The Saint in London: Originally Entitled the Misfortunes of Mr. Teal by Leslie Charteris Page B

always ready to begin, at any hour, whenever adventure offered.
    At his side Mr. Hoppy Uniatz, resplendent in a tight-waisted tuxedo and a shirtfront pinned together with a diamond stud, yawned cavernously and trod on the butt of his cigar. His was a less resiliently romantic soul, and he felt healthily depressed.
    “Say, boss,” he remarked querulously, “is dat what dey calls a big night in dis city?”
    “I’m afraid it is,” said the Saint.
    Mr. Uniatz had none of that ascetic nobility of character which enables the Englishman to suffer his legislators gladly. He spat mournfully into the road.
    “Chees,” he said, with a gloomy emulsion of awe and disgust, “it ain’t human. De last joint we’re in, dey snatch off all de glasses becos it’s twelve-toity. We pay two bucks each to get into dis joint, an’ then we gotta pay five bucks fer a jug of lemonade wit’ a spoonful of gin in it; an’ all they got is a t’ree-piece band an’ no floor show. An’ de guys sits an’ takes it! Why, if any joint had tried to gyp guys like dat in New York, even when we had prohibition, dey’d of wrecked it in two minutes.” Mr. Uniatz sighed and reached for. the only apparent conclusion, unaware that other philosophers had reached it long before him: “Well, maybe dem Limeys ain’t human, at dat.”
    “You forget that this is a free country, Hoppy,” murmured the Saint gently.
    He lighted his cigarette and blew out a wreath of smoke at the stars. A few spots of rain were beginning to fall from a bank of cloud that was climbing up from the west, and he scanned the street for a taxi to take them home. As if it had been conjured up in answer to his wish, a cab swung round the corner of Burlington Gardens and chugged towards them; and the Saint watched its approach hopefully. It was fifteen yards away when he saw that the flag was down, and shrugged ruefully. The setback was only an apt epilogue to a consistently inauspicious evening.
    “We’d better walk,” he said.
    They turned down towards Piccadilly; and then, as they fell into step, he heard the rattle of the taxi die down and looked back over his shoulder. It had stopped outside the entrance of the Barnyard Club.
    The Saint caught Hoppy’s arm.
    “Hold on,” he said. “The luck’s changed. We stay dry after all.”
    They strolled back towards the spot where this minor miracle stood panting metallically while its passenger alighted. It was a girl, he saw as she stood, fumbling with her bag.
    “I’m afraid I haven’t anything smaller,” she was saying; and he heard that her voice was low and pleasant.
    The driver grunted and climbed down laboriously from his box. Standing in the gutter, he unbuttoned his overcoat, his coat, his waistcoat, his cardigan, and part of his shirt, and began a slow and painful search through the various strange and inaccessible places where London taxi drivers secrete their small change. From scattered areas of his anatomy he collected over a period of time an assortment of coins and looked at them under the light.
    “Sorry, miss, I can’t do it,” he said at length and began phlegmatically to dress himself again.
    “I’ll get change inside,” said the girl.
    But Simon Templar had other ideas. They had been growing on him while the driver disrobed, and the Saint had always been an opportunist. He liked the girl’s voice and her slim figure and the way she wore her clothes; and that was enough for a beginning.
    “Excuse me,” he said. “Can I help?” She looked up with a start, and for the first time he saw her face clearly. It was small and oval, with a fascinatingly tip-tilted nose and a mouth that would smile easily; her deep brown hair, smooth and straight to the curled ends, framed her face in a soft halo of darkness. But even while he saw her brown eyes regarding him hesitantly he wondered if the dim light had deceived him—or if he had really seen, as he had thought he saw, a leap of sudden fear in them when she