The Saint and Mr. Teal (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

6

He was back at Warsash in another twenty minutes, and as he stepped out of his car beside the inn he was just able to catch a sight of the Seabird turning to race up towards the Hamble. Even while he paused to watch it for a moment, the bow wave sank down and the ship’s bows began to yaw round as she lost way. Simon grinned happily to himself, and went through to the dining-room.

He twitched his nostrils appreciatively at the aroma of crisping bacon which greeted him. Three hours in the fresh sea air after the sketchy meal he had swallowed at six a.m., plus a certain amount of useful exercise, had done their full share towards setting up his appetite to its ordinary matutinal proportions.

“I’ll have two fried eggs, lots of bacon, and about a quart of coffee,” he said to the waitress who had already served him with one breakfast that day. “After that, I might be able to toy with three more eggs, a pound of mushrooms, and a lot more bacon. Go out and tell them to kill the pig, Gladys.”

While at least part of his order was being executed he went to the telephone and put another call through to Patricia.

“Hullo, darling,” he said. “This is very late for you to be up.”

“I have been to bed,” said the girl.

“So have I,” murmured the Saint breezily. “But not for long. I don’t think this early rising is healthy—the prospect of it takes such a lot of kick out of the night before, and I hate having my morning tea by moonlight.”

“How did the fishing go?”

“Pretty well.” Simon glanced round him cautiously but there was no one within earshot. “When last observed, Brother Ronald was running into a lot of trouble. I ran all the oil out of his engines, and unless he thought of greasing them with his own perspiration they’ve seized up in a way that’ll take days to unstick. The Seabird won’t be making any more voyages for a while.”

Patricia laughed softly.

“When are you coming home, boy?”

“Well—this is Friday, isn’t it? I seem to remember that we have a date for lunch with Claud Eustace Teal. I’ll meet you at the Bruton at twelve-thirty.”

He went back to his second breakfast with the contented knowledge that another and very different conversation must have been seething over the London wire at about that time, and he was right.

Ronald Nilder did not think it expedient to go into details.

“The Saint caught me in the Solent, Goldman. He didn’t say it was him, but it couldn’t have been anyone else. He threw the guns overboard and beat me up.”

Tex Goldman had the gift of not wasting time on useless bad language.

“Get back here as quick as you can,” he said grimly. “I’ll have something waiting for the Saint.”

Simon Templar, however, had an equally valuable gift which had stood him in good stead before. On that Friday morning it worked at full pressure. He had a very clear conception of Tex Goldman’s psychology.

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