"This is it," he said.
"May I have a look at it?" said the Saint.
He took the necklace from Teal's hand and studied it closely under the light. Then he handed it back with a brief grin.
"If you could get eighty pounds for it, you'd be lucky," he said. "It's a very good imitation, but I'm afraid the stones are only jargoons."
The detective's eyes went wide. Then he snatched the necklace and examined it himself.
He turned around again slowly.
"I'll begin to believe you were telling the truth for once, Templar," he said, and his manner had changed so much that the effect would have been comical without the back-handed apology. "What do you make of it?"
"I think we've both been had," said the Saint. "After what you've told me, I should think the Deacon knew you were watching him, and knew he'd have to get the jewels out of the country in a hurry. He could probably fence most of them quickly, but no one would touch that necklace-it's too well known. He had the rather artistic idea of trying to get me to do the job --"
"Then why should he give you a fake?"
Simon shrugged.
"Maybe that Deacon is smoother than any of us thought. My God, Teal-think of it! Suppose even all this was just a blind-for you to know he'd been to see me-for you to get after me as soon as the jewels were missed-hear I'd left for Paris-chase me to Croydon-and all the time the real necklace is slipping out by another route --"
"God damn!" said Chief Inspector Teal, and launched himself at the telephone with surprising speed for such a portly and lethargic man.
The plain-clothes man at the door stood aside almost respectfully for the Saint to pass.
Simon fitted his hat on rakishly and sauntered out with his old elegance. Out in the waiting room an attendant was shouting, "All Ostend and Brussels passengers, please!"-and outside on the tarmac a roaring aeroplane was warming up its engines. Simon Templar suddenly changed his mind about his destination.
"I will give you thirty thousand guilders for the necklace," said Van Roeper, the little trader of Amsterdam to whom the Saint went with his booty.
"I'll take fifty thousand," said the Saint; and he got it.
He fulfilled another of the qualifications of a successful buccaneer, for he never forgot a face. He had had a vague idea from the first that he had seen the Deacon somewhere before, but it had not been until that morning, when he woke up, that he had been able to place the amiable solicitor who had been so anxious to enlist his dubious services; and he felt that fortune was very kind to him.
Old Charlie Milton, who had been dragged away from his breakfast to sell him the facsimile for eighty pounds, felt much the same.
The Unblemished Bootlegger
MR. MELFORD CROON considered himself a very prosperous man. The brass plate outside his unassuming suite of offices in Gray's Inn Road described him somewhat vaguely as a "Financial Consultant"; and while it is true that the gilt-edged moguls of the city had never been known to seek his advice, there is no doubt that he flourished exceedingly.
Out of Mr. Croon's fertile financial genius emerged, for example. the great Tin Salvage Trust. In circulars, advertisements, and statements to the Press, Mr. Croon raised his literary hands in horror at the appalling waste of tin that was going on day by day throughout the country. "Tins," of course as understood in the British domestic vocabulary to mean the sepulchres of Hcinz's 57 Varieties, the Crosse & Blackwell vegetable garden, or the Campbell soup kitchen, are made of thin sheet steel with the most economical possible plating of genuine tin; but nevertheless (Mr. Croon pointed out) tin was used. And what happened to it? It was thrown away.
The garbage man removed it along with the other contents of the ashcan, and the municiapl incenerators burnt it. And tin was a precious metal-not quite so valuable as gold and platinum, but not very far behind silver. Mr. Croon invited his readers to think of it. Hundreds of thousands of pounds being poured into garbage dumps and incinerators every day of the week from every kitchen in the land. Individually worthless "tins" which in the accumulation represented an enormous potential wealth.
