a fly that Smith couldn't find. And Smith said you said something about Abdul Osman, which he said he thought might be a man who has a yacht over by Tresco."

The sergeant's pleasant face was puzzledly serious, as well it might be. Such things simply did not happen on his well-conducted island.

Simon lighted his cigarette and thought for a mo­ment. Abdul Osman was too big a fish for the net of a police force consisting of one man, and the only result of any interference from that official quarter would most likely be the unhappy decease of a highly amiable sergeant-a curiosity whom Simon definitely felt should be preserved for the nation. Also he recalled a story, that the sergeant had told him on their first meeting- a story so hilariously incredible that it surpassed any novelist's wildest flights of fantasy.

A previous holder of the office once arrested a man and took him to the village lock-up, only to find that he hadn't the keys of the lock-up with him.

"Stay here while I get my keys," said the worthy upholder of the law sternly; and that was the last they saw of their criminal.

While Simon did not doubt for a moment that Sergeant Hancock would be incapable of such a magnificent performance as that, his faith did not extend to the ability of a village lock-up to keep Abdul Osman inside and his shipload of satellites out.

"That's very nearly what happened, Sergeant," he said easily. "I think their idea was to rob the hotel and get away on the boat that afternoon. Smith wasn't drinking, so they couldn't drug him; but with me out of the way they'd have been two to one, and he wouldn't have stood much chance. They'd been staying in the hotel for a fortnight to get the lie of the land. I just hap­pened to notice what they'd done to my beer."

" But what was that about Abdul Osman ?"

"I think Smith can't have heard that properly. He was telling me some story about a man of that name, and it must have been on his mind. When I punched this bloke's face he threatened to call the police, and what I said was: 'Ask your pal what he thinks of the idea first.' Smith must have thought I said 'Ask Abdul.' "

The sergeant's face was gloomy.

"And you just punched his nose and let him get away! Why, if you'd only got hold of me-"

"But Smith did get hold of you."

"Oh, yes, he got hold of me after they'd gone. I had to go over and see a man over at the other end of the island about paying his rates, and Smith couldn't find me till it was too late. I can't be everywhere at once."

The Saint grinned sympathetically.

"Never mind. Come in here and drown it in drink."

"Well, sir, I don't mind if I do have just one. I don't think I'm supposed to be on duty just this minute."

They went into the bar and found the barman en­joying his evening shave-a peculiarity of his which the Saint had observed before, and which struck Simon as being very nearly the perfect illustration for a philos­ophy of the Futility of Effort.