Featuring the Saint (21 page)

“Not if it was about Miles.”

“Quite! And it is about Miles. So we’d have a first-class row -and what good would that do? As it is, we’re getting damned near it. So why not let it go?”

“You’ve made suggestions—”

“Of course I have,” agreed the Saint wearily. “And now I’m going to make some more. Lose your temper if you must, Nigel, old dear; but promise me two things first: promise you’ll hang on to those shares, and propose to Moyna to-night.She’ll accept-I guarantee it. With lots of love and kisses, yours faithfully.”

The youngster’s jaw tightened.

“I think you’re raving,” he said. “But we’re going to have this out. What have you got to say about Miles?”

The Saint’s sigh was as full of patience and long-suffering as the Saint could make it. He really was trying to be patient; but he knew that he hadn’t a hope of convincing Nigel Perry. And to the Saint it was all so plain. He wasn’t a bit surprised at the sudden blossoming of the story: it had happened in the way these things always happened, in the way he subconsciously expected them to happen. He had taken the blossoming in his stride; it was all infinitely past and over to him-so infinitely past and over that he had ceased to think about coincidences. And he sighed.

“I’ve got nothing to say about Miles.”

“You were saying—”

“Forget it, old dear. Now, will you do what I asked you to do about Moyna?”

“That’s my business. Why should you want to dictate to me about it?”

“And as for those shares,” continued the Saint calmly, “will you—”

“For the last time,” said Perry grimly, “will you explain yourself?”

Simon looked at him over a cigarette and a lighted match, and then through a trailing streamer of smoke; and Simon shrugged.

“Right!” he said. “I will. But don’t forget that we agreed it was a waste of time. You won’t believe me. You’re the sort that wouldn’t. I respect you for it, but it makes you a damned fool all the same.”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you remember that fellow who was killed at Brooklands yesterday, driving with Miles Hallin?”

“I’ve read about it.”

“He was a friend of mine. Over a year ago he told Miles Hallin about some dud shares. You bought them. Under a week ago he met Hallin again and told him the shares weren’t so dud. Now Hallin’s going to take the shares back off you. He killed poor old Teddy because Teddy knew the story-and Teddy was great on telling his stories. If Hallin had known that the man he saw with Teddy knew you, I should probably have had my funeral first. Miles is such a damned good chap. ‘If it’s a matter of Ł s. d.,’ he’d have said, ‘I’d like you to start all square.’”

“By God, Templar—”

“Hush! … Deducing back from that joke to the joke about another gold mine—”

Perry stepped forward, with a flaming face.

“It’s a lie!”

“Sure it is. We agreed about that before I started, if you recall the dialogue… . Where was I? Oh, yes. Deducing back from that joke—”

“I’d like Miles to hear some of this,” Perry said through his teeth.

“So would I,” murmured the Saint. “I told you I wanted to find him. If you see him first, you may tell him all about it. Give him my address.” The Saint yawned. “Now may I go, sweetheart?”

He stood up, his cigarette tilted up in the corner of his mouth and his hands in his pockets; and Perry stood aside.

“You’re welcome to go,” Perry said. “And if you ever try to come back I’ll have you thrown out.”

Simon nodded.

“I’ll remember that when I feel in need of some exercise,” he remarked. And then he smiled. For a moment he gripped the boy’s arm.

“Don’t forget about Moyna,” he said.

Then he crossed the landing and went down the stairs; and Nigel Perry, silent in the doorway, watched him go.

The Saint went down slowly. He was really sorry about it all, though he had known it was inevitable. At least, he had made it inevitable. He was aware that he asked for most of the trouble that came to him-in many ways. But that couldn’t be helped. In the end …

He was on the last flight when a man who was running up from the hall nearly cannoned into him.

“Sorry,” said the man.

“Not at all,” said the Saint politely.

And then he recognized the man, and stopped him with a hand on his sleeve.

“How’s the trade in death?” murmured the Saint.

Miles Hallin turned, staring; and then he suddenly knew where he had seen the Saint before. For an instant the recognition flared in his eyes; then his face became a mask of indignation.

“What the devil do you mean?” he demanded.

Simon sighed. He always seemed to have something to sigh about in those days.