The great Tin Salvage Trust was formed with a capital of nearly a quarter of a million to deal with the problem. Barrows would collect cans from door to door. Rag-and-bone men would lend their services. A vast refining and smelting plant would be built to recover the pure tin. Enormous dividends would be paid. The subscribers would grow rich overnight The subscribers did not grow rich overnight; but that was not Mr. Croon's fault. The Official Receiver reluctantly had to admit it, when the Trust went into liquidation eighteen months after it was formed. The regrettable capriciousness of fortune discovered and enlarged a fatal leak in the scheme; without quite knowing how it all happened, a couple of dazed promoters found themselves listening to sentences of penal servitude; and the creditors were glad to accept one shilling in the pound. Mr. Croon was overcome with grief-he said so in public-but he could not possibly be blamed for the failure. He had no connection whatever with the Trust, except as Financial Consultant-a post for which he received a merely nominal salary. It was all very sad.
In similar circumstances, Mr. Croon was overcome with grief at the failures of the great Rubber Waste Products Corporation, the Iron Workers' Benevolent Guild, the Small Investors' Cooperative Bank, and the Consolidated Albion Film Company. He had a hard and unprofitable life; and if his mansion flat in Hampstead, his Rolls Royce, his shoot in Scotland, his racing stable, and his house at Marlow helped to console him, it is quite certain that he needed them.
"A very suitable specimen for us to study," said Simon Templar.
The latest product of Mr. Croon's indomitable inventiveness was spread out on his knee. It took the form of a very artistically typewritten letter, which had been passed on to the Saint by a chance acquaintance.
Dear Sir, As you cannot fail to be aware, a state of Prohibition exists at present in the United States of America. This has led to a highly profitable trade in the forbidden alcoholic drinks between countries not so affected and the United States.
A considerable difference of opinion exists as to whether this traffic is morally justified. There can be no question, however, that from the standpoint of this country it cannot be legally attacked, nor that the profits, in proportion to the risk, are exceptionally attractive.
If you should desire further information on the subject I shall be pleased to supply it at the above address.
Yours faithfully, Melford Croon.
Simon Templar called on Mr. Croon one morning by appointment; and the name he gave was not his own. He found Mr. Croon to be a portly and rather pale-faced man, with the flowing iron-grey mane of an impresario; and the information he gave-after a few particularly shrewd inquiries about his visitor's status and occupation-was very much what the Saint had expected.
"A friend of mine," said Mr. Croon-he never claimed personally to be the author of the schemes on which he gave Financial Consultations-"a friend of mine is interested in sending a cargo of wines and spirits to America. Naturally, the expenses are somewhat heavy. He has to charter a ship, engage a crew, purchase the cargo, and arrange to dispose of it on the other side. While he would prefer to find the whole of the money-and, of course, reap all the reward--he is unfortunately left short of about two thousand pounds."
"I see," said the Saint.
He saw much more than Mr. Croon told him, but he did not say so.
"This two thousand pounds," said Mr. Croon, "represents about one-fifth of the cost of the trip, and in order to complete his arrangements my friend is prepared to offer a quarter of his profits to anyone who will go into partnership with him. As he expects to make at least ten thousand pounds, you will see that there are not many speculations which offer such a liberal return."
If there was one role which Simon Templar could play better than any other, it was that of the kind of man whom financial consultants of every size and species dream that they may mee
t one day before they die. Mr. Croon's heart warmed towards him as Simon laid on the touches of his self-created character with a master's brush.
"A very charming man," thought the Saint as he paused on the pavement outside the building which housed Mr. Croon's offices.
Since at various stages of the interview Mr. Croon's effusive bonhomie had fairly bubbled with invitations to lunch with Mr. Croon, dine with Mr. Croon, shoot with Mr. Croon, watch Mr. Croon's horses win at Goodwood with Mr. Croon, and spend week-ends with Mr. Croon at Mr. Croon's house on the river, the character which Simon Templar had been playing might have thought that the line of the Saint's lips were unduly cynical; but Simon was only thinking of his own mission in life.
He stood there with his walking cane swinging gently in his fingers, gazing at the very commonplace street scene with thoughtful blue eyes, and became aware that a young man with the physique of a pugilist was standing at his shoulder. Simon waited.
