She looked at him steadily.
"But you still haven't told me what—"
The telephone rang before he could answer.
Simon picked it up.
"Metropolitan Police Maternity Home," he said.
"Teal speaking," said a familiar voice with an unnecessarily pugnacious rasp in it. "I've got the information you asked for about that phone number. The subscriber is Baron Inescu, 16 North Ashley Street, Berkeley Square. Now what was that information you were going to give me in return?"
The Saint unpuckered his lips from a long inaudible whistle.
"Okay, Claud," he said, and the words lilted. "I guess you've earned it. You can start right now. Rush one of your squads to Osbett's Drug Store, 909 Victoria Street — the place where you bought your Miracle Tea. Three other guys will be there shopping for Miracle Tea at any moment from now on. I can't give you any description of them, but there's one sure way to pick them out. Have one of your men go up to everyone who comes out of the shop and say: 'Are you six, fourteen, or twenty-seven?' If the guy jumps halfway out of his skin, he's one of the birds you want. And see that you get his Miracle Tea as well!"
"Miracle Tea!" sizzled the detective, with such searing savagery that the Saint's ribs suddenly ached with awful intuition. "I wish—" He stopped. Then he said: "What's this about Miracle Tea? Are you trying to be funny?"
"I was never so serious in my life, Claud. Get those three guys, and get their packets of Miracle Tea. You'll find something interesting in them."
Teal's silence reeked of tormented indecision.
"If I thought "
"But you never have, Claud. Don't spoil your record now. Just send that Squad out and tell 'em to hustle. You stay by the telephone, and I ought to be able to call you within an hour to collect the Big Shot."
"But you haven't told me—" Again Teal's voice wailed off abruptly. Something like a stifled groan squeezed into the gap. He spoke again in a fevered gabble. "All right all right I'll do it I can't stop now to argue but God help you—"
The connection clicked off even quicker than the sentence could finish.
Simon fitted his automatic into the spring clip holster under his coat, and stood up with a slow smile of ineffable impishness creeping up to his eyes.
XII
16 North Ashley street stood in the middle of one of those rows of crowded but discreetly opulent dwellings which provide the less squalid aspect of certain parts of Mayfair. Lights could be seen in some of the windows, indicating that someone was at home; but the Saint was not at all troubled about that. It was, in fact, a stroke of luck which he had hoped for.
He stepped up to the front door with the easy aplomb of an invited guest, arriving punctually for dinner, and put his finger on the bell. He looked as cool as if he had come straight off the ice, but under the rakish brim of his hat the hell-for-leather mischief still rollicked in his eyes. One hand rested idly between the lapels of his coat, as if he were adjusting his tie…
The door opened, exposing a large and overwhelming butler. The Saint's glance weighed him with expert penetration. Butlers are traditionally large and overwhelming, but they are apt to run large in the wrong places. This butler was large in the right places. His shoulders looked as wide as a wardrobe, and his biceps stretched tight wrinkles into the sleeves of his well-cut coat.
"Baron Inescu?" inquired the Saint pleasantly.
"The Baron is not—"
Simon smiled, and pressed the muzzle of his gun a little more firmly into the stomach in front of him.
The butler recoiled, and the Saint stepped after him. He pushed the door shut with his heel.
"Turn round."
Tensely the butler started to obey. He had not quite finished the movement when Simon lifted his gun and jerked it crisply down again. The barrel made a sharp smacking sound on the back of the butler's bullet head; and the result, from an onlooker's point of view, was quite comical. The butler's legs bowed outwards, and he rolled down on to his face with a kind of resigned reluctance, and lay motionless.
For a second the Saint stood still, listening. But except for that single clear-cut smack there had been no disturbance, and the house remained quiet and peaceful.
Simon's eyes swept round the hall. In the corner close to the front door there was a door which looked as if it belonged to a coat cupboard. It was a coat cupboard. The Saint pocketed his gun for long enough to drag the butler across the marble floor and shove him in. He locked the door on him and took the key — he was a pretty accurate judge of the comparative toughness of gun-barrels and skulls, and he was confident that the butler would not be constituting a vital factor in anybody's life for some time.
He travelled past the other doors on the ground floor like a voyaging wraith, listening at each one of them, but he could hear no signs of life in any of the rooms beyond. From the head of the basement stairs he heard an undisturbed clink of dishes and mutter of voices which reassured him that the rest of the staff were strictly minding their own business.
In another moment he was on his way up the main staircase.
On the first wide landing he knew he was near his destination. Under one door there was a thin streak of light, and as he inched noiselessly up to it he heard the faint syncopated patter of a typewriter. Then the soft burr of a telephone interrupted it.
A voice said: "Yes… Yes." There was a slight pause; then: "Vernon! Here is your copy for the special nine o'clock broadcast. Take it down. 'Why suffer from indigestion when relief is so cheap? Two cups will make your pains vanish — only two. Four cups will set you on the road to a complete cure — so why not take four? But after sixteen cups you will forget that indigestion ever existed. Think of that. Sixteen cups will make you feel ten years younger. Wouldn't you like to feel ten years younger in a few days? Buy Miracle Tea — tonight!'… Have you got that?… Splendid. Good-night!"
The receiver rattled back. And the latch of the door rattled as Simon Templar closed it behind him.
The man at the desk spun round as if a snake had bitten him.
"Good evening, Baron," said the Saint.
He stood there smiling, blithe and elegant and indescribably dangerous.
The Baron stared frozenly back at him. He was a tall, cleanshaven man with dark hair greying at the temples, and he wore impeccable evening clothes with the distinction of an ambassador: but he had spoken on the telephone in a voice that was quite strangely out of keeping with his appearance. And the Saint's smile deepened with the joy of final certainty as he held his gun steadily aligned on the pearl stud in the centre of the Baron's snowy shirt-front.
The first leap of fear across the Baron's dark eyes turned into a convincing blaze of anger.
"What is the meaning of this?"
"At a rough guess, I should say about fifteen years — for you," answered the Saint equably. "It'll be quite a change from your usual environment, I'm afraid. That is, if I can judge by the pictures I've seen of you in the society papers. Baron Inescu driving off the first tee at St Andrew's — Baron Inescu at the wheel of his yacht at Cowes — Baron Inescu climbing into his new racing monoplane. I'm afraid you'll find the sporting facilities rather limited at Dartmoor, Baron… or would you rather I called you — Henry?"