"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 fdr 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 con-ceivable 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, survey-ing 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."
"Ah, yes," admitted Farwill despondently, as if the very idea violated all his dearest principles. "We have got to decide." He inflated his chest again for the only outlet of oratory that was left to him. "Well, Mr. Orconi--ah--Pete, you are doubtless familiar with the general outline of the engagement. This book, of which Mr. Uniatz must have told you, must be recovered--whether by guile or force is immaterial. Nothing must be | permitted to obstruct a successful consummation of the undertaking. If, in the course of your work, it should prove necessary to effect physical injuries upon this man Templar, or even to--er-- expedite his decease, humanitarian considerations must not influence our firmness. Now I would suggest that a fee of two hundred pounds------"
Simon straightened up in his chair and laughed rudely.
"Say, whaddaya think I'm lookin' for?" he demanded. "Chicken feed?"
The Honourable Leo drew further breath for eloquence, and the argument was on. It would scarcely be profitable to record it in detail. It went on for a long time, conducted on the Parliamentary side in rounded periods which strayed abstractly to every other subject on earth except the one in hand and nearly sent the Saint to sleep. But Simon Templar had a serene determination of his own which could even survive the soporific flatulence of Farwill's long-winded verbiage; he was in no hurry, and he was still enjoying himself hugely. Hoppy Uniatz, endowed with a less vivid appreciation of the simple jests of life, did actually fall into a doze.