“I’m getting so tired of that question,” he sighed. “Why don’t you try it on Nigel? Perhaps he doesn’t have so much of it as I do.”

He turned, and continued on his way. As he opened the front door he heard Hallin resuming his ascent at a less boisterous speed, and smiled gently to himself.

It was late, and the street outside was dark and practically deserted. But in front of the house stood an immense shining two-seater that could only have belonged to Miles Hallin.

For a space of seconds the Saint regarded it, fingering his chin, at first thoughtfully, and then with a secret devil of merriment puckering the corners of his eyes.

Then he went down the steps,
He found the tool box in a moment. And then, with loving care, he proceeded to remove the nuts that secured the offside front wheel… .

Two minutes later, with the wheel-brace stowed away again as he had found it, and the nuts in his pocket, he was sauntering leisurely homewards, humming to the stars.

4
The Saint was in his bath when Inspector Teal arrived in Upper Berkeley Mews the next morning; but he presented himself in a few moments arrayed in a superb pair of crepe-de-Chine pajamas and a dressing gown that would have made the rainbow look like something left over from a sale of second hand mourning.

Mr. Teal eyed him with awe.

“Where did you hire that outfit?” he inquired.

Simon took a cigarette.

“Have you come here to exchange genial backchat,” he murmured, “or is it business? I have an awful suspicion that it’s business.”

“It is business,” said Mr. Teal.

“Sorry,” said the Saint, “my office hours are twelve noon to midday.”

Teal shifted his gum across to the east side of his mouth. “What’s your grouse against Hallin?” he asked.

“Hallin? Who’s Hallin? Two aitches.”

“Miles Hallin’s car was wrecked last night,” said Teal deliberately.

The Saint raised his eyebrows.

“Really? Was he drunk, or did he lend the divisional surgeon a fiver?”

“The offside front wheel of his car came off when he was driving down Park Lane,” said Teal patiently. “He was driving pretty fast, and he swerved into a taxi. He ought to have been killed.”

“Wasn’t he?” said the Saint.

“He wasn’t. What have you got to say about it?”

“Well, I think it’s a great pity.”

“A great pity he wasn’t killed?”

“Yes. Probably he wanted to die. He’s been trying to long enough, hasn’t he? … And yet it mightn’t have been his fault. That’s the worst of these cheap cars. They fall apart if you sneeze in them. Of course, he might have had a cold. Do you think he had a cold?” asked the Saint earnestly.

The detective closed his eyes.

“When Hallin looked at the car,” Teal explained, “he found that someone had removed the nuts that ought to have been keeping the wheel on.”

The Saint smoothed his hair.

“Well, really, dear old broccoli,” he drawled, with a pained expression, “is that all you’ve come to see me about? Are you
going to make a habit of coming to me to air your woes about
everything that happens in London? You know, I’m awfully
afraid you’re getting into the way of thinking I’m some sort of
criminal. Teal, you must not think that of me!”

“I know all about last night,” Teal replied, without altering his weary tone. “I’ve already seen Perry.”

“And what did Perry tell you?”

“He told me you said you were going to kill Hallin.”

“Beer, beer!-I mean, dear, dear!” said the Saint. “Of course he was a bit squiffy–”

Teal’s eyes opened with a suddenness that was almost startling.

“See here, Templar,” he said, “it’s time you and me had a straight talk.”

“I beg your pardon?” said the Saint.

“You and I,” said Teal testily. “I know we’ve had a lot of scraps in the past, and I know a lot of funny things have happened since then. I don’t grudge you your success. In your way, you’ve helped me a lot; but at the same time you’ve caused disturbances. I know you’ve had a pardon, and we don’t want to bother you if we can help it, but you’ve got to do your share. That show of yours down at Tenterden, for instance-that wasn’t quite fair, was it?”

“It wasn’t,” said the Saint generously. “But I’m afraid it appealed to my perverted sense of humour.”

Mr. Teal rose ponderously.

“Then do I take it you’re going on as before?”

“I’m afraid you do,” said the Saint. “For the present, any way. You see, I’ve got rather a down on Miles Hallin. He killed a friend of mine the other day.”

“He what?”

