“Wouldn’t it be simpler if you just dropped them by his headquarters? He might give you a reward.”
“We’ll discuss rewards when we see you.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me to whom I have the pleasure of speaking?”
“Be at Belfort Close in an hour.”
If a click can be dramatic, the click at the other end of the line had a certain well-timed theatrical abruptness to it.
Simon hung up and went to a mirror and straightened his tie as he thought over the situation.
The amateurishness of his opponents was laughable. But it was also dangerous. The Saint was one of the most adaptable of men, but he was accustomed to fighting a sword with a sword, or a pistol with a pistol. The present opposition was placing him in the position of a fencer with a rapier encountering a wild-eyed peasant flailing the air with a pitchfork. He had to adjust his tactics to the non-professional mentality, which meant, among other things, adjusting to an enemy who was going to be stupidly logical as long as he thought things were going his way, but stupidly and unpredictably erratic as soon as he got confused.
It was also true that the opposition, however obvious they were about laying an ambush, were devilishly subtle about their motives. There still seemed to be no point at all to the whole affair except a desire to torment Thomas Liskard with worry. Even now, in the telephone call, there had been no demand for money. Most blackmailers preferred to get their loot as rapidly as possible and clear out before they could be trapped.
The Saint glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to seven. In a few minutes Mister Snowball would be cruising by again. Simon put on his raincoat, and slipped a small flashlight into his pocket. He stepped out on to the street just in time to see the ice cream van turn the corner, heading toward him. Then, as he appeared on the sidewalk it stopped several doors away and turned off its lights. If he had not been watching for it he might never have noticed it. The sky was totally dark now, and the street lamps were muted by a light fog.
He turned not toward his garage door, but toward the van. He walked up to it and looked in at the white-capped, white-jacketed driver.
“I’ll have a pint of vanilla, please,” he said politely.
The driver gulped and looked sturdily straight ahead.
“Closed,” he muttered. “All out of everything.”
The wide opening behind the driver, which gave him easy access to the interior of the van, was covered by a heavy curtain.
“Surely you must have something,” Simon insisted, drawing closer. “A slab of tripe... or a fat cheese?”
“Nothing,” said the driver.
But by then the Saint had put his hand on the door opposite the driver. He jerked it open and stepped quickly in to fling aside the hanging curtain. There like a great rosy-jowled toad squatted Chief Inspector Teal of Scotland Yard.
“Well, ‘pon my soul, if it isn’t ol’ Mister Snowball himself!” cried the Saint. “As I live and breathe! Will wonders never cease? It’s a small world.”
“Would you at least shut the door?” growled Teal without moving.
“Gladly.”
There was no passenger seat in the van. Simon stepped inside, closed the door, and moved through the curtains into the cargo area, where he took a seat on a carton facing Teal. The detective regarded him with a baleful eye and kept his hands stuffed deep inside his overcoat pockets.
“On closer inspection,” Simon said cannily, “I believe you’re not really Mister Snowball at all, but that old overweight operative, Claud Eustace Teal, disguised as Mister Snowball!”
“What are you up to, Templar?” Teal asked coldly.
“I might ask you the same, Claud,” the Saint said reproachfully. Simon glanced around the frigid interior of the van, which in addition to Inspector Teal contained nothing more comfortably padded than a cardboard box. There was a two-way radio in one corner and a few notepads and maps in another. “It’s not much, I suppose,” Simon observed, “but I’m sure it’s an improvement over what you used to do — at least from a moral point of view.”
Chief Inspector Teal heaved a deep sigh and pulled a hand from his pocket. The hand contained a stick of chewing gum, which he proceeded to unwrap and fold into his mouth. “Are you through being funny?” he asked with exaggerated boredom.
“I’m not sure,” said the Saint honestly.
“You’ve gotten mixed up with the Prime Minister of Nagawiland,” Teal said.
“I’ve been to dinner with him, if that’s what you mean,” Simon admitted.
“And you went to the Chelsea Police Station today and asked a lot of questions.”
“It was entirely a mission of mercy,” the Saint said. “I took along a food parcel and said a few cheery words. It’s the least one can do. Don’t you...”
“You were asking questions about a burglary that was reported by Liskard’s old girlfriend.”
“She’s hardly old,” Simon inserted. “I doubt that she’s a day over twenty-five.”
“You won’t get me off the subject,” Teal said. “I know that Liskard got involved with this girl — romantically involved — when he was here before.”
Simon leaned back and rested his shoulders comfortably against the side of the van.
“Nosey old goat, aren’t you?”
“It’s our job to know things about the men we’re supposed to protect,” Teal went on. “Apparently something funny is going on and you’re involved in it.”
“Just what do you think is funny?” Simon enquired.
“That’s what I’m asking you,” said Teal.
“All over England,” said the Saint accusingly, “stately homes are being burgled, payrolls and bullion are being hijacked, safe deposits and bank vaults are being blown — and you want to sit here and swap funny stories. As a public-spirited citizen, I can’t help you to goof off like this.”
He started to get up.
“Wait,” Teal said. “You’ve got no reason to keep vital information to yourself. And if you’re thinking you can pull one of your tricks and get some money out of Liskard by teaming up against him with his old girlfriend, you’re out of your head. Pull any of your Robin Hood stuff with an important man like that, and you’ll—”
“Oh, I see, Claud,” said the Saint. “I see it all. You’ve got it figured out, have you?”
“I have,” Teal said proudly. “You may as well give up your little scheme right now.”
Simon leaned forward and placed a long finger firmly against Teal’s fat paunch.
“And you listen to me, old plum pudding,” he said affectionately, prodding with the finger. “You’re on the wrong track as usual. Yes, there is something going on, but no, I won’t tell you what it is. Because if I did, you’d jump in with all your three flat left feet and bungle it. Let’s just get this straight, though. We’re both on the same side. I’m no more anxious for Liskard to get in trouble than you are, and if you’ll lay off I may be able to keep him out of it. Lay off Mary Bannerman, too, unless you want to foul things up so badly that you’ll be knocked back down to giving breathalyser tests to nursemaids pushing baby buggies in the park. Is that clear?”
The Saint’s final emphasis with his finger was so forceful that Teal choked on his chewing gum.
“You haven’t done anything yet,” the detective said sullenly. “If you do, I’ll be waiting.”
“That will give you more sleepless nights than it will me,” Simon told him. “And now, if you’ll excuse me I have a date.”
He got out on to the cobblestones, and looked at the van and shook his head.
“I’m a little surprised,” he said. “This seems so crude, even for you.”
“You don’t think we’d have it repainted just for your benefit, do you?” Teal said, with injured indignation.