Follow the Saint by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online

he whip ped round on his
prisoner.
    “All
right,” he snapped. “Tell me all you know about Miracle
Tea!”
    “I
dunno anythink about it, so help me, guv’nor. I never heard of it before
tonight. All I know is I was told to come here wiv a packet,
an’ if I found another packet here I was to swop them over an’
bring your packet back. That’s all I know about it, strike me dead if it
ain’t.”
    “I
shall probably strike you dead if it is,” said the Saint coldly.
“D’you mean to tell me that Comrade Osbett didn’t say any more than that
?”
    “Who’s
that?”
    “I
said Osbett. You know who I’m talking about.”
    “I
never heard of ‘im.”
    Simon moved
towards him with one fist drawn back.
    “That’s
Gawd’s own truth!” shouted McGuire desper ately. “I said
I’d tell yer anythink I could, didn’t I? It ain’t my fault if I don’t
know everythink—— ”
    “Then
who was it told you to come here and play tea- parties ?”
    “I
dunno…. Listen!” begged McGuire frantically. “This is a
squeal, ain’t it ? Well, why won’t yer believe me ? I tell yer, I
don’t know. It was someone who met me when I come out of stir. I dunno
wot is name is, an’ in this business yer don’t arsk questions.
He ses to me, would I like fifty quid a week to do any dirty
work there is going, more er less. I ses, for fifty quid a week
I’ll do anythink he can think of. So he gives me twenty quid
on account, an’ tells me to go any where where there’s a telephone an’
just sit there beside it until he calls me. So tonight he rings up—— ”
    “And
you never knew who he was ?”
    “Never
in me life, strike me dead—— ”
    “How
do you get the rest of your money ?”
    “He
just makes a date to meet me somewhere an’ hands it over.”
    “And
you don’t even know where he lives ?”
    “So
help me, I don’t. All I got is a phone number where I can ring him.”
    “What
is this number?”
    “Berkeley
3100.”
    Simon
studied him calculatingly. The story had at least a possibility of truth,
and the way McGuire told it it sounded convincing. But the Saint didn’t let any
premature cameraderie soften his implacably dissecting gaze.
    He said:
“What sort of a guy is he?”
    “A
tall thin foreign-looking bloke wiv a black beard.”
    It still
sounded possible. Whatever Mr Osbett’s normal appearance might be,
and whatever kind of racket he might be in, he might easily be anxious not
to have his identity known by such dubiously efficient subordinates as Red McGuire.
    “And
exactly how,” said the Saint, “did your foreign- looking
bloke know that I had any miracles in the house ?”
    “I
dunno—— ”
    Patricia
Holm came back into the room with a curling- iron that glowed dull
red.
    Simon
turned and reached for it.
    “You’re
just in time, darling,” he murmured. “Comrade McGuire’s memory is
going back on him again.”
    Comrade
McGuire gaped at the hot iron, and licked his lips.
    “I
found that out meself, guv’nor,” he said hurriedly. “I was goin’ to
tell yer —— ”
    “How
did you find out?”
    “I
heard somethink on the telephone.” The Saint’s eyes
narrowed.
    “Where?”
    “In
the fust house I went to—somewhere near Victoria Station. That was
where I was told to go fust an’ swop over the tea. Igot in all right,
but the bloke was there in the bed room. I could hear ‘im tossing about
in bed. I was standin’ outside the door, wondering if I should jump
in an’ cosh him, when the telephone rang. I listened to wot he said,
an’ all of a sudding I guessed it was about some tea, an’ then once he
called you ‘Saint’, an’ I knew who he must be talkin’ to. So I got
out again an’ phoned the guvnor an’ told him about it; an’ he
ses, go ahead an’ do the same thing here.”
    Simon
thought back over his conversation with Mr Teal; and belief grew upon
him. No liar could have invented that story, for it hung on the fact of a
telephone call which nobody