The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

Simon slipped a hand in his pocket and brought out his wallet. From the wallet he took a piece of paper and unfolded it, holding it up before the assistant commis­sioner's eyes. It was a new five-pound note.

"Recognize it?" asked the Saint, in that very gentle tone. "Don't you hear its little voice chirruping to you and calling you Daddy?"

"It means nothing to me."

"But it was one of many which you had tied up in that deed box in your very ingenious desk, my pet. There must have been a couple of thousand pounds' worth all to­gether. . . . Oh, Cullis, did you forget what your old grandmother told you, and did you let your avarice get the better of your caution? You couldn't bring yourself to destroy them, and yet you didn't dare pay them into your bank or try to dispose of them in any other way."

Cullis  stiffened.

"And why do you think that was?" he asked quietly.

"Because," said the Saint deliberately, "the number of this note—which was the top one of the bunch I found in your desk—is the very next number after the last num­ber of the wad which was taken out of Sir Francis Tre­lawney's safe deposit, and which was traced back to Wald­stein. And when the matter comes to be investigated, I wouldn't mind betting that this note will be found to have been drawn out of Waldstein's bank at the very same time!" 

 

2

 

There was a long silence, tensed up almost to breaking point by the measured tick of a cabinet clock somewhere outside in the hall. And through that silence the Saint lounged at his ease against the revolving bookcase which he had selected for his support, and his bleak eyes rested unwaveringly on the assistant commissioner's face. Jill ' Trelawney lay still on the settee, and on the floor Duo­decimo Gugliemi groaned and rolled over; with his fin­gers twitching; there was no other movement.

For a space of five or six taut and significant seconds . . . and then a glimmer of the old Saintly mockery twinkled back into Simon Templar's gaze, and he laughed.

"Which is all very unfortunate for you—isn't it, Alger­non?" he drawled; and Cullis's mouth tightened up like a steel trap under his moustache.

"I see," he said softly.

"Cheers!" said the Saint. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

He helped himself to a cigarette from the box on the table and struck a match.

"So that's the yarn you propose to tell, is it?" said Cullis.