Free Enter the Saint by Leslie Charteris

donation to the London Hospital anonymously, son?”
    “We will decide that on Monday,” said Hayn.
    The Saint nodded. “I wonder if you know what my game is?” he said soberly. “Perhaps you think I’m a kind of hijacker-a crook picking crooks pockets? Bad guess, dearie. I’m losing money over this. But I’m just a born-an’-bred fighting machine, and a quiet life on the moss-gathering lay is plain hell for this child. I’m not a dick, because I can’t be bothered with red tape, but I’m on the same side. I’m out to see that unpleasant insects like you are stamped on, which I grant you the dicks could do; but to justify my existence I’m going to see that the said insects contribute a large share of their ill-gotten gains to charity, which you’ve got to grant me the dicks can’t do. It’s always seemed a bit tough to me that microbes of your breed should be able to make a pile swindling, and then be free to enjoy it after they’ve done a month or two in stir-and I’m here to put that right. Out of the money I lifted off the Snake I paid Tommy Mitre back his rightful property, plus a bonus for damages; but the Snake’s a small bug, anyway. You’re big, and I’m going to see that your contribution is in proportion.”
    “We shall see,” said Hayn.
    The Saint looked at him steadily. “On Monday night you will sleep at Marlborough Street Police Station,” he said dispassionately. The next moment he was gone. Simon Templar had a knack of making his abrupt exits so smoothly that it was generally some minutes before the other party fully realized that he was no longer with him.
    Hayn sat looking at the closed door without moving. Then he glanced down, and saw the envelope that lay on the blotter before him, addressed in his own hand to M. Henri Chastel. And Hayn sat fascinated, staring, for although the imitation of his hand might have deceived a dozen people who knew it, he had looked at it for just long enough to see that it was not the envelope he had addressed.
    It was some time before he came out of his trance, and forced himself to slit open the envelope with fingers that trembled. He spread out the sheet of paper on the desk in front of him, and his brain went numb. As a man might have grasped a concrete fact through a murky haze of dope, Hayn realized that his back was to the last wall. Underneath the superficial veneer of flippancy, the Saint had shown for a few seconds the seriousness of his real quality and the intentness of his purpose, and Hayn had been allowed to appreciate the true mettle of the man who was fighting him.
    He could remember the Saint’s last words. “On Monday night you will sleep at Marlborough Street Police Station.” He could hear the Saint saying it. The voice had been the voice of a judge pronouncing sentence, and the memory of it made Edgar Hayn’s face go grey with fear.
    Chapter X
THE SAINT read Edgar Hayn’s letter in the cocktail bar of the Piccadilly, over a timely Martini, but his glass stood for a long time untasted before him, for he had not to read far before he learned that Edgar Hayn was bigger game than he had ever dreamed.
    Then he smoked two cigarettes, very thoughtfully, and made certain plans with a meticulous attention to detail. In half an hour he had formulated his strategy, but he spent another quarter of an hour and another cigarette going over it again and again in search of anything that he might have overlooked.
    He did not touch his drink until he had decided that his plans were as fool-proof as he could make them at such short notice.
    The first move took him to Piccadilly Post Office, where he wrote out and despatched a lengthy telegram in code to one Norman Kent, who was at that time in Athens on the Saint’s business; and the Saint thanked his little gods of chance for the happy coincidence that had given him an agent on the spot. It augured well for the future.
    Next, he shifted across from the counter to a telephone-box, and called