11 The Brighter Buccaneer Read online

  The shabby man shook his head weakly.

  "Really, I don't --"

  "Step out," said the Saint.

  The man obeyed listlessly; and Simon took his arm and piloted him towards the exit. They turned into a convenient cafe and found a deserted corner.

  "I took a bit of trouble to pull you out of a mess, uncle, and the story of your life is the least you can give me in return."

  "Are you a reporter?" asked the other wearily.

  "I have a conscience," said the Saint. "What's your name, and what do you do?"

  "Inwood. I'm a chemist and-a sort of inventor." The shabby man gazed apathetically at the cup of coffee which had been set before him. "I ought to thank you for saving my life, I suppose, but --"

  "Take it as a gift," said the Saint breezily. "I was only thinking of our rails. I've got a few shares in the company, and your method of suicide makes such a mess. Now tell me why you did it."

  Inwood looked up.

  "Are you going to offer me charity?"

  "I never do that. My charity begins at home, and stays on with Mother like a good girl."

  "I suppose you've got some sort of right to an answer," said Inwood tiredly. "I'm a failure, that's all."

  "And aren't we all?" said the Saint. "What did you fail at, uncle?"

  "Inventing. I gave up a good job ten years ago to try and make a fortune on my own, and I've been living from hand to mouth ever since. My wife had a small income of her own, and I lived on that. I did one or two small things, but I didn't make much out of them. I suppose I'm not such a genius as I thought I was, but I believed in myself then. A month or so ago, when we were right at the end of our tether, I did make a little discovery."

  The shabby man took from his pocket a small brass tube like a girl's lipstick case, and tossed it across the table. Simon removed the cap, and saw something like a crayon-it was white outside, with a pink core.

  "Write something-with your pen, I mean," said Inwood.

  Simon took out his fountain-pen and scribbled a couple of words on the back of the menu. Inwood blew on it till it dried, and handed it back.

  "Now rub it over with that crayon."

  Simon did so, and the writing disappeared. It vanished quite smoothly and easily, at a couple of touches, without any hard rubbing, and the paper was left without a trace of discolora­tion or roughness.

  "Just a useful thing for banks and offices," said Inwood.

  "There's nothing else like it. An ink eraser tears up the paper. You can buy a chemical bleacher, and several firms use it, but that's liquid-two re-agents in separate bottles, and you have to put on drops of first one and then the other. That thing of mine is twice as simple and three times quicker."

  Simon nodded.

  "You're not likely to make a million out of it, but it ought to have quite a reasonable sale."

  "I know that," said Inwood bitterly. "I didn't want a mil­lion. I'd have been glad to get a thousand. I've told you-I'm not such a genius as I thought I was. But a thousand pounds would have put us on our feet again-given me a chance to open a little shop or find a steady job or something. But I'm not going to get a penny out of it. It isn't my property-and I invented it! ... We've been living on capital as well as income. This would have put us straight. It had to be protected."

  The old man's faded eyes blinked at the Saint pitifully. "I don't know anything about things like that. I saw a patent agent's advertisement in a cheap paper, and I took it to him. I gave him all my formulae-everything. That was a fortnight ago. He told me he'd have to make a search of the records before my patent could be taken out. I had a letter from him this morning, and he said that a similar specification had been filed three days ago."

  The Saint said nothing; but his blue eyes were suddenly very clear and hard.

  "You see what it was?" In his weakness the shabby inventor was almost sobbing. "He swindled me. He gave my specifications to a friend of his and let him file them in his own name. I couldn't believe it. I went to the Patent Office myself this morning: a fellow I found there helped me to find what I wanted. Every figure in the specification was mine. It was my specification. The coincidence couldn't possibly have been so exact, even if somebody else had been working on that same idea at the same time as I was. But I can't prove anything. I haven't a shilling to fight him with. D'you hear? He's ruined me --"

  "Steady on, uncle," said the Saint gently. "Have you seen this bird again?"

  "I'd just left his office when-when you saw me at Charing Cross," said Inwood shakily. "He threw me out. When he found he couldn't bluff me he didn't bother to deny anything. Told me to go on and prove it, and be careful I didn't give him a chance to sue me for libel. There weren't any witnesses. He could say anything he liked --"

  "Will you tell me his name?"

  "Parnock."

