11 The Brighter Buccaneer Page 5

  The girl looked up into his face.

  "I should love to come," she said huskily. "I think you're the kindest man I've ever known. I'll be on the course tomorrow, and if you still think you'd like to see me again-"

  "My dear, nothing in the world could please me more." Les­bon put a hand on her shoulder and pressed her towards the door. "Now you run along home and forget all about it. I'm only too happy to be able to help such a charming lady."

  Patricia Holm walked round the block in which Mr. Les­bon's flat was situated, and found Simon Templar waiting patiently at the wheel of his car. She stepped in beside him, and they whirled down into the line of traffic that was crawling towards Marble Arch.

  "How d'you like Vincent?" asked the Saint, and Patricia shivered.

  "If I'd known what he was like at close quarters, I'd never have gone," she said. "He's got hot slimy hands, and the way he looks at you . . . But I think I did the job well."

  Simon smiled a little, and flicked the car through a gap between two taxis that gave him half an inch to spare on either wing.

  "So that for once we can give the pin a rest," he said.

  Saturday morning dawned clear and fine, which was very nearly a record for the season. What was more, it stayed fine; and Mart Farrell was optimistic.

  "The going's just right for Hill Billy," he said. "If he's ever going to beat Rickaway he'll have to do it today. Perhaps your aunt might have five shillings on him after all, Miss Holm."

  Patricia's eyebrows lifted vaguely.

  "My-er-"

  "Miss Holm's aunt got up this morning with a bilious at­tack," said the Saint glibly. "It's all very annoying, after we've put on this race for her benefit, but since Hill Billy's here he'd better have the run."

  The Owners' Handicap stood fourth on the card. They lunched on the course, and afterwards the Saint made an ex­cuse to leave Patricia in the Silver Ring and went into Tatter-sail's with Farrell. Mr. Lesbon favoured the more expensive enclosure, and the Saint was not inclined to give him the chance to acquire any premature doubts.

  The runners for the three-thirty were being put in the frame, and Farrell went off to give his blessing to a charge of his that was booked to go to the post. Simon strolled down to the rails and faced the expansive smile of Mr. Mackintyre.

  "You having anything on this one, Mr. Templar?" asked the bookie juicily.

  "I don't think so," said the Saint. "But there's a fast one coming to you in the next race. Look out!"

  As he wandered away, he heard Mr. Mackintyre chortling over the unparalleled humour of the situation in the ear of his next-door neighbour.

  Simon watched the finish of the three-thirty, and went to find Farrell.

  "I've got a first-class jockey to ride Hill Billy," the trainer told him. "He came to my place this morning and tried him out, and he thinks we've a good chance. Lesbon is putting Penterham up-he's a funny rider. Does a lot of Lesbon's work, so it doesn't tell us anything."

  "We'll soon see what happens," said the Saint calmly.

  He stayed to see Hill Billy saddled, and then went back to where the opening odds were being shouted. With his hands in his pockets, he sauntered leisurely up and down the line of bawling bookmakers, listening to the fluctuation of the prices. Hill Billy opened favourite at two to one, with Rickaway a close second at threes-in spite of its owner's dubious reputation. Another horse named Tilbury, which had originally been quoted at eight to one, suddenly came in demand at nine to two. Simon overheard snatches of the gossip that was flashing along the line, and smiled to himself. The Mackintyre-Lesbon combination was expert at drawing that particular brand of red herring across the trail, and the Saint could guess at the source of the rumour. Hill Billy weakened to five to two, while Tilbury pressed close behind it from fours to threes. Rickaway faded out to five to one.

  "There are always mugs who'll go for a horse just because other people are backing it," Mr. Mackintyre muttered to his clerk; and then he saw the Saint coming up. "Well, Mr. Tem­plar, what's this fast one you promised me?"

  "Hill Billy's the name," said the Saint, "and I guess it's good for a hundred."

  "Two hundred and fifty pounds to one hundred for Mr. Templar," said Mackintyre lusciously, and watched his clerk entering up the bet.

