The Saint in London: Originally Entitled the Misfortunes of Mr. Teal by Leslie Charteris Page A
Authors: Leslie Charteris
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Simon prompted him gently.
“Ah—yes,” said the Honourable Leo chokingly. “Buy it. Ah—of course.”
“At once,” said Lord Iveldown quaveringly, taking out his checkbook.
“Ah—naturally,” moaned the Honourable Leo, feeling for his pen. “At once.”
“Two hundred thousand pounds, was it not, Mr. Templar?” said Lord Iveldown.
The Saint shook his head.
“The price has gone up a bit,” he said. “It’ll cost you two hundred and fifty thousand now—I need a new hat, and the Simon Templar Foundation isn’t intended to pay for that.”
With his head swimming and the blood drumming in his ears, Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal watched the checks being made out and blotted and handed over. He would never really know how the trick was turned. He only knew that Simon Templar was back; and anything could happen… .
The parting words with which the Saint shepherded the gathering out of the door did nothing to enlighten him.
“By the way, Leo,” said the Saint, “you must remember to tell Neville to send on his share. If you toddle straight back home you’ll find him waiting for you. He’s standing guard over the Rose of Peckham with a great big gun—and for some reason or other he thinks Snowdrop is me.”
“Sir Humbolt Quipp came in and left a check,” said Patricia Holm uncertainly.
Simon took it and added it to his collection. He fanned out the four precious scraps of paper and brought the Honourable Leo Farwill’s contribution to the top. Then he removed this one from the others and gazed at it for a long time with a rather rueful frown.
“I’m afraid we let Leo off too lightly,” he said.
“When I begin to think what a splendiferous orgy of Teal-baiting we could have had with the Home Secretary permanently under our thumb, I almost wonder whether the Simon Templar Foundation is worth it.”
But later on he brightened.
“It would have made life damned dull,” he said.
II
THE HIGHER FINANCE
.
I
One day some literary faker with more time to waste than I have may write a precious monograph about Doors. He will point out that Doors are both entrances and exits, and draw pseudo-philosophical conclusions about Life and Death. He will drag in the Door which American diplomats always insist on keeping Open, except when they are inside. He may turn aside to toy fancifully with the Door-consciousness of Wolves. He will inevitably mention some famous Doors; such as the Great Door of the cathedral of Poillissy-sur-Loire, on which Voltaire scribbled a rude epigram addressed to the Pope; the Golden Door of the temple of Pashka in Allahabad, on which are engraved 777 sacred cows; the Door of Cesare Borgia’s guest house, which drove daggers into the backs of everyone who passed through it; and so forth. Probably he will unscrupulously invent all this part out of his own imagination, exactly as I have done, but nobody will be any the wiser.
It is difficult, however, to see how the Door of the Barnyard Club, in London, could find a place in any such catalogue, being made of gimcrack deal and having no history or peculiarities. And yet, when it opened in the small hours of a certain morning to let Simon Templar out into Bond Street, it was for that brief moment the Door of Adventure.
Simon Templar stood at the edge of the sidewalk and put a thin cigarette between his lips, letting the cool air of the night play on his forehead and freshen his lungs; but there was no indication that freshening was his vital need. His dark rakish face seemed to have walked straight out of the open windswept places of the earth rather than out of the strained stuffy atmosphere of a night club, and his gay blue eyes could not have been clearer and keener at any other hour of the day. His strong lawless mouth had a curve of half-amused expectancy, as if his day were just beginning and he had a long list of diverting things to do; but there was nothing on his mind. It was only that Simon Templar’s days were
“Ah—yes,” said the Honourable Leo chokingly. “Buy it. Ah—of course.”
“At once,” said Lord Iveldown quaveringly, taking out his checkbook.
“Ah—naturally,” moaned the Honourable Leo, feeling for his pen. “At once.”
“Two hundred thousand pounds, was it not, Mr. Templar?” said Lord Iveldown.
The Saint shook his head.
“The price has gone up a bit,” he said. “It’ll cost you two hundred and fifty thousand now—I need a new hat, and the Simon Templar Foundation isn’t intended to pay for that.”
With his head swimming and the blood drumming in his ears, Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal watched the checks being made out and blotted and handed over. He would never really know how the trick was turned. He only knew that Simon Templar was back; and anything could happen… .
The parting words with which the Saint shepherded the gathering out of the door did nothing to enlighten him.
“By the way, Leo,” said the Saint, “you must remember to tell Neville to send on his share. If you toddle straight back home you’ll find him waiting for you. He’s standing guard over the Rose of Peckham with a great big gun—and for some reason or other he thinks Snowdrop is me.”
“Sir Humbolt Quipp came in and left a check,” said Patricia Holm uncertainly.
Simon took it and added it to his collection. He fanned out the four precious scraps of paper and brought the Honourable Leo Farwill’s contribution to the top. Then he removed this one from the others and gazed at it for a long time with a rather rueful frown.
“I’m afraid we let Leo off too lightly,” he said.
“When I begin to think what a splendiferous orgy of Teal-baiting we could have had with the Home Secretary permanently under our thumb, I almost wonder whether the Simon Templar Foundation is worth it.”
But later on he brightened.
“It would have made life damned dull,” he said.
II
THE HIGHER FINANCE
.
I
One day some literary faker with more time to waste than I have may write a precious monograph about Doors. He will point out that Doors are both entrances and exits, and draw pseudo-philosophical conclusions about Life and Death. He will drag in the Door which American diplomats always insist on keeping Open, except when they are inside. He may turn aside to toy fancifully with the Door-consciousness of Wolves. He will inevitably mention some famous Doors; such as the Great Door of the cathedral of Poillissy-sur-Loire, on which Voltaire scribbled a rude epigram addressed to the Pope; the Golden Door of the temple of Pashka in Allahabad, on which are engraved 777 sacred cows; the Door of Cesare Borgia’s guest house, which drove daggers into the backs of everyone who passed through it; and so forth. Probably he will unscrupulously invent all this part out of his own imagination, exactly as I have done, but nobody will be any the wiser.
It is difficult, however, to see how the Door of the Barnyard Club, in London, could find a place in any such catalogue, being made of gimcrack deal and having no history or peculiarities. And yet, when it opened in the small hours of a certain morning to let Simon Templar out into Bond Street, it was for that brief moment the Door of Adventure.
Simon Templar stood at the edge of the sidewalk and put a thin cigarette between his lips, letting the cool air of the night play on his forehead and freshen his lungs; but there was no indication that freshening was his vital need. His dark rakish face seemed to have walked straight out of the open windswept places of the earth rather than out of the strained stuffy atmosphere of a night club, and his gay blue eyes could not have been clearer and keener at any other hour of the day. His strong lawless mouth had a curve of half-amused expectancy, as if his day were just beginning and he had a long list of diverting things to do; but there was nothing on his mind. It was only that Simon Templar’s days were
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