unhallowed mischief. It was a glitter that Mr. Teal would have recognised only too easily, if he had been there to see it; but for once that long-suffering waist-line of the Law was not its victim.
“What for?” Simon repeated, with a puzzled politeness that was about as cosy and reliable as a tent on the edge of a drifting iceberg. “If you’ve got anything to say to me that this audience can’t hear, I’m afraid you’re shinning up the wrong leg. I’m not that sort of a girl.”
“I know perfectly well what I want to say,” retorted Pryke chalkily.
“Then I hope you’ll say it,” murmured the Saint properly. “Come along, now, Desmond-let’s get it over with. Make a clean breast of it-as the bishop said to the actress. Unmask the Public School Soul. What’s the matter?”
Pryke’s hands clenched spasmodically at his sides. “Do you know a man called Enderby?” “Never heard of him,” said the Saint unblushingly. “What does he do-bore the holes in spaghetti, or something?”
“At about ten minutes to three this afternoon,” said Pryke, with his studiously smooth University accent burring jaggedly at the edges, “a man entered his office, falsely representing himself to be an agent of the Southshire Insurance Company, and took away about twenty-seven thousand pounds’ worth of precious stones.”
Simon raised his eyebrows.
“It sounds like a tough afternoon for Comrade Enderby,” he remarked. “But why come and tell me? D’you mean you want me to try and help you recover these jools?”
The antarctic effrontery of his innocence would have left nothing visible in a thermometer but a shrunken globule of congealed quicksilver. It was a demonstration of absolute vacuum in the space used by the normal citizen for storing his conscience that left its audience momentarily speechless. Taking his first ration of that brass-necked Saintliness which had greyed so many of the hairs in Chief Inspector Teal’s dwindling crop, Desmond Pryke turned from white to pink, and then back to white again.
“I want to know what you were doing at the time,” he said.
“Me?” Simon took out his cigarette-case. “I was at the Plaza, watching a Mickey Mouse. But what on earth has that got to do with poor old Enderby and his jools?”
Suddenly the detective’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the wrist.
“That’s what you’ve got to do with it. That scar on your forearm. Miss Weagle-Mr. Enderby’s secretary-saw it on this fake insurance agent’s arm when he picked up the parcel of stones. It was part of the description she gave us!”
Simon looked down at his wrist in silence for a moment, the cigarette he had chosen poised forgotten in mid-air, gazing at the tail of the furrowed scar that showed beyond the edge of his cuff. It was a souvenir he carried from quite a different adventure, and he had usually remembered to keep it covered when he was disguised. He realised that he had underestimated both the eyesight of Miss Weagle and the resourcefulness of Junior Inspector Pryke; but when he raised his eyes again they were still bantering and untroubled.
“Yes, I’ve got a scar there-but I expect lots of other people have, too. What else did this Weagle dame say in her description?”
“Nothing that couldn’t be covered by a good disguise,” said Pryke, with a new note of triumph in his voice. “Now are you coming along quietly?”
“Certainly not,” said the Saint.
The detective’s eyes narrowed.
“Do you know what happens if you resist a police officer?”
“Surely,” said the Saint, supple and lazy. “The police officer gets a thick ear.”
Pryke let go his wrist, and shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Do you want me to have you taken away by force?” he asked.
“I shouldn’t want you to try anything so silly, Desmond,” said the Saint. He put the cigarette between his lips and struck a match with a flick of his thumbnail, without looking at it. “The squad hasn’t been
“What for?” Simon repeated, with a puzzled politeness that was about as cosy and reliable as a tent on the edge of a drifting iceberg. “If you’ve got anything to say to me that this audience can’t hear, I’m afraid you’re shinning up the wrong leg. I’m not that sort of a girl.”
“I know perfectly well what I want to say,” retorted Pryke chalkily.
“Then I hope you’ll say it,” murmured the Saint properly. “Come along, now, Desmond-let’s get it over with. Make a clean breast of it-as the bishop said to the actress. Unmask the Public School Soul. What’s the matter?”
Pryke’s hands clenched spasmodically at his sides. “Do you know a man called Enderby?” “Never heard of him,” said the Saint unblushingly. “What does he do-bore the holes in spaghetti, or something?”
“At about ten minutes to three this afternoon,” said Pryke, with his studiously smooth University accent burring jaggedly at the edges, “a man entered his office, falsely representing himself to be an agent of the Southshire Insurance Company, and took away about twenty-seven thousand pounds’ worth of precious stones.”
Simon raised his eyebrows.
“It sounds like a tough afternoon for Comrade Enderby,” he remarked. “But why come and tell me? D’you mean you want me to try and help you recover these jools?”
The antarctic effrontery of his innocence would have left nothing visible in a thermometer but a shrunken globule of congealed quicksilver. It was a demonstration of absolute vacuum in the space used by the normal citizen for storing his conscience that left its audience momentarily speechless. Taking his first ration of that brass-necked Saintliness which had greyed so many of the hairs in Chief Inspector Teal’s dwindling crop, Desmond Pryke turned from white to pink, and then back to white again.
“I want to know what you were doing at the time,” he said.
“Me?” Simon took out his cigarette-case. “I was at the Plaza, watching a Mickey Mouse. But what on earth has that got to do with poor old Enderby and his jools?”
Suddenly the detective’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the wrist.
“That’s what you’ve got to do with it. That scar on your forearm. Miss Weagle-Mr. Enderby’s secretary-saw it on this fake insurance agent’s arm when he picked up the parcel of stones. It was part of the description she gave us!”
Simon looked down at his wrist in silence for a moment, the cigarette he had chosen poised forgotten in mid-air, gazing at the tail of the furrowed scar that showed beyond the edge of his cuff. It was a souvenir he carried from quite a different adventure, and he had usually remembered to keep it covered when he was disguised. He realised that he had underestimated both the eyesight of Miss Weagle and the resourcefulness of Junior Inspector Pryke; but when he raised his eyes again they were still bantering and untroubled.
“Yes, I’ve got a scar there-but I expect lots of other people have, too. What else did this Weagle dame say in her description?”
“Nothing that couldn’t be covered by a good disguise,” said Pryke, with a new note of triumph in his voice. “Now are you coming along quietly?”
“Certainly not,” said the Saint.
The detective’s eyes narrowed.
“Do you know what happens if you resist a police officer?”
“Surely,” said the Saint, supple and lazy. “The police officer gets a thick ear.”
Pryke let go his wrist, and shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Do you want me to have you taken away by force?” he asked.
“I shouldn’t want you to try anything so silly, Desmond,” said the Saint. He put the cigarette between his lips and struck a match with a flick of his thumbnail, without looking at it. “The squad hasn’t been
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