Read Online The Saint Goes On by Leslie Charteris - Free Book Online
Authors: Leslie Charteris
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hatched yet that could take me away by force without a good deal of commotion; and you know it. You’d get more publicity than a Hollywood divorce- or is that what you’re wanting?”
“I’m simply carrying out my orders––-“
“Whose orders?”
46
“That’s none of your business,” Pryke got out through his teeth.
“I think it is,” said the Saint mildly. “After all, I’m the blushing victim of this persecution. Besides, Desmond, I don’t believe you. I think you’re misguided. You’re behind the times. How long have you been here waiting for me?”
“I’m not here to be cross-examined by you,” spluttered the detective furiously.
“I’m not cross-examining you, Desmond. I’m trying to lead you into the paths of reason. But you don’t have to answer that one if it hurts. How long has this petunia-blossom been here, Sam?”
The janitor glanced mechanically at the clock.
“Since about four o’clock, sir.”
“Has it received any message-a telephone call, or anything like that?”
“No, sir.”
“Nobody’s come in and spoken to it?”
“No, sir.”
“In fact, it’s just been sitting around here all on its own-some, like the last rose of summer”
Junior Inspector Pryke thrust himself up between them, along the desk, till his chest was almost touching the Saint’s. His hands were thrust into his pockets so savagely that the coat was stretched down in long creases from his shoulders.
“Will you be quiet?” he blazed quiveringly. “I’ve stood asmuch as I can”
“As the bishop said to the actress.”
“Are you coming along with me,” fumed the detective, “or am I going to have you dragged out?”
Simon shook his head.
“You miss the idea, Desmond.” He tapped the other firmly on the lower chest with his forefinger, and raised his eyebrows. “Hullo,” he remarked, “your stomach hasn’t got nearly so much bounce in it as dear old Teal’s.”
“Never mind my stomach!” Pryke almost screamed.
“I don’t mind it,” said the Saint generously. “I admit I haven’t seen it in all its naked loveliness; but in its veiled state, at this distance, there seems to be nothing offensive about it.”
The noise that Pryke made can only be likened to that of a kettle coming to the boil.
“I’ll hear that another time,” he said. “Simon Templar, I am taking you into custody––”
“But I’m trying to show you that that’s exactly what you mustn’t do, Desmond,” said the Saint patiently. “It would be fatal. Here you are, a rising young officer on the threshold of your career, trying to pull a flivver that’ll set you back four years’ seniority. I can’t let you do it. Why don’t you curb the excessive zeal, Rosebud, and listen to reason? I can tell you exactly what’s happened.”
“I can tell you exactly what’s going to happen––—”
“It was like this,” continued the Saint, as if the interruption not merely fell on deaf ears, but had failed miserably in its effort to occur at all. “This guy Enderby was robbed, as you say. Or he thought he was. Or, still more exactly, his secretary thought he was. A bloke calling himself an insurance agent blew into the office, and breezed out again with a parcel of jools. On account of various complications, the secretary was led to believe that this insurance agent was a fake, and the jools had been pinched. Filled with the same misguided zeal that’s pulling the buttons of that horrible waistcoat of yours, Desmond, she called the police. Hearing of this, you come puffing round to see me, with your waistcoat bursting with pride and your brain addled with all the uncomplimentary fairy-tales that Claud Eustace Teal has told you about me.”
“Who said so?”
“I did. It’s a sort of clairvoyant gift of mine. But you must listen to the rest of it. You come blowing round here, and wait for me from four o’clock onwards. Pepped up with the idea of scoring a solo triumph, you haven’t said
“I’m simply carrying out my orders––-“
“Whose orders?”
46
“That’s none of your business,” Pryke got out through his teeth.
“I think it is,” said the Saint mildly. “After all, I’m the blushing victim of this persecution. Besides, Desmond, I don’t believe you. I think you’re misguided. You’re behind the times. How long have you been here waiting for me?”
“I’m not here to be cross-examined by you,” spluttered the detective furiously.
“I’m not cross-examining you, Desmond. I’m trying to lead you into the paths of reason. But you don’t have to answer that one if it hurts. How long has this petunia-blossom been here, Sam?”
The janitor glanced mechanically at the clock.
“Since about four o’clock, sir.”
“Has it received any message-a telephone call, or anything like that?”
“No, sir.”
“Nobody’s come in and spoken to it?”
“No, sir.”
“In fact, it’s just been sitting around here all on its own-some, like the last rose of summer”
Junior Inspector Pryke thrust himself up between them, along the desk, till his chest was almost touching the Saint’s. His hands were thrust into his pockets so savagely that the coat was stretched down in long creases from his shoulders.
“Will you be quiet?” he blazed quiveringly. “I’ve stood asmuch as I can”
“As the bishop said to the actress.”
“Are you coming along with me,” fumed the detective, “or am I going to have you dragged out?”
Simon shook his head.
“You miss the idea, Desmond.” He tapped the other firmly on the lower chest with his forefinger, and raised his eyebrows. “Hullo,” he remarked, “your stomach hasn’t got nearly so much bounce in it as dear old Teal’s.”
“Never mind my stomach!” Pryke almost screamed.
“I don’t mind it,” said the Saint generously. “I admit I haven’t seen it in all its naked loveliness; but in its veiled state, at this distance, there seems to be nothing offensive about it.”
The noise that Pryke made can only be likened to that of a kettle coming to the boil.
“I’ll hear that another time,” he said. “Simon Templar, I am taking you into custody––”
“But I’m trying to show you that that’s exactly what you mustn’t do, Desmond,” said the Saint patiently. “It would be fatal. Here you are, a rising young officer on the threshold of your career, trying to pull a flivver that’ll set you back four years’ seniority. I can’t let you do it. Why don’t you curb the excessive zeal, Rosebud, and listen to reason? I can tell you exactly what’s happened.”
“I can tell you exactly what’s going to happen––—”
“It was like this,” continued the Saint, as if the interruption not merely fell on deaf ears, but had failed miserably in its effort to occur at all. “This guy Enderby was robbed, as you say. Or he thought he was. Or, still more exactly, his secretary thought he was. A bloke calling himself an insurance agent blew into the office, and breezed out again with a parcel of jools. On account of various complications, the secretary was led to believe that this insurance agent was a fake, and the jools had been pinched. Filled with the same misguided zeal that’s pulling the buttons of that horrible waistcoat of yours, Desmond, she called the police. Hearing of this, you come puffing round to see me, with your waistcoat bursting with pride and your brain addled with all the uncomplimentary fairy-tales that Claud Eustace Teal has told you about me.”
“Who said so?”
“I did. It’s a sort of clairvoyant gift of mine. But you must listen to the rest of it. You come blowing round here, and wait for me from four o’clock onwards. Pepped up with the idea of scoring a solo triumph, you haven’t said
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