“At Brooklands. Since you’re making so many inquiries about funny things that happen to cars, why don’t you investigate that crash? I don’t know if there was enough left of Teddy Everest to make an investigation profitable; but if it could be done, I expect you’d find that he was thoroughly doped when he got into that car. I expect you’d find, if you were a very clever investigator-or a very clever clairvoyant, like I am-that the dope took effect while they were driving. Teddy just went to sleep. Then it would be quite an easy matter for an expert driver like Hallin to crash the car without hurting himself. And, of course, it could always catch fire.”

Teal looked at him curiously.

“Is that the truth?” he asked.

“No,” said the Saint. “I’m just making it up to amuse you. Good-morning.”

He felt annoyed with Chief Inspector Teal that day. He felt annoyed with a lot of things-the story in general, and Miles Hallin in particular. There were many things that were capable of annoying the Saint in just that way; and when Mr. Teal had departed the Saint sat down and smoked three cigarettes with entirely unnecessary violence.

Patricia Holm, coming in just after the third of these cigarettes had been hurled through the open window, read his mood at once.

“What is it this time?” she asked.

Simon broke a match into small pieces as if it had done him a grievous injury.

“Teal, Nigel Perry, Miles Hallin,” he answered, comprehensively. “Also, an old joke about death.”

It was some time before she secured a coherent explanation. The incidents of the night before she had already heard; but he had stated them without adornment, and his manner had encouraged the postponement of questions. Now he told her, in the same blunt manner, about Teal’s visit; but she had to wait until after lunch, when the coffee cups were in front of them and the Saint was gently circulating a minute quantity of Napoleon brandy around the bowl of an enormous glass, before she could get him to expound his grievance.

“When I first spoke about Miles Hallin-you remember?- you thought I was raving. I don’t want to lay on any of the ‘I told you so’ stuff; but now you know what you do know, I want you to try and appreciate my point. I know you’ll say what anyone else would say-that the whole thing simply boils down to the most unholy fluke. I’m saying it doesn’t. The point is that I’m going back far beyond that share business- even beyond poor old Teddy. I’m going back to Nigel’s brother, and that little story of the great open spaces that I’ve heard so much about. I tell you, this just confirms what I thought about that.”

“You didn’t say you thought anything about it,” Patricia remarked.

“I wasn’t asking to be called a fool,” said the Saint. “I knew that as things stood I had rather less chance of convincing any sane person than I’d have of climbing the Matterhorn with my hands tied behind me and an elephant in each pocket. But you ought to see the joke now. What would you say was the most eccentric thing about a man who could not die?”

Patricia smiled at him patiently.

“I shouldn’t know what to say,” she answered truthfully.

“Why,” said the Saint, with a kind of vast impatience, “what else should be the most eccentric thing about him but the fact that he can die, and always could? Don’t you under stand that whatever jokes people make about death, they never make that kind of joke? There are impossibilities that are freakish and funny, and impossibilities that are freakish and unfunny; pigs with wings belong to the first kind, but men who cannot die belong to the second kind. Now, what could induce a man to pursue that second kind of joke with such a terrible eagerness?”

The girl shrugged.

“It’s beyond me, Simon.”

“The answer,” said the Saint, “is that he knew it wasn’t true. Because he’d once looked death in the face-slow and deliberate death, not the kind that comes with a rush. And he found he was afraid of it.”

“Then that story about Nigel’s brother—”

“Perhaps we shall never know the truth of it. But I’m as certain as I’ve ever been about anything that the story we’re told isn’t the truth. I’m certain that that was the time when Miles Hallin discovered, not that he could not die, but that he couldn’t bear to die. And he saved his life at the expense of his partner.”

“But he’s risked his life so often since—”

“I wonder how much of that is the unvarnished truth-how much he engineered, and how much he adorned his stories so as to give the impression he wanted to give? … Because I think Miles Hallin is a man in terror. Once, he yielded to his fear; and after that his fear became the keynote of his life, which a fear will become if you yield to it. And he found an other fear-the fear of being found out. He was afraid of his own legend. He had to bolster it up, he had to pile miracle upon miracle-only to make one miracle seem possible. He had to risk losing his life in order to save it.”

“But why should he have killed Teddy?”

The Saint took another cigarette. He gazed across the restaurant with eyes that saw other things.