"The Holm girl and Uniatz!" raged Mr Teal, champing viciously on his flavourless spearmint. "It's as clear as daylight! They came here as openly as a couple of innocent schoolchildren and got her away with some fairy tale. I'll bet it was the Saint himself who rang up the Yard — just to get my goat!"
These remarks he addressed to himself as he paced up and down the luxuriously carpeted foyer. The monumental conviction was growing within him, and rapidly assuming the size of the Arc de Triomphe, that the Saint had made every variety of fool of him in the early afternoon.
Simon Templar was the Z-Man. Mr Teal's grey matter was flowing like molten lava. The Saint had spotted Sergeant Barrow at the Dorchester, and on the off-chance that Barrow had spotted him he had thought it advisable to shoot back the package of money to Beatrice Avery so that he could clear himself. Whatever hold he had on her had been enough to force her to lie on the telephone. Then, to keep her quiet, he had kidnapped her… It was like the Saint's devilish sense of humour to ring up… There wasn't any real proof… But if he could find Beatrice Avery in the Saint's hands there would be enough evidence to put him away for keeps, the detective told himself to the accompaniment of an imaginary fanfare of triumphal trumpets. It would be the last time that the Saint would pull a long nose at the majesty of the law…
Seething and sizzling like a firework about to go off, Mr Teal realized that he was wasting time at Park-side Court. He plunged into the police car which had brought him, and was driven to Cornwall House. He guessed that this would be a further waste of time, but the visit had to be made. He was right. Not only did Sam Outrell coldly inform him that the Saint was away, but he used a passkey to show him the empty flat. Fuming and expectorating a devitalized lump of chicle onto the sidewalk for the unwary to step on, he climbed into his car again and this time told the driver to go to Abbot's Yard in Chelsea. It was well known that the Saint owned a studio in this modernized slum.
"We might as well try it," Teal said grimly. "Ten to one they've taken the girl out of London, but it would be just like the Saint's blasted nerve to hold her here right under our very noses."
Again his fears were confirmed. Twenty-six Abbot's Yard was in the same condition as Mother Hubbard's supboard; and enquiries among the near-artist neighhours elicited the information that the Saint had not been seen for weeks.
Mr Teal was so exasperated that he nearly inserted the next slice of spearmint into his mouth without removing the pink wrapper; but on the intellectual side his grey matter was not quite so white hot now and therefore was slightly more efficient. He was certain of one thing: the Saint had not taken Beatrice Avery to Scotland. After years of experience of Simon Templar's methods Mr Teal easily guessed that Patricia Holm's reference to Scotland had very much the fishy smell of a red herring.
"Not much good looking for him, is it, sir?" asked the driver of the police car depressingly.
"No; let's sit down on the curb and play shove-ha'penny," retorted Mr Teal with searing sarcasm.
"I mean, sir, the Saint's got all sorts of hideouts," said the man. "There's no telling—"