Alias the Saint (The Saint Series) by Charteris Leslie

Author:Charteris, Leslie [Charteris, Leslie]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2014-03-17T16:00:00+00:00

“Zoom! Boom! Ta-ra-ra!” aided and abetted Detective Duncarry with enthusiasm.

A waiter approached and whispered something in the Saint’s ear.

“Spill the rest for yourself, Dun, and get yourself hated,” said the Saint, saddling the American with the instrument of torture. “There’s an infuriated laundress outside, flourishing a club and my unpaid washing bill.”

He went through into the vestibule, and greeted Charles Barringer blithely.

“I came here because I found this address in my pocket, Mr Templar,” he said, holding out a scrap of paper.

“Sure. I put it there for you to find”. So you haven’t found Eileen yet?”

“I haven’t.”

“Have you mentioned her disappearance to the sleuth from Scotland Yard who’s watching over your welfare?”

Charles Barringer shook his head hopelessly. He looked strained and worried beyond his years; and suddenly the Saint gripped him by the shoulders, swung him round, and looked long and searchingly into his troubled brown eyes.

“Son,” he said, “don’t be too sure that you’re desperately wanted for killing Friste, because it isn’t true. I can’t deny that Teal’s alleged brain is running that way, but mine isn’t. And I’m also on the job, and I have a very good reason for knowing that you didn’t do it.”

He smiled encouragingly.

“Keep the stiff upper lip, old chap. If you like to hang around here a few minutes longer, I’ll get on the phone to Teal right away and tell him all about it. I’d toddle off with you myself, but I can’t abandon Duncarry, who’s getting happy and ready and willing to play the superb ass. If you like, I’ll fetch in your bloodhound as well, or he’ll be getting nervous. I promise you the poor boob isn’t the man-eating horror you think he is, and you may get quite sociable over a smoke and a glass of beer. He’s only holding down his job.”

“It’s a dirty job,” said the boy bitterly. “Why don’t they arrest me again, and get it over?”

The Saint hitched his shoulders.

“Search me. The intricacies of British law are beyond me. Leave it to Teal, and I’ll collect the sleuth.”

Simon moved on past the doorkeeper and beckoned the plain-clothes man across the road.

“Two friends of mine,” he said to the suspicious waiter. “Supply them with beer and cigarettes, and add the debt with Mr Duncarry’s to my death warrant.”

“Mr Duncarry has just ordered a magnum of champagne, sir.”

“He would,” said the Saint mournfully. “If I’d had any sense, I’d have made him a member for half a guinea and entitled him to pay for himself.”

He went to the telephone and asked for Teal’s private number. By this time, Chief Inspector Teal should either have retired to bed, or have been seated at the domestic fireside listening to the radio and putting innumerable threepences into the pockets of Mr Wrigley’s shareholders. The latter guess appeared to hit the bull’s-eye, for Teal himself answered the call, promptly.

“Oh, you,” he said, almost with a moan. “Oh, damn!”

“Glad you’re sitting up and taking notice, dear old Antipon. Eileen Wiltham has faded into the great unknown, so you’d better shed those carpet slippers and get busy.

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