The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

"Beg pardon, Mr. Templar?"

"You heard me."

The man shifted his eyes nervously, and giggled.

"Wh-what?"

"I didn't ask you to give an imitation of a consumptive Wyandotte laying a bad egg," said the Saint patiently. "I asked you how much you wanted for a black eye."

"You want to give me a black eye, Mr. Templar?"

"Very much indeed."

"What for?"

"Five pounds."

"What for after that?"

"Do you know how to get in touch with the Angels?"

Slinky shook his head.

"Never mind that," said the Saint. "I guess they'll hear about it, if you carry it round and talk a lot about how I gave it to you—without mentioning the five pounds. Tell the world how I beat you up and tried to make you howl on the Angels, and how you're going to get even with me one day. The Angels don't like me, and they'd be glad to find a man who hates me as much as you're going to. If we're lucky, you'll find yourself enlisted in the gang in less than no time. Then you keep me posted."

"You mean," said Slinky, "you want me to be your nose?"

"That's the idea."

Dyson sighed.

"I've never been a nose," he said solemnly. "No, Mr. Templar, it can't be done."

"You will be paid," said the Saint deliberately, "twenty pounds' cash for every genuine piece of news you send in about what the Angels are going to do next and how they're going to do it."

Slinky closed his eyes sanctimoniously.

"My conscience," he said, "wouldn't allow me to do a thing like that, Mr. Templar."

"You'll remember," the Saint reminded him persua­sively, "that I could get you sent down for six months' hard right now."

Dyson blinked.

"If it wasn't for my principles," he said sadly, "I'd be very happy to oblige you, Mr. Templar."

Eventually, when he found that the Saint had no inten­tion of raising his price, except in the matter of ten pounds instead of five for the black eye, he managed to choke down his conscience and accept. Simon arranged for him to be brought before the magistrate again the next morning, when he would be released, and started back to Scotland Yard in a taxi. But on the way he had an idea.

"The machine gun," he reflected, "was Pinky's vol­untary. Weald would have thought of the prussic acid in the milk. We're still waiting for Jill's contribution—and it might be very cunning to meet it halfway."

The inspiration, duly considered, appealed to him; and he gave fresh instructions to the driver.