several
disinterested visitors can vouch for that—including a
member of the local police whose name, believe it or not, is Reginald. And I know I’m the hell of a driver, but even I can’t
drive ninety-five miles in fifty-three minutes over the
antediluvian cart tracks that pass for roads in this country.”
Over Chief Inspector Teal’s
ruddy features smeared the same expression that must have passed over the face
of Sisyphus when, having at last heaved his rock nearly
to the top of the hill, it turned round and rolled back
again to the bottom. In it was the same chaotic
blend of dismay, despair, agonized weariness and
sickening incredulity.
He knew that the Saint must
be telling the truth. He didn’t have to take a step
to verify it although that would be done later as a matter
of strict routine. But the Saint had never wasted time on an
alibi that couldn’t be checked to the last comma. How it
was done, Teal never knew; if he had been a superstitious man he would
have suspected witchcraft. But it was done,
and had been done, too often for him
not to recognize every brush stroke of the tech nique. And once again he knew that his insane triumph had been premature—that the Saint was slipping through
his fingers for what seemed like the
ten thousandth time… .
He bent his pathetically
weary eyes on the body again, as if that at least might
take pity on him and provide him with the inspiration for a
comeback. And a sudden dull flare of breathless
realization went through him.
“Look!” he
almost yelped.
The Saint looked.
“Messy sort of
business, isn’t it ?” he said chattily. “Some of these hoodlums have no respect for the furniture. There ought to be
a correspondence course in Good Manners for Murderers.”
“That blood,”
Teal said incoherently. “It’s drying …”
He went down clumsily on
his knees beside the body, fumbled over it, and
peered at the stain on the carpet. Then he got slowly
to his feet, and his hot, resentful eyes burned
on the Saint with a feverish light.
“This man has been
dead for from three, to six hours,” he
said. “You could have gone to Anford and come back in that time!”
“I’m sorry,” said
the Saint regretfully.
“What for?”
Teal’s voice was a hoarse
bark.
Simon smiled.
“Because I spent all
the morning in Anford.”
“What were you doing
there?”
“I was at an
inquest.”
“Whose inquest?”
“Some poor blighter by
the name of John Kennet.”
“Do you mean the
foreign secretary’s son—the man who was killed in that
country-house fire?” Teal asked sharply.
Simon regarded him
benevolently.
“How you do keep up
with the news, Claud,” he murmured admiringly. “Sometimes I feel
quite hopeful about you. It’s not often, but it’s so
cheering when it happens. A kind of warm glow comes
over me—— ”
“What were you doing
at that inquest?” Teal said torridly .
The Saint moved his hands.
“Giving evidence. I
was the hero of the proceedings, so I got nicely chewed
up by the coroner for a reward. You’ll read all about it in the evening papers.
I hate to disappoint you, dear old weasel, but
I’m afraid I’ve been pretty well in the public eye since
about half-past ten.”
Simon struck his lighter
and made the delayed kindling of his cigarette.
“So what with one
thing and another, Claud,” he said, “I’m
afraid you’re going to have to let me go.”
Chief Inspector Teal barred
his way. The leaden bitter ness of defeat was
curdling in his stomach, but there was a
sultry smoulder in his eyes that was more relentless and dangerous than his first unimpeded blaze of wrath. He might have suffered ten thousand failures, but he had never given up. And now there was a grim lourd determination in him that tightened his teeth crushingly on his battered scrap of
spearmint.
“You still haven’t
told me what you’re doing here,” he said
stolidly.
Simon Templar trickled
smoke through momentarily sober lips.
“I came to
disinterested visitors can vouch for that—including a
member of the local police whose name, believe it or not, is Reginald. And I know I’m the hell of a driver, but even I can’t
drive ninety-five miles in fifty-three minutes over the
antediluvian cart tracks that pass for roads in this country.”
Over Chief Inspector Teal’s
ruddy features smeared the same expression that must have passed over the face
of Sisyphus when, having at last heaved his rock nearly
to the top of the hill, it turned round and rolled back
again to the bottom. In it was the same chaotic
blend of dismay, despair, agonized weariness and
sickening incredulity.
He knew that the Saint must
be telling the truth. He didn’t have to take a step
to verify it although that would be done later as a matter
of strict routine. But the Saint had never wasted time on an
alibi that couldn’t be checked to the last comma. How it
was done, Teal never knew; if he had been a superstitious man he would
have suspected witchcraft. But it was done,
and had been done, too often for him
not to recognize every brush stroke of the tech nique. And once again he knew that his insane triumph had been premature—that the Saint was slipping through
his fingers for what seemed like the
ten thousandth time… .
He bent his pathetically
weary eyes on the body again, as if that at least might
take pity on him and provide him with the inspiration for a
comeback. And a sudden dull flare of breathless
realization went through him.
“Look!” he
almost yelped.
The Saint looked.
“Messy sort of
business, isn’t it ?” he said chattily. “Some of these hoodlums have no respect for the furniture. There ought to be
a correspondence course in Good Manners for Murderers.”
“That blood,”
Teal said incoherently. “It’s drying …”
He went down clumsily on
his knees beside the body, fumbled over it, and
peered at the stain on the carpet. Then he got slowly
to his feet, and his hot, resentful eyes burned
on the Saint with a feverish light.
“This man has been
dead for from three, to six hours,” he
said. “You could have gone to Anford and come back in that time!”
“I’m sorry,” said
the Saint regretfully.
“What for?”
Teal’s voice was a hoarse
bark.
Simon smiled.
“Because I spent all
the morning in Anford.”
“What were you doing
there?”
“I was at an
inquest.”
“Whose inquest?”
“Some poor blighter by
the name of John Kennet.”
“Do you mean the
foreign secretary’s son—the man who was killed in that
country-house fire?” Teal asked sharply.
Simon regarded him
benevolently.
“How you do keep up
with the news, Claud,” he murmured admiringly. “Sometimes I feel
quite hopeful about you. It’s not often, but it’s so
cheering when it happens. A kind of warm glow comes
over me—— ”
“What were you doing
at that inquest?” Teal said torridly .
The Saint moved his hands.
“Giving evidence. I
was the hero of the proceedings, so I got nicely chewed
up by the coroner for a reward. You’ll read all about it in the evening papers.
I hate to disappoint you, dear old weasel, but
I’m afraid I’ve been pretty well in the public eye since
about half-past ten.”
Simon struck his lighter
and made the delayed kindling of his cigarette.
“So what with one
thing and another, Claud,” he said, “I’m
afraid you’re going to have to let me go.”
Chief Inspector Teal barred
his way. The leaden bitter ness of defeat was
curdling in his stomach, but there was a
sultry smoulder in his eyes that was more relentless and dangerous than his first unimpeded blaze of wrath. He might have suffered ten thousand failures, but he had never given up. And now there was a grim lourd determination in him that tightened his teeth crushingly on his battered scrap of
spearmint.
“You still haven’t
told me what you’re doing here,” he said
stolidly.
Simon Templar trickled
smoke through momentarily sober lips.
“I came to
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