There were bright lights in the windows as the limousine came to a standstill outside the front door; and a man with a loose walrus moustache and a curious strutting limp came out on the step.
"Here we are, Orace," said Patricia as she got out.
"Yer lyte," replied Orace unemotionally.
He took charge of the suitcases and showed no surprise at seeing three of the prettiest girls in England follow Patricia out of the car. If they had been three performing kangaroos he wouldn't even have blinked. Years of employment in Simon Templar's service had deprived him of any quality of surprise he might have once possessed.
"Dinner narf a minnit," he said when they were in the hall, and stumped off to his own quarters.
"He means it too," smiled Patricia. "But for once Orace and the dinner must be kept waiting."
She led them into the living room and looked from Irene Cromwell to Sheila Ireland with quiet calmness. Mr Uniatz, who had helped to carry the bags in, licked his lips and gazed longingly at the cocktail cabinet, where liquor was always to be found in plenty and in great variety. But he caught Patricia's warning eye, and he knew that the time for refreshment had not yet come. His impersonation of a police officer was no longer important, but Patricia Holm felt that the sudden shock of Mr Uniatz's speech would be lessened if she explained certain other things to her guests beforehand.
"You'll forgive me, I hope, for practising a small deception," she said, in her forthright way. "Miss Avery knows that I'm not really connected with Scotland Yard. I am Patricia Holm, and this house belongs to Simon Templar."
"You mean — the Saint?" asked Irene with a little quiver of excitement and incredulity.
"The Saint is out to get the Z-Man, and before he could let himself go he had to be sure that he wouldn't be placing any of you in danger," Patricia went on. "I took the risk of lying to you in London because it was too urgent to go into explanations. But before we go any farther I want to tell you that you're free to go whenever you please. This very minute if you like. Any one of you or all three of you can go if you want to. You haven't been kidnapped. The car is ready to take you back to London. But if you're wise you'll stay here. I'll tell you why."
Irene and Sheila, bewildered at first, began to understand as she went on; and Beatrice Avery contributed some heartfelt persuasions of her own. And while they talked the subtle atmosphere of peace and security with which the Saint had invested the house began to add its charm to the. other arguments. The girls looked at each other and then at the less comforting dark outside…
"Well, you've been very frank about it, Miss Holm," said Irene Cromwell at length. "I'm willing to stay if you think it would help. But the studio—"
"You can phone them in the morning and say you've been taken ill."
"But why are we safer here than in London?" asked Sheila.
Patricia smiled.
"With Orace and Hoppy Uniatz to look after us we can make faces at a dozen Z-Men," she replied confidently. "Also nobody except yourselves knows where you are. And this house isn't quite as innocent as it looks. It has all sorts of surprises for people who try to crash the gate. Now suppose we have a cocktail."
Mr Uniatz drew a deep breath.
"Say, ain't dat an idea?" he asked of the assembled company with the enthusiasm of an alchemist who has just heard of the elixir of life. "Dat'll make everyt'ing okay."
Orace was serving the second course of dinner when he cocked his head on one side and listened. Patricia, too, had heard the familiar drone of the Hirondel.
"It's 'im," remarked Orace ominously. "And abaht time too. 'E'll get some cold soup."
VIII
Chief inspector teal was out of his office when Raddon's telephone call came through to Scotland Yard. Consequently another officer went to Parkside Court, purely as a matter of routine, to make a few discreet enquiries. All he learned was that Beatrice Avery had left for Scotland and that she had been accompanied by her sister. It seemed, therefore, that the telephone call was true to type — in other words merely another of those pointless practical jokes which regularly add to the tribulations of the C.I.D.
Mr Teal, when he heard about it, was not so sure.
It is a matter of record that he set off to Parkside Court without a minute's delay to make some enquiries of his own; and they were not so discreet. He cross-examined the hall porter and the commissionaire and the elevator boy until they were in momentary expectation of being dumped into a Black Maria and shot off to the cells. Mr Teal was definitely suspicious because when he had interviewed Beatrice Avery that afternoon she had definitely assured him that she had no intention of leaving London. And now, apparently, she had gone off to Scotland.
"Why Scotland?" demanded Mr Teal, turning his baby blue eyes smoulderingly on the commissionaire.
"She didn't tell me she was going to Scotland," said the man. "But I heard her sister saying that they'd have a nice clear run—"
"How do you know it was her sister?"
"That private detective chap who was here told me so," said the commissionaire. "As soon as they'd gone he went off duty. Miss Avery's maid went home too. The flat's empty."
From the description supplied by the commissionaire and the elevator boy Mr Teal had no difficulty in recognizing Patricia Holm. His worst suspicions were strengthened when the commissionaire proffered the additional information that the limousine which had waited outside had been driven by a large man with a face which had the appearance of having once been run over by a traction engine and afterwards left in the hands of an amateur face-lifter.
"The Holm girl and Uniatz!" raged Mr Teal, champing viciously on his flavourless spearmint. "It's as clear as daylight! They came here as openly as a couple of innocent schoolchildren and got her away with some fairy tale. I'll bet it was the Saint himself who rang up the Yard — just to get my goat!"
These remarks he addressed to himself as he paced up and down the luxuriously carpeted foyer. The monumental conviction was growing within him, and rapidly assuming the size of the Arc de Triomphe, that the Saint had made every variety of fool of him in the early afternoon.
Simon Templar was the Z-Man. Mr Teal's grey matter was flowing like molten lava. The Saint had spotted Sergeant Barrow at the Dorchester, and on the off-chance that Barrow had spotted him he had thought it advisable to shoot back the package of money to Beatrice Avery so that he could clear himself. Whatever hold he had on her had been enough to force her to lie on the telephone. Then, to keep her quiet, he had kidnapped her… It was like the Saint's devilish sense of humour to ring up… There wasn't any real proof… But if he could find Beatrice Avery in the Saint's hands there would be enough evidence to put him away for keeps, the detective told himself to the accompaniment of an imaginary fanfare of triumphal trumpets. It would be the last time that the Saint would pull a long nose at the majesty of the law…
Seething and sizzling like a firework about to go off, Mr Teal realized that he was wasting time at Park-side Court. He plunged into the police car which had brought him, and was driven to Cornwall House. He guessed that this would be a further waste of time, but the visit had to be made. He was right. Not only did Sam Outrell coldly inform him that the Saint was away, but he used a passkey to show him the empty flat. Fuming and expectorating a devitalized lump of chicle onto the sidewalk for the unwary to step on, he climbed into his car again and this time told the driver to go to Abbot's Yard in Chelsea. It was well known that the Saint owned a studio in this modernized slum.