  "Thanks." Simon made a note on the back of an envelope. "Now will you do something else for me?"

  "What is it?"

  "Promise not to do anything drastic before Tuesday. I'm going away for the week-end, but Parnock won't be able to do anything very villainous either. I may be able to do something for you-I have quite a way with me," said the Saint bashfully.

  This was on a Friday-a date that Simon Templar had never been superstitious about. He was on his way to Burnham for a week-end's bumping about in a ten-ton yawl, and the fact that Mr. Inwood's misadventure had made him miss his train was a small fee for the introduction to Mr. Parnock. He caught a later train with plenty of time to spare; but before he left the elderly chemist he obtained an address and telephone number.

  He had another surprise the next morning, for he was searching for a certain penny to convince his incredulous host and owner of the yawl about a statement he had made at the breakfast table, and he couldn't find it.

  "You must have spent it," said Patricia.

  "I know I haven't," said the Saint. "I paid our fares yester­day afternoon out of a pound note; and I bought a magazine for a bob-I didn't spend any pennies."

  "What about those drinks at the pub last night?" said the host and owner, who was Monty Hayward.

  "We had one round each, at two-and-a-tanner a time. I changed a ten-bob note for my whack."

  Monty shrugged.

  "I expect you put it in a slot machine to look at rude pictures," he said.

  Simon found his bottle and silvered another penny for dem­onstration purposes. It was left on a shelf in the saloon, and Simon thought no more about it until the following morning. He was looking for a box of matches after breakfast when he came across it; and the sight of it made him scratch his head, for there was not a trace of silver on it.

  "Is anyone being funny?" he demanded; and after he had explained himself there was a chorus of denial.

  "Well, that's damned odd," said the Saint.

  He plated a third penny on the spot, and put it away in his pocket with a piece of paper wrapped round it. He took it out at six o'clock that evening, and the plating had disappeared.

  "Would you mind putting me ashore at Southend, Monty?" he said. "I've got some business I must do in London."

  He saw Inwood that night; and after the chemist had sniffed at the bottle and tested its remarkable properties he told the Saint certain things which had been omitted from the syllabus of Simon Templar's variegated education. Simon paced the shabby inventor's shabby lodging for nearly an hour after­wards, and went back to his own in a spirit of definite opti­mism.

  At eleven o'clock the next morning he presented himself at Mr. Parnock's office in the Strand. The inscription on the frosted-glass panel of the door informed him that Mr. Parnock's baptismal name was Augustus, and an inspection of Mr. Parnock himself showed that there had been at least one parent with a commendable prescience in the matter of names. Mr. Parnock was so august a personage that it was impossible to think of anyone abbreviating him to "Gus." He was a large and very smooth man, with a smooth convex face and smooth clothes and smooth hair and a smooth voice-except for
the voice, he reminded Simon of a well-groomed seal.

  "Well, Mr.-er --"

  "Smith," said the Saint-he was wearing a brown tweed coat and creaseless grey flannel trousers, and he looked agitated. "Mr. Parnock-I saw your advertisement in the Inventor's Weekly-is it true that you help inventors?"

  "I'm always ready to give any assistance I can, Mr. Smith," said Mr. Parnock smoothly. "Won't you sit down?"

  The Saint sat down.

  "It's like this, Mr. Parnock. I've invented a method of chromium plating in one process-you probably know that at present they have to nickel plate first. And my method's about fifty per cent cheaper than anything they've discovered up to the present. It's done by simple immersion, according to a specified formula." The Saint ruffled his hair nervously. "I know you'll think it's just another of these crazy schemes that you must be turning down every day, but --Look here, will this convince you?"

  He produced a letter and handed it across the desk. It bore the heading of one of the largest motor-car manufacturers in the country, and it was signed with the name of the managing director. Mr. Parnock was not to know that among Simon Templar's most valued possessions were a portfolio containing samples of notepaper and envelopes from every important firm in the kingdom, surreptitiously acquired at considerable trou­ble and expense, and an autograph album in which could be found the signatures of nearly every Captain of Industry in Europe. The letter regretted that Mr. Smith did not consider five thousand pounds a suitable offer for the rights of his invention, and invited him to lunch with the writer on the following Friday in the hope of coming to an agreement.