"Have you been to see Croon?" demanded the young man suddenly.
Simon looked around with a slight smile.
"Why ask?" he murmured. "You were outside Croon's room when I came out, and you followed me down the stairs."
"I just wondered."
The young man had a pleasantly ugly face with crinkly grey eyes that would have liked to be friendly; but he was very plainly nervous.
"Are you interested in bootlegging?" asked the Saint; and the young man stared at him grimly.
"Listen, I don't know if you're trying to be funny, but I'm not. I'm probably going to be arrested this afternoon. In the last month I've lost about five thousand pounds in Croon's schemes-and the money wasn't mine to lose. You can think what you like. I went up there to bash his face in before they get me, and I'm going back now for the same reason. But I saw you come out, and you didn't look like a crook. I thought I'd give you a word of warning. You can take it or leave it. Goodbye."
He turned off abruptly into the building, but Simon reached out and caught him by the elbow.
"Why not come and have some lunch first?" he suggested. "And let Croon have his. It'll be so much more fun punching him in the stomach when it's full of food."
He waved away the young man's objections and excuses without listening to them, hailed a taxi, and bundled him in. It was the kind of opportunity that the Saint lived for, and he would have had his way if he was compelled to kidnap his guest for the occasion. They lunched at a quiet restaurant in Soho; and in the persuasive warmth of half a litre of Antinori Chianti and the Saint's irresistible personality the young man told him what he knew of Mr. Melford Croon.
"I suppose I was a complete idiot--that's all. I met Croon through a man I used to see in the place where I always had lunch. It didn't occur to me that it was all a put-up job, and I thought Croon was all right. I was fed to the teeth with sitting about in an office copying figures from one book to another, and Croon's stunts looked like a way out. I put three thousand quid into his Consolidated Albion Film Company: it was only on paper, and the way Croon talked about it made me think I'd never really be called on for the money. They were going to rent the World Features studio at Teddington-the place is still on the market. When Consolidated Albion went smash I had to find the money, and the only way I could get it was to borrow it out of the firm. Croon put the idea into my head, but - Oh, hell! It's easy enough to see how things have happened after the damage is done."
He had borrowed another two thousand pounds-without the cashier's knowledge-in the hope oŁ retrieving the first loss. It had gone into a cargo of liquor destined for the thirsty States. Six weeks later Mr. Croon broke the news to him that the coastal patrols had captured the ship.
"And that's what'll happen to any other fool who puts money into Croon's bootlegging," said the young man bitterly. "He'll be told that the ship's sunk, or captured, or caught fire, or grown wings and flown away. He'll never see his money back. My God-to think of that slimy swab trying to be a bootlegger! Why, he told me once that the very sight of a ship made him feel sick, and he wouldn't cross the Channel for a thousand pounds."
"What are you going to do about it?" asked the Saint, and the young man shrugged.
"Go back and try to make him wish he'd never been born- as I told you. They're having an audit today at the office, and they can't help finding out what I've done. I stayed away-said I was ill. That's all there is to do."
Simon took out his chequebook and wrote a cheque for five thousand pounds.
"Whom shall I make it payable to?" he inquired, and his guest's eyes widened.
"My name's Peter Quentin. But I don't want any of your damned --"
"My dear chap, I shouldn't dream of offering you charity." Simon blotted the pink slip and scaled it across the table. "This little chat has been worth every penny of it. Besides, you don't want to go to penal servitude at your age. It isn't healthy. Now be a good fellow and dash back to your office-square things up as well as you can --"
The young man was staring at the name which was scribbled in the bottom right-hand corner of the paper.
"Is that name Simon Templar?"
The Saint nodded.
"You see, I shall get it all back," he said.
He went home with two definite conclusions as a result of his day's work and expenses: first, that Mr. Melford Croon was in every way as undesirable a citizen as he had thought, and second, that Mr. Melford Croon's contribution to the funds of righteousness was long overdue. Mr. Croon's account was, in fact, exactly five thousand pounds overdrawn; and that state of affairs could not be allowed to continue.
