The Saint Goes On by Leslie Charteris

surprise.
    “Yes, miss. It’s a new rule. Everything of this kind that we cover has to be examined and sealed in our office, and sent off from there. It’s on account of all these insurance frauds they’ve been having lately.”
    The illicit passion which Miss Weagle seemed to have been conceiving for him appeared to wane.
    “Mr. Enderby has been dealing with your firm for a long time,” she began with some asperity.
    “I know, miss; but the firm can’t make one rule for one customer and another for another. It’s just a formality as far as you’re concerned, but them’s my orders. I’m a new man in this district, and I can’t afford to take a chance on my own responsibility. I’ll give you a receipt for ‘em, and they’re covered from the moment they leave your hands.”
    He sat down at the desk and wrote out the receipt on a blank sheet of paper, licking his pencil between every word. The Saint was an incomparable artist in characterisation at any time, but he had rarely practised his art under such a steady tension as he did then, for he had no means of knowing how soon the real insurance company’s agent would arrive, or how long Mr. Enderby’s appointment would keep him. But he completed the performance without a trace of hurry, and watched Miss Weagle tucking a layer of tissue over the last row of jewels.
    “The value is twenty-seven thousand six hundred and fifty pounds,” she said coldly.
    “I’ll make a note of it, miss,” said the Saint, and did so.
    She finished packing the box, and he picked it up. He still had to get away with it.
    “You doing anything particular next Saturday?” he asked, gazing at her with a hint of wistfulness.
    “The idea!” said Miss Weagle haughtily
“Do you like Greta Garbo?”
    This was different.
    “Oh,” said Miss Weagle.
    She wriggled. Simon had rarely witnessed such a revolting spectacle.
    “Meet me at Piccadilly Circus at half-past one,” he said.
    “All right.”
    Simon stuffed the box into one of the pockets of his sober and unimaginative black suit, and went to the door. From the door, he blew a juicy kiss through the fringe of fungus which overhung his mouth, and departed with a wink that left her giggling kittenishly-and he was out of the building before she even looked at the receipt he had left behind, and discovered that his signature was undecipherable and there was no insurance company whatever mentioned on it. …
    It was not by any means the most brilliant and dashing robbery that the Saint had ever committed, but it had a pure outrageous perfection of coincidence that atoned for all its shortcomings in the way of gore. And he knew, without the slightest diminution of the scapegrace beatitude that was performing a hilarious massage over his insides, that nothing on earth could have been more scientifically calculated to fan up the flames of vengeance on every side of him than what he had just done.
    What he may not have foreseen was the speed with which the inevitable vengeance would move towards him.
    Still wearing his deep-sea moustache and melancholy exterior, he walked west to New Oxford Street and entered a business stationer’s. He bought a roll of gummed paper tape, with which he made a secure parcel of Mr. Enderby’s brown cardboard box, and a penny label which he addressed to Joshua Pond, Esq., Poste Restante, Harwich. Then he went to the nearest post-office and entrusted twenty-seven thousand six hundred and fifty pounds to the care of His Majesty’s mails.
    Two hours later he crossed Piccadilly from the Green Park underground station, and a vision of slim fair-haired loveliness turned round from a shop window as he swung in towards her.
    “Were you waiting for somebody?” he asked gravely.
    Her eyes, as blue as his own, smiled at him uncertainly.
    “I was waiting for a bold bad brigand called the Saint, who doesn’t know how to keep out of trouble. Have you seen him?”
    “I believe I saw somebody like him sipping a glass