The Saint Meets His Match Read Online Free PDF Page B

upstairs.
    The pursuit of the car from
which the machine gun had been fired wasn’t
Simon Templar’s business. It could be carried on just
as effectively by the regulars—or just as
ineffectively, for the number plates were certain to have
been changed. But it made the Saint think.
    When the assistant
commissioner called in later for the story, however, Simon
showed no signs of perturba tion.
    “It was Budd’s idea, of course. He’s seen
service in Chicago. But machine guns in the
streets of London are nothing new on
me—I’ve had it happen before. There’s no
blamed originality in this racket, that’s the trouble.”
    “They seem to think
you’re important.”
    “There’s certainly
some personal bias against me,” ad mitted the Saint
innocently. “I was expecting a demon stration—I
had further words with Jill Trelawney yester day. Cigarette?”
    “Thanks.”
    The commissioner helped
himself. He was a grizzled, hard-featured man who had
worked his way up from the bottom of the ladder, and
he had all the taciturn abruptness common to men who have risen in the world
by ‘ nothing but a relentless devotion to the ambition of rising in the world.
    “How did she strike
you?”
    “She didn’t,”
said the Saint perversely.“I think she would have, though, but
for the low cunning with which I made my
escape. She’s a sweet child.”
    “Charming,”
agreed the commissioner ironically. “So gentle!
Such endearing ways!”
    “Ever meet
her?”
    “No. I knew her father, of course.”
    Simon grinned.
    “He never made any
friendly advance towards me,” he murmured. “But
of course there was some prejudice against me at the
time. Tell me that story again—from the inside.”
    Cullis settled himself.
    “The inside is that
Trelawney swore all along that he’d been framed,” he
said. “It’s not such an inside, any way,
because he told exactly the same tale at the inquiry. After all, that was the
only defense open to him: he was caught so red-handed that
no one could have thought out any other explanation
except that he was guilty.”
    “The story?”
    “Police plans were
leaking out; raids falling flat regularly. Something had to be done. The chief
commissioner took a chance on myself and another
superintendent— we had the longest service records—and
arranged for us to lead a surprise raid on a Thursday
night. On Thursday morning he let it get round the Yard
that the raid was to take place on Saturday. We raided
on Thursday with out any fuss, roped in a gang that had
slipped us twice before, and kept everyone on the
premises—including the men who made the raid, and they
were officially sup posed to be on leave. Therefore there was
nobody left at the Yard, except the chief, who knew that the raid was over. We
had one man sitting over the telephone and another
over the letter box. First post on Friday morning, a
letter came in. Just one word, typewritten: Saturday. It was on official paper, with the heading cut off, and the experts put it under the microscope and traced it to the typewriter in Trelawney’s office.”
    “Which anyone might
have used.”
    “It was postmarked
Windsor. Trelawney went down to Windsor for a consultation
on Thursday afternoon—and he went alone.”
    “Flimsy,” said
the Saint. “An accomplice might have posted
it.”
    Cullis nodded.
    “I know it wasn’t any
good by itself. But it was a clue. Nobody saw the
letter but the chief and myself. We watched Trelawney
ourselves. We were after Waldstein then. He was always slippery, and at
that time we reck oned he was vanishing an
average of one girl a week through the Pan-European Concert Agency, which was one of his most profitable incarnations. But he
was clever, and he never appeared in
person, and there was never a line of evidence. Then I had the inspiration. I
suggested to the chief that he go to
Trelawney with the story that one of Waldstein’s men had squealed. He
saw the point, and agreed. He told the tale of