  "You seem to be a very fortunate young man," said Mr. Parnock enviously, returning the document. "I take it that the firm has already tested your discovery?"

  "It doesn't need any tests," said the Saint. "I'll show it to you now."

  He produced his little brown bottle, and borrowed Mr. Parnock's brass ashtray for the experiment. Before Mr. Par-nock's eyes it was silvered all over in a few seconds.

  "This bottle of stuff cost about a penny," said the Saint; and Mr. Parnock was amazed.

  "I don't wonder you refused five thousand for it, Mr. Smith," he said, as smoothly as he could. "Now, if you had come to me in the first place and allowed me to act as your agent --"

  "I want you to do even more than that."

  Mr. Parnock's eyebrows moved smoothly upwards for about an eighth of an inch.

  "Between ourselves," said the Saint bluntly, "I'm in the hell of a mess."

  The faintest gleam of expression flitted across Mr. Parnock's smooth and fish-like eyes, and gave way to a gaze of expectant sympathy.

  "Anything you wanted to tell me, Mr. Smith, would of course be treated confidentially."

  "I've been gambling-living beyond my means-doing all sorts of silly things. You can see for yourself that I'm pretty young. I suppose I ought to have known better. . . . I've stopped all that now, but-two months ago I tried to get out of the mess. I gave a dud cheque. I tried to stay in hiding-I was working on this invention, and I knew I'd be able to pay everyone when I'd got it finished. But they found me last Friday. They've been pretty decent, in a way. They gave me till Wednesday noon to find the money. Otherwise -"

  The Saint's voice broke, and he averted his face despairingly.

  Mr. Parnock gazed down at the silvered ashtray, then at the letter which was still spread open on his blotter, and rubbed his smooth chin thoughtfully. He cleared his throat.

  "Come, come!" he said paternally. "It isn't as bad as all that. With an asset like this invention of yours, you should have nothing to worry about."

  "I told them all about it. They were just polite. Wednesday noon or nothing, and hard cash-no promises. I suppose they're right. But it's all so wrong! It's unjust!"

  Simon stood up and shook his fists frantically at the ceiling; and Mr. Parnock coughed.

  "Perhaps I could help," he suggested.

  The Saint shook his head.

  "That's what I came to see you about. It was just a desperate idea. I haven't got any friends who'd listen to me - I owe them all too much money. But now I've told you all about it, it all sounds so feeble and unconvincing. I wonder you don't send for the police right away."

  He shrugged, and picked up his hat. Mr. Parnock, a cumber­some man, moved rather hastily to take it away from him and pat him soothingly on the shoulder.

  "My dear old chap, you mustn't say things like that. Now let's see what we can do for you. Sit down." He pressed the Saint back towards his chair. "Sit down, sit down. We can soon put this right. What's the value of this cheque?"

  "A thousand pounds," said the Saint listlessly. "But it might as well be a million for all the chance I've got of finding the money."

  "Fortunately that's an exaggeration," said Mr. Parnock cheerfully. "Now this invention of yours - have you patented it?"

  Simon snorted harshly.

  "What with? I haven't had a shilling to call my own for weeks. I had to offer it to those people just as it stood, and trust them to give me a square deal."

  Mr. Parnock chuckled with great affability. He opened a drawer and took out his chequebook.

  "A thousand pounds, Mr. Smith? And I expect you could do with a bit over for your expenses. Say twenty pounds . . . One thousand and twenty pounds." He inscribed the figures with a flourish. "I'll leave the cheque open so that you can go to the bank and cash it at once. That'll take a load off your mind, won't it?"

  "But how do you know you'll ever see it back, Mr. Parnock?"

  Mr. Parnock appeared to ponder the point, but the appear­ance was illusory.

  "Well, suppose you left me a copy of your formula? That'd be good enough security for me. Of course, I expect you'll let me act as your agent, so I'm not really running any risk. But just as a formality . . ."

  The Saint reached for a piece of paper.

  "Do you know anything about chemistry?"

  "Nothing at all," confessed Mr. Parnock. "But I have a friend who understands these things."

  Simon wrote on the paper and passed it over. Mr. Parnock studied it wisely, as he would have studied a Greek text.

