But the Saint wasn't grinning. He wasn't paying any particular attention to Teal at all. He was reading his newspaper again; and Teal heard him murmur: "Well, isn't that interesting?"
"Isn't what interesting?" growled the detective aggressively.
Simon folded the sheet.
"I see that the public is invited to an exhibition of Mr. Elliot Vascoe's art treasures at Mr. Vascoe's house in Hammersmith. Admission will be five shillings, and all the proceeds will go to charity. The exhibition will be opened by Princess Eunice of Greece."
Teal stiffened. He had the dizzy sense of unreality that would overwhelm a man who had been day-dreaming about what he would do if his uncle suddenly died and left him a million pounds, if a man walked straight into his office and said, "Your uncle has died and left you a million pounds."
"Were you thinking of taking over any of those art treasures?" he inquired menacingly. "Because if you were—"
"I've often thought about it," said the Saint shamelessly. "I think it's a crime for Vascoe to have so many of them. He doesn't know any more about art than a cow in a field, but he's got enough dough to buy anything his advisers tell him is worth buying, and it gives him something to swank about. It would be an act of virtue to take over his collection; but I suppose you wouldn't see it that way."
Mr. Teal's brow blackened. He could hardly believe his ears, and if he had stopped to think he wouldn't have believed them. He didn't stop.
"No, I wouldn't!" he squeaked. "Now get this, Saint. You can get away with just so much of your line and no more. You're going to leave Vascoe's exhibition alone, or by God—"
"Of course I'm going to leave it alone," said the Saint mildly. "My paths are the paths of righteousness, and my ways are the ways of peace. You know me, Claud. Vascoe will get what's coming to him in due time, but who am I to take it upon myself to dish it out?"
"You said—"
"I said that I'd often thought about taking over some of his art treasures. But is it a crime to think? If it was, there'd be more criminals than you could build jails for. Pass the marmalade. And try not to look so disappointed." The mockery in Simon's blue eyes was bright enough now for even Teal to realise that the Saint was deliberately taking him over the jumps once again. "Anyone might think you wanted me to turn into a crook — and is that the right attitude for a policeman to have?"
Between Simon Templar and Mr. Elliot Vascoe, millionaire and self-styled art connoisseur, no love at all was lost. Simon disliked Vascoe on principle, because he disliked all fat loudmouthed parvenus who took care to obtain great publicity for their charitable works while they practised all kinds of small meannesses on their employees. Vascoe hated the Saint because Simon had once happened to witness a motor accident in which Vascoe was driving and a child was injured, and Vascoe had made the mistake of offering Simon a hundred pounds to forget what he had seen. That grievous error had not only failed to save Mr. Vascoe a penny of the fines and damages which he was subsequently compelled to pay, but it had earned him a punch on the nose which he need not otherwise have suffered.
Vascoe had made his money quickly, and the curse of the nouveau riche had fallen upon him. Himself debarred for ever from the possibility of being a gentleman, either by birth or breeding or native temperament, he had made up for it by carrying snobbery to new and rarely equalled heights. Besides works of art, he collected titles: for high-sounding names, and all the more obvious trappings of nobility, he had an almost fawning adoration. Therefore he provided lavish entertainment for any undiscriminating notables whom he could lure into his house with the attractions of his Parisian chef and his very excellent wine cellar, and contrived to get his name bracketed with those who were more discriminating by angling for them with the bait of charity, which it was difficult for them to refuse.
In a great many ways, Mr. Elliot Vascoe was the type of man whose excessive wealth would have been a natural target for one of the Saint's raids on those undesirable citizens whom he included in the comprehensive and descriptive classification of 'the ungodly'; but the truth is that up till then the Saint had never been interested enough to do anything about it. There were many other undesirable citizens whose unpleasantness was no less immune from the cumbersome interference of the Law, but whose villainies were on a larger scale and whose continued putrescence was a more blatant challenge to the Saint's self-appointed mission of justice. With so much egregiously inviting material lying ready to hand, it was perhaps natural that Simon should feel himself entitled to pick and choose, should tend to be what some critics might have called a trifle finicky in his selection of the specimens of ungodliness to be bopped on the bazook. He couldn't use all of them, much as he would have liked to.
But in Simon Templar's impulsive life there was a factor of Destiny that was always taking such decisions out of his hands. Anyone with a less sublime faith in his guiding star might have called it Coincidence, but to the Saint that word was merely a chicken-hearted half truth. Certain things were ordained; and when the signs pointed there was no turning back.
Two days after Teal's warning he was speeding back to the city after an afternoon's swimming and basking in the sun at the Oatlands Park pool, when he saw a small coupe of rather ancient vintage standing by the roadside. The bonnet of the coupй was open, and a young man was very busy with the engine: he seemed to be considerably flustered, and from the quantity of oil on his face and forearms the success of his efforts seemed to bear no relation to the amount of energy he had put into them. Near the car stood a remarkably pretty girl, and she was what really caught the Saint's eye. She seemed distressed and frightened, twisting her hands nervously together arid looking as if she was on the verge of tears.
Simon had flashed past before he realised that he knew her — he had met her at a dance some weeks before. His distaste for Mr. Elliot Vascoe did not apply to Vascoe's slim auburn-haired daughter, whom Simon would have been prepared to put forward in any company as a triumphant refutation of the theories of heredity. He jammed on his brakes and backed up to the breakdown.
"Hullo, Meryl," he said. "Is there anything I can do?"
"If you can make this Chinese washing machine go," said the young man, raising his smeared face from the bowels of the engine, "you are not only a better man than I am, but I expect you can invent linotypes in your sleep."
"This is Mr. Fulton — Mr. Templar." The girl made the introduction with breathless haste. "We've been here for three-quarters of an hour—"
The Saint started to get out.
"I never was much of a mechanic," he murmured. "But if I can unscrew anything or screw anything up…"
"That wouldn't be any good — Bill knows everything about cars, and he's already taken it to pieces twice." The girl's voice was shaky with dawning hope. "But if you could take me home yourself… I've simply got to be back before seven! Do you think you could do it?"
Her tone was so frantic that she made it sound like a matter of life and death.
Simon glanced at his watch, and at the milometer on the dashboard. It would be about fifteen miles to Hammersmith, and it was less than twenty minutes to seven.
"I can try," he said, and turned to Fulton. "What about you — will you come on this death-defying ride?"
Fulton shook his head. He was a few years older than the girl, and Simon liked the clean-cut good looks of him.
"Don't worry about me," he said. "You try to get Meryl back. I'm going to make this prehistoric wreck move under its own steam if I stay here all night."