"Yeah—I have been in there this morning."
"A coloured gentleman brought these for you, sir. He said he saw you drop them as you came out of the hotel, but he lost you in the crowd while he was picking them up. And then, as he was walking through Lansdowne Passage, he happened to look up and see you at one of the windows, so he brought them in. From the description he gave me it seemed as if it must have been you, sir——"
"Oh, it was certainly me."
The Saint, who had never owned a pair of lemon-coloured gloves in his life, accepted the specimens gingerly, folded them, and slipped them into his pocket.
"Funny coincidence, sir, wasn't it?" said the porter chattily. "Him happening to pass by, and you happening to be in the window at that time."
"Quite remarkable," agreed the Saint gravely, recalling the care he had taken to avoid all windows; and, turning back, he retired rapidly to a remote sanctuary.
There he unfolded the gloves in an empty washbasin, contriving to work them cautiously inside out with his fountain pen in one hand and his propelling pencil in the other.
He had not the vaguest idea what kind of creeping West African frightfulness might be waiting for him in those citron-hued misdemeanours, but he was certainly a trifle surprised when he saw what fell out of the first glove that he tackled.
It was simply a thin splinter of wood, painted at both ends, and stained with some dark stain.
For a moment or two he looked at it expressionlessly.
Then he picked it up between two matches and stowed it carefully in his cigarette-case.
He turned his attention to the second glove, and extracted from it a soiled scrap of paper. He read:
If you will come to 85, Vandermeer Avenue, Hampstead, at midnight tonight, we may be able to reach some mutually satisfactory agreement. Otherwise, I fear that the consequences of your interference may be infinitely regrettable.
K.
Simon Templar held the message at arm's length, well up to the light, and gazed at it wall-eyed.
"And whales do so lay eggs," he articulated at last, when he could find a voice sufficiently impregnated with emotion.
And then he laughed and went back to Patricia.
"If Monday's Child comes home, you shall have a new hat," he said, and the girl smiled.
"What else happens before that?" she asked.
"We go on a little tour," said the Saint.
They left the club together, and boarded a taxi that had just been paid off at the door.
"Piccadilly Hotel," said the Saint.
He settled back, lighting a cigarette.
"I shook off Teal's man by Method One," he explained. "You are now going to see a demonstration of Method Two. If you can go on studying under my supervision, all the shadowers you will ever meet will mean nothing to you. . . . The present performance may be a waste of energy"—he glanced back through the rear window—"or it may not. But the wise man is permanently suspicious."
They reached the Piccadilly entrance of the hotel in a few minutes, and the Saint opened the door. The exact fare, plus bonus, was ready in the Saint's hand, and he dropped it in the driver's palm and followed Patricia across the pavement—without any appearance of haste, but very briskly. As he reached the doors, he saw in one glass panel the reflection of another taxi pulling in to the kerb behind him.
"This way."
He steered the girl swiftly through the main hall, swung her through a short passage, across another hall, and up some steps, and brought her out through another door into Regent Street. A break in the traffic let them straight through to the taxi rank in the middle of the road.
"Berkeley Hotel," said the Saint.
He lounged deep in his corner and grinned at her.
"Method Two is not for use on a trained sleuth who knows you know he's after you," he murmured. "Other times, it's the whelk's knee-cap." He took her bag from her hands, slipped out the little mirror, and used it for a periscope to survey the south side pavement as they drove away. "This is one of those whens," he said complacently.
"Then why are we going to the Berkeley?"
"Because you are the nurse who is going to look after Beppo. His number is 148, and 149 is already booked for you. Incidentally, you might remember that he's registered in the name of Teal—C. E. Teal. I'll pack a bag and bring it along to you later; but once you're inside the Berkeley Arms you've got to stay put so long as it's daylight. The doctor's name is Branson and mine is Travers, and if anyone else applies for admission you will shoot him through the binder and ring for the bell-hop to remove the body."
"But what will you be doing?"
"I am the proud possessor of a Clue, and I'm going to be very busy tying a knot in its tail. Also I have an ambition to be humorous, and that will mean that I've got to push round to a shop I know of and purchase one of those mechanical jokes that are said to create roars of laughter. I've been remembering my younger days, and they've brought back to me the very thing I need. . . . And here we are."
The cab had stopped at its destination, and they got out. Patricia hesitated in the doorway. "When will you be back?" she asked.
"I shall be along for dinner about eight," said the Saint. "Meanwhile, you'll be able to get acquainted with Beppo. Really, you'll find him quite human. Prattle gently to him, and he'll eat out of your hand. When he's stronger, you might even be allowed to sing to him—I'll ask the doctor about that tomorrow. ... So long, lass!"
And the Saint was gone.
And he did exactly what he had said he was going to do. He went to a shop in Regent Street and bought a little toy and took it back with him to Upper Berkeley Mews; and a certain alteration which he made to its inner functionings kept him busy for some time and afforded him considerable amusement.
For he had not the slightest doubt that there was going to be fun and games before the next dawn. The incident of those lemon-coloured gloves was a distinct encouragement. It showed a certain thoroughness on the part of the opposition, and that sort of thing always gave the Saint great pleasure.
"If one glove doesn't work, the other is expected to oblige," he figured it out, as he popped studs into a snowy white dress shirt. "And it would be a pity to disappoint anyone."
He elaborated this latter idea to Patricia Holm when he rejoined her at the Berkeley, having shaken off his official watcher again by Method Three. Before he left, he told her nearly everything.
"At midnight, all the dreams of the ungodly are coming true," he said. "Picture to yourself the scene. It will be the witching hour. The menace of dark deeds will veil the stars. And up the heights of Hampstead will come toiling the pitiful figure of the unsuspecting victim, with his bleary eyes bulging and his mouth hanging open and the green moss sprouting behind his ears; and that will be Little Boy . . ."
Chapter V
Some men enjoy trouble; others just as definitely don't. And there are some who enjoy dreaming about the things they would do if they only dared-—but they need not concern us.
Simon Templar came into Category A—straight and slick, with his name in a panel all to itself, and a full stop just where it hits hardest.
For there is a price ticket on everything that puts a whizz into life, and adventure follows the rule. It's distressing, but there you are. If there was no competition, everything would be quite all right. If you could be certain that you were the strongest man in the world, the most quick-witted, the most cunning, the most keen-sighted, the most vigilant, and simultaneously the possessor of the one and only lethal weapon in the whole wide universe, there wouldn't be much difficulty about it. You would just step out of your hutch and hammer the first thing that came along.