The Saint edged into an empty slot at the bar beside the detective and ordered a pint of Guinness. As it was being pulled he turned to his neighbour.
“Inspector Peake. I’d like a word.”
The detective ran a practised eye over the man who had interrupted his meditative midday drink. He took in the supple strength, the poise and the tanned features, and felt he should have known the name before he asked for it.
“And who are you?”
“Templar, Simon Templar. I’m interested in Taffy Owen. Can we talk?”
“The Saint?” Peake didn’t try to keep the surprise out of his voice or off his face.
“The same,” Simon replied with a smile. He paused while he paid for his order. “It’s important,” he added as he registered the detective’s hesitation.
Peake shrugged. “Okay.”
He knew his colleagues farther along the bar were taking an interest in the encounter and was equally aware that there could be some raised eyebrows among those who might have identified what the records described as a notorious criminal. But then he had long since given up worrying about appearances.
He nodded towards an empty table in the far corner of the saloon: “Over there.”
“Thanks,” said the Saint, and followed the detective through the crush of lunchtime drinkers.
Inspector Charlie Peake was one of the old school of police detectives. He had risen from a uniform through detective constable to detective sergeant and finally detective inspector. And there he would stay. Not because he lacked the ability or dedication to go higher, but because he did not fit into the training-college mould of smart young men currently favoured by the commissioners.
He wore a fawn trenchcoat that was in need of a visit to a dry cleaner’s over a shiny and creased suit of blue serge. He was just over six feet with the breadth of shoulders and solid muscle to match his height. The toll of his job had added extra lines to the usual ones of middle age that etched the contours of his face. But it was the eyes which had held the Saint’s attention. They were the heavy, permanently weary eyes of a man who has seen it all but who, despite everything, still cares.
They sat down, and the Saint declined the cigarette Peake offered. The detective lit one and spoke through the first cloud of smoke.
“So why is the famous Simon Templar interested in a small-time tea leaf like Owen?”
“I hear you’ve got him marked down for the robbery at St. Jude’s,” Simon said.
The detective’s look was searching and there was a slightly harder edge to his voice.
“And how did you hear that exactly?”
“Father Bernardo is an old friend. He thinks you’ve got the wrong man and asked me to have a look at how things stand. Mind telling me what you’ve got on him?”
Peake puffed on his cigarette as he calculated how much he should reveal. He had long had a grudging respect for the man opposite, but the mere fact that it was the Saint who was asking made him immediately cautious and suspicious.
“I don’t suppose it’s classified,” he admitted finally. “Owen has form, been in trouble since he was a kid. Minor stuff but consistent. Remand home, then Borstal, been clean since he came to London so far as we know anyway, but I suppose it was only a matter of time.”
“Your faith in human nature is touching,” Simon said cynically.
Peake shrugged.
“In my job I don’t get much chance to practise it.”
“But you’ve got to have a stronger case than just a criminal record.”
Peake drained his glass, stubbed out his cigarette, and lit another.
“The robbery was an inside job, had to be. And that means it was Owen.”
“Why?”
“Father Bernardo kept the chalice locked in a safe, a good one, and he never talked about it. Only he, his niece, and Owen knew it was there and so only one of them could have taken it. Oh, he tried to make it look like a break-in, even smashed a window from the outside, but he wasn’t clever enough.”
The Saint held back a smile and enquired with genuine interest: “Where did he go wrong?”
“The safe wasn’t blown and it wasn’t cut open, which means someone either used a key or picked the lock,” Peake explained with the air of a senior officer lecturing a backward cadet. “There aren’t more than half a dozen villains outside who could pick a lock like that, and they wouldn’t bother unless they knew what it contained. That means it was opened with a key, and Owen knew where the keys were kept.”
Simon mentally kicked himself for his professionalism, and knew as he did so that the criticism was undeserved because he had had no way of foreseeing what the sequel would be.
“Not only that,” Peake continued in the same flat patient tone, “but when we pulled him in he had nearly a hundred pounds on him. He didn’t get that kind of money helping Father Bernardo.”
“What was his story?”
“Said he was saving up to get married and that he’d had a bit of luck playing the horses. Then we asked him where he was last night and he says he went out to a movie and didn’t meet anyone he knew to back the story up.”
“It could just be true,” Simon pointed out.
Peake allowed himself the excess of a short hard laugh.
“And I could become Chief Commissioner, but it isn’t very likely, is it? If I had a pound for every time I’ve heard a story like that I wouldn’t be worrying about how I’m going to live on my pension.”
Simon had few doubts that a judge would be just as sceptical as the policeman.
“So you’ve charged him with stealing the chalice?”
Peake shook his head.
“Not yet. When we went to talk to him he tried to do a runner and bumped into a constable.”
The Saint smiled thinly.
“Assaulting a police officer in the execution of his duty?”
“That’s right. Just a holding charge so we can keep him safe while we sew up the evidence for the robbery.”
The Saint considered the statement and his eyes brightened.
“Which is another way of saying that you haven’t yet got a case that will stand up in court.”
“We will have,” Peake said confidently.
“Like to bet on it?” Simon asked.
“No.” Peake pushed back his stool and stood up. He looked steadily down at the Saint. “And I don’t want any meddling from you.”
“Just offering to help the course of justice,” said the Saint apologetically, as he too rose.
“Justice can get along without your help,” Peake said, and made it sound like a warning.
Simon Templar’s smile was never more enigmatic. “Too bad you’re not a betting man,” he mourned.
5
Simon Templar was by nature an optimist; it was simply not in character for him to remain downcast for long. Consequently the aura of despondency that had been eclipsing his halo during the morning was already thinning when he went in search of Charlie Peake. By the time he had left the pub, boarded a passing taxi, and directed the driver, it had almost completely evaporated.
So it was with a renewed sense of confidence that he relaxed in the back of the cab and appraised the situation.
Peake had said he could think of only six men outside prison capable of picklocking the safe. By the same standards, the number of fences equipped to handle the chalice was equally limited. There were many prepared to receive the everyday boodle of the everyday burglar, but only a handful possessed the specialist knowledge to value and dispose of such a distinctive work of art.