  When he looked up the Saint had gone.

  Tilbury dropped back to seven to two, and Hill Billy stayed solid at two and a half. Just before the "off" Mr. Mackintyre shouted, "Six to one, Rickaway," and had the satisfaction of seeing the odds go down before the recorder closed his note­book.

  He mopped his brow, and found Mr. Lesbon beside him.

  "I wired off five hundred pounds to ten different offices," said Lesbon. "A little more of this and I'll be moving into Park Lane. When the girl came to see me I nearly fainted. What does that man Templar take us for?"

  "I don't know," said Mr. Mackintyre phlegmatically.

  A general bellow from the crowd announced the "off," and Mr. Mackintyre mounted his stool and watched the race through his field-glasses.

  "Tilbury's jumped off in front; Hill Billy's third, and Ricka­way's going well on the outside. . . . Rickaway's moving up, and Hill Billy's on a tight rein . . . Hill Billy's gone up to second. The rest of the field's packed behind, but they don't look like springing any surprises . . . Tilbury's finished. He's falling back. Hill Billy leads, Mandrake running second, Rickaway half a length behind with plenty in hand . . . Penterham's using the whip, and Rickaway's picking up. He's level with Mandrake-no, he's got it by a short head. Hill Billy's a length in front, and they're putting everything in for the finish."

  The roar of the crowd grew louder as the field entered the last furlong. Mackintyre raised his voice.

  "Mandrake's out of it, and Rickaway's coming up! Hill Billy's flat out with Rickaway's nose at his saddle . . . Hill Billy's making a race of it. It's neck-and-neck now. Penterham left it a bit late. Rickaway's gaining slowly-"

  The yelling of the crowd rose to a final crescendo, and sud­denly died away. Mr. Mackintyre dropped his glasses and stepped down from his perch. "Well," he said comfortably,"that's three thousand pounds."

  The two men shook hands gravely and turned to find Simon Templar drifting towards them with a thin cigar in his mouth.

  "Too bad about Hill Billy, Mr. Templar," remarked Mack­intyre succulently. "Rickaway only did it by a neck, though I won't say he mightn't have done better if he'd started his sprint a bit sooner."

  Simon removed his cigar.

  "Oh, I don't know," he said. "As a matter of fact, I rather changed my mind about Hill Billy's chance just before the 'off.' I was over at the telegraph office, and I didn't think I'd be able to reach you in time, so I wired another bet to your Lon­don office. Only a small one-six hundred pounds, if you want to know. I hope Vincent's winnings will stand it." He beamed seraphically at Mr. Lesbon, whose face had suddenly gone a sickly grey. "Of course you recognised Miss Holm-she isn't easy to forget, and I saw you noticing her at the Savoy the other night."

  There was an awful silence.

  "By the way," said the Saint, patting Mr. Lesbon affably on the shoulder, "she tells me you've got hot slimy hands. Apart from that, your technique makes Clark Gable look like some­thing the cat brought in. Just a friendly tip, old dear."

  He waved to the two stupefied men and wandered away; they stood gaping dumbly at his back.

  It was Mr. Lesbon who spoke first, after a long and pregnant interval.

  "Of course you won't settle, Joe," he said half-heartedly.

  "Won't I?" snarled Mr. Mackintyre. "And let him have me up before Tattersall's Committee for welshing? I've got to settle, you fool!"

  Mr. Mackintyre choked.

  Then he cleared his throat. He had a great deal more to say, and he wanted to say it distinctly.

  The Tough Egg

  CHIEF INSPECTOR TEAL caught Larry the Stick at Newcastle trying to board an outward-bound Swedish timber ship. He did not find the fifty thousand pounds' wort
h of bonds and jewellery which Larry took from the Temple Lane Safe Deposit; but it may truthfully be reported that no one was more surprised about that than Larry himself.

