"You know damn well who I mean!"
Simon scratched his head.
"Now I think of it the name does sort of sound familiar," he admitted. "Was he the guy who pulled off that big forgery some time ago?"
"You know that as well as I do," Teal said grimly, "and you know we were looking for him until we heard he'd been shot in Spain. Well, it's all very well for you to hand him over—"
"Me?" repeated the Saint. "I never touched him."
"He had a cracked jaw when I picked him up. And where did you skin your knuckles?"
"Trying to do a bit of amateur repair work on the car. I don't know if you've ever noticed what a lot of nobbly bits there are in these new-fangled engines."
"You—"
"I'm not, Claud, really I'm not. And you mustn't say things like that. They're slanderous." The Saint took out a cigarette. "You know, the trouble with you is that you're too modest. After you've done a brilliant piece of detective work running down this crook that everybody's been looking for for years you come over all coy and try to pass the credit on to someone else. It won't do, Claud. Modesty is all very well, but in these days you have to advertise even if it hurts."
"Besides that," Teal proceeded, "I took a man called Perez, and he's charged with murdering Ingles-ton last night."