Nevertheless, it took the Saint twenty-four hours of intensive thought to devise a poetic retribution; and when the solution came to him it was so simple that he had to laugh.
Mr. Croon went down to his house on the river for the week-end. He invariably spent his week-ends there in the summer, driving out of London on the Friday afternoon and refreshing himself from his labours with three happy days of rural peace. Mr. Croon had an unexpected appetite for simple beauty and the works of nature: he was rarely so contented as when he was lying out in a deck-chair and spotless white flannels, directing his gardener's efforts at the flower-beds, or sipping an iced whisky-and-soda on his balcony while he watched supple young athletes propelling punts up and down the stream.
This week-end was intended to be no exception to his usual custom. He arrived at Marlow in time for dinner, and prepared for an early night in anticipation of the tireless revels of a mixed company of his friends who were due to join him the next day. It was scarcely eleven o'clock when he dismissed his servant and mixed himself a final drink before going to bed.
He heard the front door-bell ring, and rose from his armchair grudgingly. He had no idea who could be calling on him at that hour; and when he had opened the door and found that there was no one visible outside he was even more annoyed.
He returned to the sitting-room, and gulped down the remainder of his nightcap without noticing the bitter tang that had not been there when he poured it out. The taste came into his mouth after the liquid had been swallowed, and he grimaced. He started to walk towards the door, and the room spun around. He felt himself falling helplessly before he could cry out.
When he woke up, his first impression was that he had been buried alive. He was lying on a hard narrow surface, with one shoulder squeezed up against a wall on his left, and the ceiling seemed to be only a few inches above his head. Then his sight cleared a little, and he made out that he was in a bunk in a tiny unventilated compartment lighted by a single circular window. He struggled up on one elbow, and groaned. His head was one reeling whirligig of aches, and he felt horribly sick.
Painfully he forced his mind back to his last period of consciousness. He remembered pouring out that last whisky-and-soda-the ring at the front door-the bitter taste in the glass. . . . Then nothing but an infinity of empty blackness. . . . How long had he been unconscious? A day? Two days? A week? He had no means of telling.
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With an agonizing effort he dragged himself off the bunk and staggered across the floor. It reared and swayed sickeningly under him, so that he could scarcely keep his balance. His stomach was somersaulting nauseatingly inside him. Somehow he got over to the one window, the pane was frosted over, but outside he could hear the splash of water and the shriek of wind. The explanation dawned on him dully-he was in a ship.
Mr. Croon's knees gave way under him, and he sank moaning to the floor. A spasm of sickness left him gasping in a clammy sweat. The air was stiflingly close, and there was a smell of oil in it which made it almost unbreathable. Stupidly, unbelievingly, he felt the floor vibrating to the distant rhythm of the engines. A ship! He'd been drugged-kidnapped-shanghaied! Even while he tried to convince himself that it could not be true, the floor heaved up again with the awful deliberateness of a seventh wave; and Mr. Croon heaved up with it. ...
He never knew how he managed to crawl to the door between the paroxysms of torment that racked him with every movement of the vessel. After what seemed like hours he reached it, and found strength to try the handle. The door failed to budge. It was locked. He was a prisoner-and he was going to die. If he could have opened the door he would have crawled up to the deck and thrown himself into the sea. It would have been better than dying of that dreadful nausea that racked his whole body and made his head swim as if it were being spun on the axle of a dynamo.
He rolled on the floor and sobbed with helpless misery. In another hour of that weather he'd be dead. If he could have found a weapon he would have killed himself. He had never been able to stand the slightest movement of the water-and now he was a prisoner in a ship that must have been riding one of the worst storms in the history of navigation. The hopelessness of his position made him scream suddenly-scream like a trapped hare-before the ship slumped suckingly down into the trough of another seventh wave and left his stomach on the crest of it.
11 The Brighter Buccaneer Page 3