Free The Saint Goes On by Leslie Charteris Page B

of you keeps in touch with this address, I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”
    He left a roomful of equally stony silence behind him, and went out to take a taxi to Scotland Yard.
    The High Fence had got the Saint and Junior Inspector Pryke-he had no doubts about that. He knew, although he could never prove it, that his analysis of the situation had been as mathematically accurate as any jig-saw he would ever put together could hope to be. And it was easier to put together than most problems. He would have been happier if his own course of action had been no less clearly indicated; and it disturbed him more than he could have cared to admit to realise that he was far more concerned about the fate of the Saint than he was about the fate of his own smug subordinate.
    This secondary concern, however, was settled shortly after ten o’clock, when a police constable observed a pair of feet protruding from a bush on the edge of Wimbledon Common, and used the feet to haul out the body of a man. In the first flush of instinctive optimism, the policeman thought that the body was dead, and pictured himself (with photograph and biographical note) in the headlines of a sensational murder mystery; but closer investigation showed it to be alive, and with medical assistance it was quite easily resuscitated into a healthy profane Junior Inspector of unmistakable Trenchard parentage.
    “So the High Fence didn’t kill you,” said Mr. Teal malignantly, when a police car had brought the salvage to Scotland Yard.
    “I thought you’d be pleased,” retorted Pryke pettishly.
    He had a sick headache from the gas which had been pumped into the cab, and he was on the defensive for trouble. Mr. Teal did not disappoint him.
    “Who told you to arrest the Saint?” he inquired mucilaginously, when Pryke had given his account of the affair.
    “I didn’t know I had to be told. I heard of the robbery at Enderby’s, and there were grounds for believing that the Saint had a hand in it”
    “You know that Enderby has denied that there ever was a robbery, and said it was entirely a misunderstanding?”
    “Has he? That’s what the Saint told me, but I didn’t believe him. I knew nothing about it. I went out as soon as I received the first information, and waited for him at his flat.”
    “And you had to use a gun to arrest him.”
    Pryke flushed. He had thought it wiser to say nothing about that.
    “He refused to come with me,” he said sulkily. “I had to do something, and I didn’t want to make a scene.”
    “It would have made the biggest scene you’re ever likely to be in, if you had got him to the station and that gun had been mentioned in the police court,” Teal said caustically. “As it is, you’ll be on the carpet first thing in the morning. Or will you tell the Assistant Commissioner that all this was my idea, too?”
    Pryke scowled, and said nothing.
    “Anyhow,” Teal wound up, “the Saint has got to be found now. After your performance, he’s technically an escaped prisoner. Since it was your arrest, you’d better do something about it.”
    “What do you suggest?” asked Pryke, with treacherous humility.
    Teal, having no answer, glared at him. Everything that could be prescribed for such an emergency had been done already—every alarm issued, every feeler put out, every net spread. If he could have thought of anything more, Chief Inspector Teal would have done it himself. But there was nothing to guide him: even what had been done was a mere firing of routine shots in the dark. The taxi had disappeared, and no one had even noticed its number. Beyond any doubt, the man who had ordered its movements was the same man who had killed Johnny Anworth and Sunny Jim Fasson- who, unless something were done quickly, would be just as likely to kill Simon Templar. A man knew too much, and he died: the logical sequence was quite clearly established, but Teal found no pleasure in following it to its conclusion.
    “Since