  Cu + Hg + HNO3 + St = CuHgNO3 + H2O +NO2 "Aha!" said Mr. Parnock intelligently. He folded the paper and stowed it away in his pocket-book, and stood up with his smooth fruity chuckle. "Well, Mr. Smith, you run along now and attend to your business, and come and have lunch with me on Thursday and let's see what we can do about your inven­tion."

  "I can't tell you how grateful I am to you, Mr. Parnock," said the Saint almost tearfully as he shook the patent agent's smooth fat hand; but for once he was speaking nothing but the truth.

  He went down to see Inwood again later that afternoon. He had one thousand pounds with him, in crisp new Bank of England notes; and the shabby old chemist's gratitude was worth all the trouble. Inwood swallowed several times, and blinked at the money dazedly.

  "I couldn't possibly take it," he said.

  "Of course you could, uncle," said the Saint. "And you will. It's only a fair price for your invention. Just do one thing for me in return."

  "I'd do anything you asked me to," said the inventor.

  "Then never forget," said Simon deliberately, "that I was with you the whole of this morning-from half past ten till one o'clock. That might be rather important." Simon lighted a cigarette ajid stretched himself luxuriously in his chair. "And when you've got that thoroughly settled into your memory, let us try to imagine what Augustus Parnock is doing right now."

  It was at that precise moment, as a matter of history, that Mr. Augustus Parnock and his friend who understood those things were staring at a brass ashtray on which no vestige of plating was visible.

  "What's the joke, Gus?" demanded Mr. Parnock's friend at length.

  "I tell you it isn't a joke!" yelped Mr. Parnock. "That ashtray was perfectly plated all over when I put it in my pocket at lunchtime. The fellow gave me his formula and everything. Look-here it is!"

  The friend who
understood those things, studied the scrap of paper, and dabbed a stained forefinger on the various items.

  "Cu is copper," he said. "Hg is mercury and HNO3, is nitric acid. What it means is that you dissolve a little mercury in some weak nitric acid; and when you put it on copper the nitric acid eats a little of the copper, and the mercury forms an amalgam. CuHgNO3 is the amalgam-it'd have a silvery look which might make you think the thing had been plated. The other constituents resolve themselves in H2O, which is water, and NO2, which is a gas. Of course, the nitric acid goes on eating, and after a time it destroys the amalgam and the thing looks like copper again. That's all there is to it."

  "But what about the St?" asked Mr. Parnock querulously. His friend shrugged.

  "I can't make that out at all-it isn't any chemical symbol," he said; but it dawned on Mr. Parnock later.

  The Unusual Ending

  SIMON TEMPLAR buttered a thin slice of toast and crunched happily.

  "I have been going into our accounts," he said, "and the results of the investigation will amaze you."

  It was half past eleven; and he had just finished breakfast. Breakfast with him was always a sober meal, to be eaten with a proper respect for the gastronomic virtues of grilled bacon and whatever delicacy was mated with it. On this morning it had been mushrooms, a dish that had its own unapproachable place in the Saint's ideal of a day's beginning; and he had dealt with them slowly and lusciously, as they deserved, with golden wafers of brown toast on their port side and an open newspaper propped up against the coffee-pot for scanning to starboard. All that had been done with the solemnity of a pleasant rite. And now the last slice of toast was buttered and marmaladed, the last cup of coffee poured out and sugared, the first cigarette lighted and the first deep cloud of fragrant smoke inhaled; and the time had come when Simon Templar was wont to touch on weighty matters in a mood of profound contentment.

  "What is the result?" asked Patricia.

  "Our running expenses have been pretty heavy," said the Saint, "and we haven't denied ourselves much in the way of good things. On the other hand, last year we had a couple of the breaks that only come once in a lifetime, which just helps to show how brilliant we are. Perrigo's illicit diamonds and dear old Rudolf's crown jewels." 1 The Saint smiled reminis­cently. "And this current year's sport and dalliance hasn't been run at a total loss. In fact, old darling, at this very moment we're worth three hundred thousand quid clear of all over­head; and if that isn't something like a record for a life of crime I'll eat my second-best hat. I'm referring, of course," said the Saint fastidiously, "to a life of honest crime. Company promoters and international financiers we don't profess to compete with." 1 See Saint's Getaway (Doubleday) Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal, on the same day, reviewed the same subject with less contentment, which was only natural. Besides, he had the Assistant Commissioner's pecul­iarly sarcastic and irritating sniff as an obbligato.