The Saint Closes the Case by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online Page B

addresses and Y.M.C.A. records. I can’t help
thinking that life’s going to be very crowded for us in the near
future.”
    And the next day the Saint was walking back
to Brook Street towards midnight, in the company of Roger Conway, when he stopped
suddenly and gazed up into the sky with a reflective air, as if he had
thought of something that had eluded his concentration for some
time.
    “Argue with me, Beautiful,” he
pleaded. “Argue violently, and wave your hands about, and look as fierce
as your angelic dial will let you. But don’t raise your voice.”
    They walked the few remaining yards to the
door of the Saint’s apartment with every appearance of angry
dissension. Mr. Conway, keeping his voice low as directed, expatiated on the
failings of the Ford car with impassioned eloquence. The Saint answered, with aggressive
gesticulations:
    “A small disease in a pot hat has been
following me half the day. He’s a dozen yards behind us now. I want to get
hold of him, but if we chase him he’ll run away. He’s certain to be coming
up now to try and overhear the quarrel and find out what it’s about.
If we start a fight we should draw him within range. Then
you’ll grab him while I get the front door open.”
    “The back axle—— ” snarled Mr.Conway.
    They were now opposite the Saint’s house; and
the Saint halted and turned abruptly, placed his hand in the middle
of Conway’s chest,
and pushed.
    Conway recovered his balance and let fly. The
Saint took the blow on his shoulder, and reeled back convincingly.
Then he came whaling in and hit Mr. Conway on the jaw with great
gentleness. Mr. Conway retaliated by banging the air two inches from the
Saint’s nose.
    In the uncertain light it looked a most
furious battle; and the Saint was satisfied to see Pot Hat sneaking up along
the area railings only a few paces away, an interested spectator.
    “Right behind you,” said the Saint
softly. “Stagger back four steps when I slosh you.”
    He applied his fist caressingly to Conway’s
solar plexus, and broke away without waiting to see the result; but he knew that his lieutenant was well trained. Simon had just time to find his
key and open the front door. A second later he was closing the door again behind Conway and
his burden.            
    “Neat work,” drawled the Saint
approvingly. “Up the stairs with the little darling, Roger.”
    As the Saint led the way into the
sitting-room, Conway put P ot Hat down and removed his hand from the
little man’s mouth.
    “Hush!” said Conway in a shocked
voice, and covered his ears.
    The Saint was peering down through the
curtains.
    “I don’t think anyone saw us,” he
said. “We’re in luck. If we’d planned it we might have had to wait
years before we found Brook Street bare of souls.”
    He came back from the window and stood over
their pri soner, who was still shaking his fist under Conway’s nose
and burbling blasphemously.
    “That’ll be all for you,
sweetheart,” remarked the Saint frostily. “Run through his
pockets, Roger.”
    “When I find a pleeceman,” began Pot
Hat quiveringly.
    “Or when a policeman finds what’s left of
you,” murmured Simon pleasantly. “Yes?”
    But the search revealed nothing more
interesting than three new five-pound notes—a fortune which such a
seedy-looking little
man would never have been suspected of possessing.
    “So it will have to be the third
degree,” said the Saint mildly, and carefully closed both windows.
    He came back with his hands in his pockets
and a very Saintly look in his eyes.
    “Do you talk, Rat Face?” he asked.
    “Wotcher mean—talk? Yer big bullies—— ”
    “Talk,” repeated the Saint
patiently. “Open your mouth, and emit sounds which you fondly believe to
be English. You’ve been tailing me all day, and I don’t like it.”
    “Wotcher mean?” demanded the little
man again, indig nantly. “Tailing yer?”
    The Saint signed, and took the lapels of the
little