Free The Saint Goes On by Leslie Charteris

about the living-room. Her face was quiet and untroubled, but she couldn’t relax and sit down. The dark had come down; and the view of the Green Park from the tall windows was hidden by a grey-blue veil in which the yellow specks of the street lamps shone brighter than the stars, and the lights of cars travelling up and down the Mall gleamed like flocks of dawdling comets. She drew the curtains, for something to do, and stole her thirty-seventh glance at the clock. It was a couple of minutes after nine.
    “What’s happened to him?” she said.
    Mr. Uniatz shook his head. He stretched out a spade-shaped hand for the decanter, and completed his solo conquest of its contents.
    “I dunno,” he said feebly. “Maybe he couldn’t shake de diddo. Dey come dat way, sometimes.”
    “He’s been arrested before,” she said. “It’s never kept him as long as this. If anything had gone wrong, he ought to have got word through to us somehow.”
    Mr. Uniatz chewed desperately at his poisonous cigar. He wanted to be helpful. As we have already explained, he was not naturally hot on the higher flights of the intellect; but on such an occasion as this he was not the man to shirk his obligations. The deep creases in his rudimentary forehead bore their own witness to the torture he was enduring from these unaccustomed stresses on his brain.
    “Maybe he’s on his way, right now,” he hazarded encouragingly.
    Patricia threw herself into a chair. It was another restless movement, rather than an attempt to rest.
    “That’s not enough, Hoppy.” She was thinking aloud, mechanically, more for the anaesthetic effect of actual speech than with any hope of coaxing something useful out of her companion. “If anything’s gone wrong, we’ve got to be ready for it. We’ve got to pick up our own cue. He’d expect us to find the answer. Suppose he isn’t on his way-what has he done?”
    “He’s got de ice,” said Mr. Uniatz, vaguely.
    “I don’t know whether he’s got it now. Probably he parked it somewhere on his way here. That’s what he’d have done if he was expecting trouble. Sometimes he simply puts things in the mail-sends them to a hotel or a poste restante somewhere, and picks them up later on when it’s all clear. Usually they aren’t even addressed to his own name.”
    Hoppy frowned.
    “But if dey ain’t addressed to his own name,” he said, “how does he pick dem up?”
    “Well, when he goes to pick them up, he gives the name that they were addressed to,” explained Patricia kindly.
    Mr. Uniatz nodded. He had always been lost in admiration of the Saint’s intellectual gifts, and this solution was only one more justification of his faith. Obviously a guy who could work out things like that in his own head had got what it takes.
    “But this time we don’t know where he’s sent them, or what name he addressed them to,” she said.
    The tentative expression of pleased complacency faded away from Hoppy’s face, and the flutings of honest effort crowded themselves once more into the restricted space between his eyebrows and his hair. He was too loyal to give way to the feeling that this was an unnecessary complication, invented simply to make things more difficult for him; but he wished people wouldn’t ask him to tackle problems like that. Reaching again for the decanter and finding it empty, he glowered at it plaintively, like a trusted friend who had done him a gratuitous injury.
    “So what?” he said, passing the buck with an air of profound reluctance.
    “I must know what’s happened to him,” said Patricia steadily.
    She got up and lighted a cigarette. Twice more she paced out the length of the room with her supple boyish stride; and then with a sudden resolution she slipped into the chair by the telephone, and dialled Teal’s private number.
    He was at home. In a few moments his drowsy voice came over the wire.
    “Who’s that?”
    “This is Patricia Holm.” Her voice was as cool and careless as