  They broke open the battered leather suit-case to which Larry was clinging as affectionately as if it contained the keys of the Bank of England, and found in it a cardboard box which was packed to bursting-point with what must have been one of the finest collections of small pebbles and old newspa­pers to which any burglar had ever attached himself; and Larry stared at it with glazed and incredulous eyes.

  "Is one of you busies saving up for a rainy day?" he de­manded, when he could speak; and Mr. Teal was not amused.

  "No one's been to that bag except when you saw us open it," he said shortly. "Come on, Larry-let's hear where you hid the stuff."

  "I didn't hide it," said Larry flatly. He was prepared to say more, but suddenly he shut his mouth. He could be an im­mensely philosophic man when there was nothing left for him to do except to be philosophic, and one of his major problems had certainly been solved for him very providentially. "I hadn't anything to hide, Mr. Teal. If you'd only let me ex­plain things I could've saved you busting a perfickly good lock and making me miss my boat."

  Mr. Teal tilted back his bowler hat with a kind of weary patience.

  "Better make it short, Larry," he said. "The night watchman saw you before you coshed him, and he said he'd recognize you again."

  "He must've been seeing things," asserted Larry. "Now, if you want to know all about it, Mr. Teal, I saw the doctor the other day, and he told me I was run down. 'What you want, Larry, is a nice holiday,' he says-not that I'd let anyone call me by my first name, you understand, but this doc is quite a good-class gentleman. 'What you want is a holiday,' he says. 'Why don't you take a sea voyage?' So, seeing I've got an old aunt in Sweden, I thought I'd pay her a visit. Naturally, I thought, the old lady would like to see some newspapers and read how things were going in the old country --"

  "And what did she want the stones for?" inquired Teal po­litely. "Is she making a rock garden?"

  "Oh, them?" said Larry innocently. "Them was for my uncle. He's a geo - geo -"

  "Geologist is the word you want," said the detective, without smiling. "Now let's go back to London, and you can write all that down and sign it."

  They went back to London with a resigned but still chatty cracksman, though the party lacked some of the high spirits which might have accompanied it. The most puzzled member of it was undoubtedly Larry the Stick, and he spent a good deal of time on the journey trying to think how it could have happened.

  He knew that the bonds and jewels had been packed in his suit-case when he left London, for he had gone straight back to his lodgings after he left the Temple Lane Safe Deposit and stowed them away in the bag that was already half-filled in anticipation of an early departure. He had dozed in his chair for a few hours, and caught the 7.25 from King's Cross-the bag had never been out of his sight. Except . . . once during the morning he had succumbed to a not unreasonable thirst, and spent half an hour in the restaurant car in earnest collab­oration with a bottle of Worthington. But there was no sign of his bag having been tampered with when he came back, and he had seen no familiar face on the train.

  It was one of the most mystifying things that had ever hap­pened to him, and the fact that the police case against him had been considerably weakened by his bereavement was a some­what dubious compensation.

  Chief Inspector Teal reached London with a theory of his own. He expounded it to the Assistant Commissioner without enthusiasm.

  "I'm afraid there's no doubt that Larry's telling the truth," he said. "He's no idea what happened to the swag, but I have. Nobody double-crossed him, because he always works alone, and he hasn't any enemies that I know of. There's just one man who might have done it-you know who I mean."

  The Assistant Commissioner sniffed. He had an irritating and eloquent sniff.

  "It would be very tiresome if anything happened to the Saint," he remarked pointedly. "The C.I.D. would have a job to find another stock excuse that would sound quite as con­vincing."

  When Mr. Teal had cooled off in his own room, he had to admit that there was an element of truth in the Assistant Commissioner's acidulated comment. It did not mellow his toler­ance of the most unpopular Police Chief of his day; he had had similar thoughts himself, without feeling as if he had dis­covered the elixir of life.

