Mr. Teal's brow blackened. He could hardly believe his ears, and if he had stopped to think he wouldn't have believed them. He didn't stop.
"No, I wouldn't!" he squeaked. "Now get this, Saint. You can get away with just so much of your line and no more. You're going to leave Vascoe's exhibition alone, or by God—"
"Of course I'm going to leave it alone," said the Saint mildly. "My paths are the paths of righteousness, and my ways are the ways of peace. You know me, Claud. Vascoe will get what's coming to him in due time, but who am I to take it upon myself to dish it out?"
"You said—"
"I said that I'd often thought about taking over some of his art treasures. But is it a crime to think? If it was, there'd be more criminals than you could build jails for. Pass the marmalade. And try not to look so disappointed." The mockery in Simon's blue eyes was bright enough now for even Teal to realise that the Saint was deliberately taking him over the jumps once again. "Anyone might think you wanted me to turn into a crook — and is that the right attitude for a policeman to have?"
Between Simon Templar and Mr. Elliot Vascoe, millionaire and self-styled art connoisseur, no love at all was lost. Simon disliked Vascoe on principle, because he disliked all fat loudmouthed parvenus who took care to obtain great publicity for their charitable works while they practised all kinds of small meannesses on their employees. Vascoe hated the Saint because Simon had once happened to witness a motor accident in which Vascoe was driving and a child was injured, and Vascoe had made the mistake of offering Simon a hundred pounds to forget what he had seen. That grievous error had not only failed to save Mr. Vascoe a penny of the fines and damages which he was subsequently compelled to pay, but it had earned him a punch on the nose which he need not otherwise have suffered.
Vascoe had made his money quickly, and the curse of the nouveau riche had fallen upon him. Himself debarred for ever from the possibility of being a gentleman, either by birth or breeding or native temperament, he had made up for it by carrying snobbery to new and rarely equalled heights. Besides works of art, he collected titles: for high-sounding names, and all the more obvious trappings of nobility, he had an almost fawning adoration. Therefore he provided lavish entertainment for any undiscriminating notables whom he could lure into his house with the attractions of his Parisian chef and his very excellent wine cellar, and contrived to get his name bracketed with those who were more discriminating by angling for them with the bait of charity, which it was difficult for them to refuse.
In a great many ways, Mr. Elliot Vascoe was the type of man whose excessive wealth would have been a natural target for one of the Saint's raids on those undesirable citizens whom he included in the comprehensive and descriptive classification of 'the ungodly'; but the truth is that up till then the Saint had never been interested enough to do anything about it. There were many other undesirable citizens whose unpleasantness was no less immune from the cumbersome interference of the Law, but whose villainies were on a larger scale and whose continued putrescence was a more blatant challenge to the Saint's self-appointed mission of justice. With so much egregiously inviting material lying ready to hand, it was perhaps natural that Simon should feel himself entitled to pick and choose, should tend to be what some critics might have called a trifle finicky in his selection of the specimens of ungodliness to be bopped on the bazook. He couldn't use all of them, much as he would have liked to.
But in Simon Templar's impulsive life there was a factor of Destiny that was always taking such decisions out of his hands. Anyone with a less sublime faith in his guiding star might have called it Coincidence, but to the Saint that word was merely a chicken-hearted half truth. Certain things were ordained; and when the signs pointed there was no turning back.
Two days after Teal's warning he was speeding back to the city after an afternoon's swimming and basking in the sun at the Oatlands Park pool, when he saw a small coupe of rather ancient vintage standing by the roadside. The bonnet of the coupй was open, and a young man was very busy with the engine: he seemed to be considerably flustered, and from the quantity of oil on his face and forearms the success of his efforts seemed to bear no relation to the amount of energy he had put into them. Near the car stood a remarkably pretty girl, and she was what really caught the Saint's eye. She seemed distressed and frightened, twisting her hands nervously together arid looking as if she was on the verge of tears.