Teal considered the implications with thoughtful intensity.
“Well, Her Majesty’s government doesn’t like Tretiak,” observed the detective, “the Yanks don’t like Tretiak, and every other democracy in the West doesn’t like Tretiak. For all we know, British Intelligence hired the Saint just to make Tretiak’s life as miserable as he’s made mine.”
The commissioner let out a long laborious sigh.
“Sir Hamilton Dorn rang up just a few minutes ago. He thought maybe the CIA was behind it, but it turns out they thought we were behind it. I just got off the phone with Interpol as well.”
Teal rotated his hat three more times before speaking.
“I’ve had it out with Interpol about the Saint on several occasions. Believe me, sir, we all want to catch the Saint, or at least find out exactly who he is and who he works for, although my impression is that he works for himself.”
“Precisely,” agreed the commissioner. “Tell me, Teal. Do you have any solid leads, any real suspects, or...”
Inspector Teal slowly unwrapped a stick of spearmint gum, folded it into his mouth, and began working it slowly.
At length, before the commissioner could become impatient, he shared his closely held personal opinion.
“I’ve seen every type of thief you can think of, from the small-time hood to the big-time operator, but I’ve never before come up against anyone like the Saint,” admitted Teal.
“Obviously,” said the commissioner.
Teal ignored the negative implication.
“Most criminals have egos so big you almost have to reserve a separate cell for their self-image,” explained the detective. “They love to sign their crimes just as if they were artists painting a masterpiece. Same with the Saint. Except...”
“Except what, Teal?”
“Except there is something off-kilter about him, I mean as far as criminals go.” Teal’s cheeks turned pink. “He is incredibly impudent.”
“Impudent, you say?”
Teal nodded.
“I almost had him once, you know,” insisted the detective, becoming almost animated. “I was face-to-face with him within minutes after the Prince of Cherkesia incident I admit I didn’t realize it was him at the time, but he actually had the nerve to take his index finger and poke me repeatedly in the stomach!”
The commissioner stopped pulling his mustache and stared at Inspector Teal.
“He poked your stomach?”
Teal realized how ridiculous he sounded, and his cheeks almost glowed from chagrin.
“Well, let’s leave my stomach out of this,” offered Teal.
“Please,” urged the commissioner.
“That episode gave me my only direct contact with the Saint — at least as far as I know,” the detective explained. “He checked into the fanciest hotel in all of London, wore the most convincing disguise you ever saw in your life, and proceeded to run a multimillion dollar scam on one of the biggest insurance companies in the U.K.”
The commissioner squinted, as if scrunching his eyes would aid his memory.
“Oh, I recall, I recall,” intoned the silver-haired official, “the one we later indicted for denying beneficiaries their rightful claims.”
“Exactly, sir. That’s what I’m getting at. Every so often he pulls some stunt entirely criminal but...”
“Justified?”
Teal would have squirmed were he the squirming type, which he was not.
“I wouldn’t go that far. Crime is crime.”
The commissioner thumbed through a file on his desk. A particular notation caught his attention, and he tapped the page with his forefinger.
“Tell me about the phone call.”
Teal did not like discussing the phone call because it required him to say something nice about Inspector Rabineau, and Teal would rather not mention Rabineau at all.
“The Saint — and we’re sure it was him — rang up Scotland Yard about six months ago, right after he looted the Essenden Estate. Half the county constables were hot on his trail...”
“Quite a merry chase from what I hear.”
“Merry, indeed,” Teal elaborated. “He jumped right off a rooftop into empty space and disappeared.”
“The phone call.” He put the detective back on topic.
“Oh. Yes.” Teal cleared his throat and chewed with renewed vigor. “Apparently, while he was doing his best to elude the police, he crept by a flat, peeked in the window, and saw some fellow mistreating a child in a most cruel manner. He actually called Scotland Yard and reported it. Inspector Rabineau did the follow-up, and she managed to rescue that child from a most tragic situation.”
“Sounds like your boy should be up for citizen of the year,” mumbled the commissioner sarcastically.
Teal drummed his fingers on the top of his bowler.
“The point I’m getting at, sir, is this: We don’t know who the Saint is, and I don’t think he knows, either. He doesn’t act like any sort of felon I’ve ever encountered before. But I will capture the Saint. He’s bound to slip up because, sooner or later, they all do.”
The commissioner stood from his desk and walked over to the window. He pulled a tiny comb from his pocket and began smoothing the wild hairs on his upper lip.
“It’s not so much prosecution that we’re after at this point, Teal,” he said vaguely. “As I mentioned, there are international political implications involved. Your boy may have information that could be... invaluable. In truth, according to Sir Hamilton Dorn, the entire Tretiak theft smells fishier than a boatload of kippers.”
“Sir?”
“No one messes with Ivan Tretiak and lives. No one even tries. In other words, either someone or some nation is exceptionally daring and inventive — the Japanese perhaps — or it was an inside job. Either way, the Saint is in the middle of some pretty nasty business.”
Teal looked at the clock. As a rule, meetings with the commissioner seldom lasted this long.
“I’m assigning Rabineau to work with you on this one, Teal.”
The detective almost choked on his gum.
“Rabineau?”
“She’s the best of the new breed...”
“So she says...” Teal mumbled under his spearmint-scented breath.
“There’s a fresh batch of composite sketches of the Saint in action around the world from Interpol, plus that latest one from Russia. If he’s on his way back to London from Moscow, you have ample time to make it to Heathrow.”
The commissioner turned from the window and put away the comb.
“We want to intercept the microchip, bring him in with it, and turn them both over to MI5. Don’t detain a likely suspect simply for a questionable passport. We want him, with the chip, dead to rights. Is that clear, Teal?”
It was clear. Too clear.
“About Rabineau, sir. Have you briefed her on—”
“The political aspect? No. You’re a chief inspector, she’s not. I think you two will make an excellent team.”
And that was that.
When the door behind him closed, and he made his way to his tiny, cluttered office, Chief Inspector Claude Eustace Teal of Scotland Yard sat down and deposited a fresh stick of spearmint gum into his mouth.
“Politics and Rabineau,” muttered the detective, “two good reasons to take early retirement.”
Simon Templar was not surprised when diligent customs officers at Heathrow Airport thoroughly ransacked his bag. They also compared his piratical profile to the recently transmitted images of a certain fleeing burglar audacious enough to violate top-level Russian security.
“Nothing personal,” offered an officer, “but this is the first flight from Moscow since the ‘incident,’ and you’re about the same height as this gent.”