"And yet you haven't the faintest idea why solid and respectable people — public men like Farwill, for instance — crumple up like frightened babies just because this man writes them a letter," remarked the assistant commissioner acidly.
The detective twiddled a button on his coat.
"I have got the faintest idea, sir," he said redly. "I've got more than a faint idea. I know why they do it. I know why they're doing it now. It's blackmail."
"Do you know, I really believe you've solved the mystery," said the commissioner, with a mildness that singed the air.
"If I've done that, I've done more than anyone else in this building," retorted Teal heatedly. "But there are plenty of people sitting in their offices criticizing me who couldn't have got half as far as I have, even if that isn't saying much." He glared at his chief stubbornly, while all the ac-cumulated wrath and resentment of a score of such conferences rose up recklessly in his breast and strangled his voice for a moment. "Everybody knows that it's some kind of blackmail, but that doesn't help. We can't prove it. When I produced that letter, Templar simply laughed at me. And he was right. There wasn't a line of blackmail in it — except to anyone who knew what was in that book he mentions."
"Which you failed to find out," said the commissioner.
"Which I failed to find out," agreed Teal feverishly, "because I'm not a miracle worker, and I never said I was."
The assistant commissioner picked up his pen.
"Do you want a search warrant — is that what all these hysterics are about?" he inquired icily.
Teal gulped.
"Yes, I want a search warrant!" he exploded defiantly. "I know what it means. The Saint'll probably get around that somehow. When I get there, the book will have disappeared, or it'll turn out to be a copy of Fairy Tales for Little Children, or something. And Edingham and Quipp will get up and swear it was never anything else." Goaded beyond endurance though he was, the detective checked for an instant at the horrific potentialities of his prophecy; but he plunged on blindly: "I've seen things like that happen before, too. I've seen the Saint turn a cast-iron conviction into a cast-iron alibi in ten seconds. I'm ready to see it happen again. I'm ready to see him give the newspapers a story that'll make them laugh themselves sick for two months at my expense. But I'll take that search warrant!"
"I'll see that you have it in half an hour," said the assistant commissioner coldly. "We will discuss your other remarks on the basis of what you do with it."
"Thank you, sir," said Chief Inspector Teal and left the room with the comfortless knowledge that the last word on that subject was a long way from having been said.
VII
"Gents," announced Mr. Uniatz, from a chest swelling with proper pride, "dis here is my pal Mr. Orconi. Dey calls him Pete de Blood. He's de guy youse guys is lookin' for. He'll fix t'ings…"
From that moment, with those classic words, the immortal gorgeousness of the situation was established for all time. Simon Templar had been in many queer spots before, had cheerfully allowed his destiny to be spun giddy in almost every conceivable whirlpool of adventure; but never before had he entered such a portentous conclave to discuss solemnly the manner in which he should assassinate himself; and the sheer ecstatic pulchritude of the idea was prancing balmily through his insides in a hare-brained saraband which only a delirious sense of humour like the Saint's could have appreciated to the full.
He stood with his hands in his pockets, surveying the two other members of the conference with very clear blue eyes and allowing the beatific fruitiness of scheme which Mr. Uniatz had made possible to squirm rapturously through his system. "Pleased to meet ya," he drawled, with a perfect gangster intonation that had been learned in more perilous and unsavoury surroundings than a fireproof air-conditioned movie theatre.
Mr. Neville Yorkland, M.P., fidgeted with his tie and looked vaguely about the room. He was a broad tubby little man, who looked something like a cross between a gentleman farmer and a dilettante artist — an incongruous souffle of opposites, with a mane of long untidy hair crowning a vintage-port complexion.
"Well," he said jerkily, "let's sit down. Get to business. Don't want to waste any time."
The Honourable Leo Farwill nodded. He was as broad as Yorkland, but longer; and he was not fussy. His black brows and heavy moustache were of almost identical shape and dimensions, so that his face had a curiously unfinished symmetry, as if its other features had been fitted quite carelessly into the decisive framework of those three arcs of hair.
"An excellent idea," he boomed. "Excellent. Perhaps we might have a drink as well. Mr. — ah — Orconi—"
"Call me Pete," suggested the Saint affably, "and let's see your liquor."
They sat, rather symbolically, on opposite sides of the long table in Farwill's library. Hoppy Uniatz gravitated naturally to the Saint's elbow, while Yorkland pulled up a chair beside Farwill.
The Honourable Leo poured sherry into four glasses from a crystal decanter.
"Mr. — er — Uniatz gives us to understand that you are what is known as a — ah — gunman, Mr. Orconi."
"Pete," said the Saint, sipping his drink.
"Ah — Pete," Farwill corrected himself, with visible distaste.
Simon nodded gently.
"I guess that's right," he said. "If there's anyone horning in on your racket, you've come to the guy who can stop him."
"Sure," echoed Hoppy Uniatz, grasping his opportunity and swallowing it in one gulp. "We'll fix him."
Farwill beamed laboriously and produced a box of cigars.
"I presume that Mr. Uniatz has already acquainted you with the basic motives of our proposition," he said.
"Hoppy told me what you wanted — if that's what you mean," said the Saint succinctly, stripping the band from his selected Corona. "This guy Templar has something on you, an' you want him taken off."
"That — ah — might be a crude method of expressing it," rumbled the Honourable Leo. "However, it is unnecessary to go into the diplomatic niceties of the dilemma. I will content myself with suggesting to you that the situation is one of, I might almost say, national moment."
"Tremendous issues involved," mattered Mr. Neville Yorkland helpfully. "World-wide catastrophe. The greatest caution is called for. Tact. Secrecy. Emergency measures."
"Exactly," concluded Farwill. "Emergency measures. The ordinary avenues are closed to us by the exigencies of the crisis. You would, in fact, find yourself in the position of an unofficial secret service agent — taking your own risks, fighting your own battles, knowing that in the event of failure you- will be disowned by your employers. The situation, in short, calls for a man who is able to take care of himself, who is prepared to endanger his life for a reasonable reward, who — who—"
"I get it," said the Saint blandly. "This guy Templar has something on you, an' you want him taken off."
Farwill compressed his lips.
"At this stage of developments, I feel called upon neither to confirm that statement nor repudiate it," he said with the fluency of many years in Parliament. "The points at issue are, first, whether you are a suitable man for the mission—"
"Nuts," said the Saint tersely. "You want a guy like me, an' I'm the guy you want. When do you cut the cackle an' come to the hosses?"
The Honourable Leo glanced despairing at Yorkland, as if appealing to the Speaker on a point of order. Yorkland twiddled his thumbs.
"Should be all right," he mumbled. "Looks the type. Vouched for by Mr. Uniatz. Been to America myself. Can't pick and choose. Got to decide."