The Baron sat very still.
"You know a great deal, Mr Templar."
"Just about all I need to know, I think. I know you've been running the most efficient espionage organization that poor old Chief Inspector Teal has had to scratch his head over for a long time. I know that you had everything lined up so well that you might have got away with it for years if it hadn't been for one of those Acts of God that the insurance companies never want to underwrite. I told you I knew all about it this morning, but you didn't believe me. By the way, how does the jaw feel tonight?"
The other watched him unwinkingly.
"I'm afraid I did find it hard to believe you," he said evenly. "What else do you know?"
"I know all about your phoney broadcasts. And if it's of any interest to you, there will be a squad of large flat-footed bogey-men waiting for numbers six, fourteen, and twenty-seven when they stop by for their Miracle Tea… I know that instead of getting ready to pay me the tax I asked for, you tried to frame me for the murder of Nancock this afternoon, and I resent that, Henry."
"I apologize," said the Baron suavely. "You shall have your money tomorrow—"
The Saint shook his head, and his eyes were glacially blue.
"You had your chance, and you passed it up. I shall help myself to the money." He saw the other's eyes shift fractionally to the safe in the corner, and laughed softly. "Give me the keys, Henry."
The Baron hesitated a moment before he moved.
Then he put his hand slowly into his trouser pocket and pulled out a bunch of keys on a platinum chain. He detached them and threw them on to the desk.
"You have the advantage, Mr Templar," he said smoothly. "I give you the keys because you could easily take them yourself if I refused. But you're very foolish. There are only about three thousand pounds in the safe. Why not be sensible and wait until the morning?"
"In the morning you'll be too busy trying to put up a defence at the police court to think about me," said the Saint coldly.
He moved towards the desk; but he did not pick up the keys at once. His eyes strayed to the sheet of paper in the typewriter; and yet they did it in such a way that the Baron still knew that the first move he made would call shattering death out of the trim unwavering automatic,
Simon read:
In conjunction with numbers 4, 10, and 16 you will proceed at once to Cheltenham and establish close watch on Sir Roland Hale who is on holiday there. Within 24 hours you will send report on the method by which urgent War Office messages—
Simon's eyes returned to the Baron's face.
"What more evidence do you think Chief Inspector Teal will need?" he said.
"With a name like mine?" came the scornful answer. "When I tell them that you held me at the point of a gun while you wrote that message on my typewriter—"
"I'm sure they'll be very polite," said the Saint. "Especially when they find that yours are the only fingerprints on the keys."
"If you made me write it under compulsion—"
"And the orders in the packets of Miracle Tea which numbers six, fourteen, and twenty-seven are going to buy tonight came from the same machine."
The Baron moistened his lips.
"Let us talk this over," he said.
The Saint said: "You talk."
He picked up the telephone and dialled 'O'.
He said: "I want to make a call to France — Radio Calvados."
The Baron swallowed.
"Wait a minute," he said desperately. "I—"
"Incidentally," said the Saint, "there'll be a record that you had a call to Radio Calvados this evening, and probably on lots of other evenings as well. And I'm sure we shall find that Henry Osbett moustache of yours somewhere in the house — not to mention the beard you wore when you were dealing with Red McGuire. I suppose you needed some thug outside the organization in case you wanted to deal drastically with any of the ordinary members, but you picked the wrong man in Red. He doesn't like hot curling-irons."
Inescu's fists clenched until the knuckles were bleached. His face had gone pale under its light tan.
The Saint's call came through.
"Mr Vernon, please," he said.
He took out his cigarette case, opening it, and lighted a cigarette with the hand that held his gun, all in some astonishing manner that never allowed the muzzle to wander for an instant from its aim on the Baron's shirt stud; and then an unmistakable Oxford accent said: "Hullo?"
"Vernon?" said the Saint, and his voice was so exactly like the voice affected by Mr Henry Osbett that its originator could scarcely believe his ears. "I've got to make a change in that copy I just gave you. Make it read like this: 'They say there is safety in numbers. In that case, you can't go wrong with Miracle Tea. There are many numbers in our files, but they all praise Miracle Tea. Every number has the same message. Why should you be left out? All of you, buy Miracle Tea — tonight!'… Have you got it?… Good. See that it goes in without fail."
Simon pressed the spring bracket down with his thumb, still holding the microphone.
The Baron's stare was wide and stupefied.
"You're mad!" he said hoarsely. "You're throwing away a fortune—"
Simon laughed at him, and lifted the microphone to his ear again. He dialled the number of Scotland Yard.
"Give me Chief Inspector Teal," he said. "The Saint calling."
There was some delay on the switchboard.
The Saint looked at Baron Inescu and said: "There's one thing you forget, Baron. I like money as much as anybody else, and I use more of it than most people. But that's a side line. I also deliver justice. When you get to Dartmoor, you'll meet some other men that I've sent there. Ask them about it. And then you in your turn will be able to tell the same story."
The voice of Chief Inspector Teal blared short-windedly in his ear.
"Yes?"
"Oh, Claud? How's the old tum-tum getting — … All right, if it's a sore subject; but I wondered — … Yes, of course I have. Just a minute. Did you get six, fourteen, and twenty-seven?" Simon listened, and the contentment ripened on his face. "Well, didn't I tell you? And now you can have some more for the bag. At any time after nine o'clock there's going to be a perfect stampede of blokes asking for Miracle Tea, so you can send your squad back for more. They'd better take over the shop and grab everyone who tries to buy Miracle Tea. And while they're doing that I've got the Big Shot waiting for you. Come and get him. The address is — Excuse me."
The Saint had the telephone in one hand and a gun in the other, and it seemed impossible for him to have done it, but a narrow-bladed ivory-hilted knife stuck quivering in the desk half an inch from the Baron's fingers as they slid towards a concealed bell. And the Saint went on talking as if nothing had happened.
"Sixteen North Ashley Street, Berkeley Square; and the name is Inescu… Yes, isn't that a coincidence? But there's all the evidence you'll need to make you happy, so I don't see why you should complain. Come along over and I'll show you."
"I'll send someone over," Teal said stiffly. "And thanks very much."
Simon frowned a little.
"Why send someone?" he objected. "I thought—"
"Because I'm busy!" came a tortured howl that nearly shattered the receiver. "I can't leave the office just now. I–I'll have to send someone."