Free The Saint in London: Originally Entitled the Misfortunes of Mr. Teal by Leslie Charteris Page B

lay in the hands of a creature more ruthless, more vindictive, more incalculable than any professional killer—a weak man, shorn of his armour of pomposity, fighting under the spur of fear.
    “The mistake could have been worse,” Iveldown repeated.
    “You ought to be thinking about other things,” said the Saint quietly. “This is Friday evening; and the sun isn’t standing still. By midnight tomorrow I have to receive your contribution to the Simon Templar Foundation—and yours also, Leo. And I’m telling you again that whatever you do and whatever Snowdrop threatens, wherever I am myself and whether I’m alive or dead, unless I’ve received your checks by that time Chief Inspector Teal will get something that at this moment he wants more than anything else you could offer him. He’ll get a chance to read the book which I wouldn’t let him see this morning.”
    “But meanwhile we still have you here,” said Lord Iveldown, with an equal quietness that contrasted strangely with the nervous flickers that jerked across his mottled face. He turned to his host. “Farwill, we must go to London at once. Miss Holm will be—ah—concerned to hear the news.”
    “She has a great sense of humour,” said the Saint metallically, but his voice sounded odd in his own ears.
    Iveldown shrugged.
    “That remains to be seen. I believe that it will be comparatively easy to induce her to listen to reason,” he said thoughtfully; and the Saint’s blood went cold.
    “She wouldn’t even listen to you,” he said and knew that he lied.
    Lord Iveldown must have known it, too, for he paid no attention. He turned away without answering, gathering his party like a schoolmaster rallying a flock of boys.
    “Nassen, you will remain here and guard these two. When Mr. Yorkland arrives, explain the developments to him, and let him do what he thinks best… . Farwill, you must find some pretext to dismiss your servants for the night. It will avoid difficulties if Nassen is compelled to exercise force. We will leave the front door open so that York-land can walk in… .”
    “Mind you don’t catch cold,” said the Saint in farewell.
    He smoked his cigarette through and listened to the hum of Lord Iveldown’s car going down the drive and fading away into the early night.
    Not for a moment since Iveldown walked into the room had he minimized his danger. Admittedly it is easier to be distantly responsible for the deaths of ten thousand unknown men than to order directly the killing of one; yet Simon knew that Lord Iveldown, who had done the first many years ago, had in the last two days slipped over a borderline of desperation to the place where he would be capable of the second. The fussiness, the pretentious speech, the tatters of pomposity which still clung to him and made him outwardly ridiculous made no difference. He would kill like a sententious ass; but still he would kill. And something told the Saint that the Rose of Peckham would not be unwilling to do the job at his orders.
    He lighted another cigarette and paced the room with the smooth nerveless silence of a cat. It was queer, he thought, how quickly and easily, with so little melodrama, an adventurer’s jest could fall under the shadow of death; and he knew how utterly false to human psychology were the ranting bullying villains who committed the murders in fiction and films. Murder was so rarely done like that. It was done by heavy, grandiose, flabby, frightened men—like Lord Iveldown or the Honourable Leo Farwill or Mr. Neville Yorkland, M.P. And it made no difference that Simon Templar, who had often visualized himself being murdered, had a futile angry objection to being murdered by pettifogging excrescences of that type.
    They would have no more compunction in deal-ing with Patricia. Perhaps less.
    That was the thought which gnawed endlessly at his mind, infinitely more than any consideration of his own danger. The smooth nerveless silence of his own walking was