"We might as well try it," Teal said grimly. "Ten to one they've taken the girl out of London, but it would be just like the Saint's blasted nerve to hold her here right under our very noses."
Again his fears were confirmed. Twenty-six Abbot's Yard was in the same condition as Mother Hubbard's supboard; and enquiries among the near-artist neighhours elicited the information that the Saint had not been seen for weeks.
Mr Teal was so exasperated that he nearly inserted the next slice of spearmint into his mouth without removing the pink wrapper; but on the intellectual side his grey matter was not quite so white hot now and therefore was slightly more efficient. He was certain of one thing: the Saint had not taken Beatrice Avery to Scotland. After years of experience of Simon Templar's methods Mr Teal easily guessed that Patricia Holm's reference to Scotland had very much the fishy smell of a red herring.
"Not much good looking for him, is it, sir?" asked the driver of the police car depressingly.
"No; let's sit down on the curb and play shove-ha'penny," retorted Mr Teal with searing sarcasm.
"I mean, sir, the Saint's got all sorts of hideouts," said the man. "There's no telling—"
"I've long since come to the conclusion that most of these stories of the Saint are pure legend," said Mr Teal with a real flash of intelligence. "In nine cases out of ten he remains in full view and just dares us to do our worst. One of these days he's going to dare us once too often. Perhaps this is the day," he added hopefully. "Anyhow, let's get going."
"Where to, sir?"
"We know he's got a place at Weybridge, so we might as well run down and have a look at it," replied Mr Teal, climbing into the car. "We'll try every place we know until we find him."
The more he thought of his recent interview with the Saint, the more he reviewed the subsequent happenings, the higher became his dudgeon. In everything except outward appearance Chief Inspector Teal was exactly like a fire-breathing dragon as he sat in the back of the car, asking the driver why he had left the engine behind and what was the blank-blank idea of driving with the brakes full on.
However, in spite of his unsympathetic comments the journey was accomplished in remarkably good time, and a gleam of hope appeared in Mr Teal's overheated blue eyes when he saw lights gleaming from the windows of Simon Templar's house on St George's Hill. In answer to his thunderous knock and insistent ringing the door was opened by Orace, who inspected him with undisguised disfavour.
"Oh, it's you, is it?" said Orace witheringly.
"Is Templar here?" roared Mr Teal.
"Is 'oo 'ere? If you mean Mister Templar—"
"I mean Mr Templar!" said the detective chokingly. "Is Mr Templar here?"
"Oo wants ter know?"
"I want to know!" bellowed Mr Teal, his spleen surging out of him like a discharge of poison gas. "Stand out of the way, my man. I'm coming in—"
"Like 'ell you are," Orace said stolidly. "Back door fer you, my man. The idear!"
At this point of the proceedings Simon Templar, resplendent in tuxedo and soft silk shirt, materialized into the picture. The living-room door was half open, and the Saint had an idea that the dialogue would soon become blue around the edges and unfit for the shell-like ears of his guests.
"All right, Orace," he said breezily. "Walk right in, Claud Eustace. What brings you into the wilds this evening? Not that I wasn't expecting you—"
"Oh, you were expecting me, were you?" broke in Mr Teal, forcing the words past his strained throttle with some difficulty. "Well, I hope you're glad to be right. You've been just a little too smart since I saw you this afternoon. Now I know damned well you are the Z-Man!"
"In that case, dear heart, there must be two Z-Men," answered the Saint accommodatingly. "Isn't it amazing how the little fellows breed? I'm glad you're here, Claud. There's something I want you to do. It'll interest you to know that I had quite a chat with the original Z-Man this evening—"
"When I want to listen to any more of that I'll let you know," Teal said massively. "Just now I'm going to be busy. I have reason to believe that you kidnapped Miss Beatrice Avery from her apartment in Parkside Court this evening, and I'm not going to leave this house until I've searched it — and you might as well know that I haven't got a warrant."
"But why search the house, dear old fungus?" Simon protested reasonably. "Kidnapping is a hard word, and I resent it. But I'm willing to make allowances for your blood pressure. At the rate the red corpuscles are being pumped through that lump of petrified wood you wear your hat on the poor thing must be feeling the strain. Have I denied that Miss Avery is under this roof? She came down with Patricia a little more than an hour ago, and we're just having our coffee."
Mr Teal gulped, and his chewing gum slithered to the back of his mouth, played hide-and-seek with his tonsils and finally slid into his gullet before he could recover it.
"What!" His voice was like a pinpricked carnival balloon. "You admit you've got her here? You admit you're the Z-Man? Then by God—"
"My poor boob," said the Saint sympathetically, "I haven't admitted anything of the sort. I merely said that Miss Avery was having dinner with me. If that makes me the Z-Man it makes you the Grand Lama of Tibet. Miss Avery is a friend of Pat's, and we've got a couple of other good-looking girls here too. We're making a collection of them. If you'll promise to behave yourself I'll take you in and let you look at them."
He turned back into the living room, and Mr Teal followed him with the beginnings of a new vacuum pumping itself out from under his belt. Somehow it was going to be done again — the awful certainty of it made Mr Teal feel physically sick. He had a wild desire to turn back to his car and drive away to the end of the earth and forget that he had ever seen Scotland Yard, but he had to drag himself on, like a condemned man walking to the scaffold.
He stood in the doorway with his hands clasped tightly on his belt and stared around at the four eye-filling sirens who reclined in armchairs around the fire. Patricia Holm and Beatric Avery he knew; but his heavy eyelids nearly disappeared into the back of his head when he heard the names of Irene Cromwell and Sheila Ireland. And the worst of it was that they all looked perfectly happy. They didn't leap up with shrill cries of joy and greet him as their deliverer. They studied him with the detached curiosity of surgeons inspecting a new kind of tumour revealed by an operation.
Mr Teal grunted his acknowledgment of the introductions and stood glaring desperately at Beatrice Avery.
"I've got one thing to ask you, Miss Avery," he said with a hideous presentiment of what the answer would be. "Did you come here entirely of your own free will?"
"I think that's a very unkind thing to ask, Mr Teal," she answered sweetly. "It's unkind to me, since it implies that I'm weak minded; and it's unkind to Mr Templar—"
"I want to be unkind to Mr Templar!" Teal stated homicidally. "If there is any kind of threat being held over you, Miss Avery, I give you my word that so long as I'm here—"
"Of course there isn't any threat," she said. "How ridiculous! What do you think Mr Templar is — a sort of Bluebeard?"
Mr Teal didn't dare to say what he thought Mr Templar was. But he knew that Beatrice Avery would give him no help. There was nothing about her that gave the slightest hint of fear or anxiety. However accomplished an actress she might be, he knew that she could never have acted like that under compulsion. What other supernatural means the Saint had taken to silence her, Mr Teal couldn't imagine; but he knew that it was hopeless to fight them.
He pulled himself miserably together.
"I don't think I need bother you with any more questions, Miss Avery," he said brusquely.