He found Orace dabbing an ear with a stained handkerchief.
"Hurt?"
"Nossir — just a splinter er wood. They were firin' low."
"It's more painful through the stomach," said the Saint enigmatically, and went on upstairs.
The pursuit of the car from which the machine gun had been fired wasn't Simon Templar's business. It could be carried on just as effectively by the regulars — or just as ineffectively, for the number plates were certain to have been changed. But it made the Saint think.
When the assistant commissioner called in later for the story, however, Simon showed no signs of perturbation.
"It was Budd's idea, of course. He's seen service in Chicago. But machine guns in the streets of London are nothing new on me — I've had it happen before. There's no blamed originality in this racket, that's the trouble."
"They seem to think you're important."
"There's certainly some personal bias against me," admitted the Saint innocently. "I was expecting a demonstration — I had further words with Jill Trelawney yesterday. Cigarette?"
"Thanks."
The commissioner helped himself. He was a grizzled, hard-featured man who had worked his way up from the bottom of the ladder, and he had all the taciturn abruptness common to men who have risen in the world by nothing but a relentless devotion to the ambition of rising in the world.
"How did she strike you?"
"She didn't," said the Saint perversely."I think she would have, though, but for the low cunning with which I made my escape. She's a sweet child."
"Charming," agreed the commissioner ironically. "So gentle! Such endearing ways!"
"Ever meet her?"
"No. I knew her father, of course."
Simon grinned.
"He never made any friendly advance towards me," he murmured. "But of course there was some prejudice against me at the time. Tell me that story again — from the inside."
Cullis settled himself.
"The inside is that Trelawney swore all along that he'd been framed," he said. "It's not such an inside, anyway, because he told exactly the same tale at the inquiry. After all, that was the only defense open to him: he was caught so red-handed that no one could have thought out any other explanation except that he was guilty."
"The story?"
"Police plans were leaking out; raids falling flat regularly. Something had to be done. The chief commissioner took a chance on myself and another superintendent— we had the longest service records — and arranged for us to lead a surprise raid on a Thursday night. On Thursday morning he let it get round the Yard that the raid was to take place on Saturday. We raided on Thursday without any fuss, roped in a gang that had slipped us twice before, and kept everyone on the premises — including the men who made the raid, and they were officially supposed to be on leave. Therefore there was nobody left at the Yard, except the chief, who knew that the raid was over. We had one man sitting over the telephone and another over the letter box. First post on Friday morning, a letter came in. Just one word, typewritten: Saturday. It was on official paper, with the heading cut off, and the experts put it under the microscope and traced it to the typewriter in Trelawney's office."
"Which anyone might have used."
"It was postmarked Windsor. Trelawney went down to Windsor for a consultation on Thursday afternoon — and he went alone."
"Flimsy," said the Saint. "An accomplice might have posted it."
Cullis nodded.
"I know it wasn't any good by itself. But it was a clue. Nobody saw the letter but the chief and myself. We watched Trelawney ourselves. We were after Waldstein then. He was always slippery, and at that time we reckoned he was vanishing an average of one girl a week through the Pan-European Concert Agency, which was one of his most profitable incarnations. But he was clever, and he never appeared in person, and there was never a line of evidence. Then I had the inspiration. I suggested to the chief that he go to Trelawney with the story that one of Waldstein's men had squealed. He saw the point, and agreed. He told the tale of Trelawney, as he'd naturally have told him anything else in the way of business that he was pleased about. Waldstein was in Paris, and the chief said that the Sûreté had arranged to intercept any letters, telegrams, or telephone calls addressed to him, so that no one could warn him, and one of our men was going over to arrest him the next morning. And the next morning, bright and early, Trelawney chartered a special airplane and set off for Paris."
"No!"
"He did. The chief and I, having been waiting for just that, chased him in a faster airplane, and trailed him all the way from Le Bourget to Waldstein's hotel. Then, when we'd heard him ask for Waldstein at the office, the chief tapped him on the shoulder."
"And?"
"He'd got his story pat. Gosh, I've never met such a nerve! He just blinked a bit when he first saw the chief and me, but from then on he never batted an eyelid. We went into a private room, and the chief told him the game was up.
"What game?" asked Trelawney.
"What are you doing here?" asked the chief.
"What you told me to do," says Trelawney.
"I never told you to come here," says the chief.
"The chief says Trelawney went a bit white then, but I never noticed it. Anyway, Trelawney's story was that he'd been called up by the chief early that morning and told to go over and attend to Waldstein himself, as there was some difficulty with the French police, and Waldstein was likely to get away during the argument. We asked him why he hadn't gone to the Quai d'Orsay first, to present his papers, and he said the chief had told him to get Waldstein first and argue afterwards."
"Well?"
Cullis shrugged.
"After that, it was all over."
"Don't see it," said the Saint. "If Trelawney was guilty, why should he tell that story to the very man who would know at once that it wasn't true?"
"Brains," said the assistant commissioner. "He'd thought out the possibility of being caught, and he'd got his defense ready — a frame-up. That story was the best he could have told. It prepared his ground for when we opened his safe deposit and found, among others, banknotes that were traced to Waldstein."
"How did he account for those?"
"He couldn't."
"And afterwards?"
"The chief decided not to make a public scandal of it. For one thing, it would have been difficult to get a conviction, even on that evidence, because we couldn't bring Waldstein into it. Waldstein, in the eyes of the ignorant world, was a perfectly respectable citizen and is the same to this day. So there wasn't any lawful reason why he shouldn't have given Trelawney money. Still, Trelawney was asked for his resignation, and he died a month afterwards. I don't like thinking about that part of it — it isn't pleasant to think that I was indirectly responsible, even if he was a grafter."
Simon reached for an ashtray.
"And yet," he said, "it seems rather a fluke. Why should Waldstein have been the right bait? And why should Trelawney have walked into the trap so easily?"
Cullis shrugged again.
"Waldstein was the sort of man who might have been the right bait. We took a chance. If it had failed, we'd have had to think of something else. But if Waldstein was the right bait, Trelawney was bound to walk into the trap. If a man takes graft, he can't let his clients down; if he does, they can squeal on him. Waldstein being in Paris put Trelawney in a tight corner, but he had to take his chance. He didn't know how big a chance it was. Ordinarily, you see, he might easily have got away with it. But he didn't know that there was already some sort of evidence against him; he didn't know he was being followed; and he couldn't have guessed that there could be enough suspicion to lead to the opening of his safe deposit."