  The trouble was that the Saint refused to conform to any of the traditions which make the capture of the average criminal a mere matter of routine. There was nothing stereotyped about his methods which made it easy to include him in the list of suspects for any particular felony. He was little more than a name in criminal circles; he had no jealous associates to give him away, he confided his plans to no one, he never boasted of his success in anyone's hearing-he did nothing which gave the police a chance to catch him red-handed. His name and address were known to every constable in the force; but for all any of them could prove in a court of law he was an unassailably respectable citizen who had long since left a rather doubtful past behind him, an amiable young man about town blessed with plentiful private means, who had the misfortune to be seen in geographically close proximity to various lawless events for which the police could find no suitable scapegoat. And no one protested their ignorance of everything to do with him more vigorously that his alleged or prospective victims. It made things very difficult for Mr. Teal, who was a clever detective but a third-rate magician.

  The taciturnity of Max Kemmler was a more recent thorn in Mr. Teal's side.

  Max Kemmler was a Dane by birth and an American by naturalization. The phase of his career in which the United States Federal Authorities were interested started in St. Louis, when he drifted into Egan's Rats and carved the first notches in his gun. Prudently, he left St. Louis during an election clean-up and reappeared in Philadelphia as a strong-arm man in a newsstand racket. That lasted him six months, and he left in a hurry; the tabs caught up with him in New York, where he went over big for a couple of years as typewriter expert in an East Side liquor mob. He shot up the wrong speakie one night after a celebration and was lucky to be able to make a passage to Cherbourg on a French liner that sailed at dawn the next morning. How he got past the passport barriers into England was something of a mystery. He was down on the deportation list, but Scotland Yard was holding up in the hope of an ex­tradition warrant.

  He was a thick-shouldered man of middle height, with a taste for camel-hair coats and very light grey Homburgs. Those who had been able to keep on the right side of him in the States called him a good guy-certainly he could put forth a rugged geniality, when it suited him, which had its appeal for lesser lights who reckoned it a privilege to be slapped on the back by the notorious Max Kemmler. His cigars were uni­formly expensive, and the large diamond set in the corner of his black onyx signet ring conveyed an impression of great substance-he had been paying for it at the rate of $32.85 a month until the laborious working-out of the instalment sys­tem bored him, and he changed his address.

  Max knew from the time he landed that his days in England were numbered, but it was not in his nature to pass up any profitable enterprise on that account. In a very short space of time he had set up a club in a quiet street off the Edgware Road, of which the police had yet to learn. The club boasted a boule and a blackjack table, as well as a chemin-de-fer game which was always going: everything was as straight as a die, for Max Kemmler knew that gambling does not need to be crooked to show a long dividend for the bank; The chemin-de-fer players paid ten per cent of their winnings to the manage­ment, and even the smallest chips were priced at half a sov­ereign. Max did the steering himself and paid his croupiers generously, but he was the only one who made enough out of it to live at the Savoy and put three figures of real money away in his wallet every week in addition.

  He had dinner one night with his chief croupier before going to open the club, and it happened that there was a zealous youn
g detective-sergeant from Vine Street at the next table. It was a small and inexpensive chophouse in Soho, and the detective was not there on business; neither did Max Kemmler know him, for the gambling club was in a different division.

  Half-way through the meal Max remembered an enigmatic telephone call that had been put through to his room while he was breakfasting, and asked the croupier about it.

  "You ever heard of a guy called Saint?" he queried, and the croupier's jaw fell open.

  "Good God!-you haven't heard from him?"

  Max Kemmler was surprised, to say the least of it.

  "Yeah-he phoned me," he replied guardedly. "What's the matter with you? Is he the wheels in this city?"

  The croupier acknowledged, in his own idiom, that Simon Templar was the wheels. He was a tall, hard-faced man, with iron-grey hair, bushy grey eyebrows and moustache, and the curried complexion of a rather decayed retired major; and he knew much more about the Saint that a law-abiding member of the community should have known. He gave Max Kemmler all the information he wanted, but Max was not greatly im­pressed.

  "What you mean is he's a kind of hijacker, is he? Hard-boiled, huh? I didn't know you'd got any racket like that over here. And he figures I ought to pay him for 'protection.' That's funny!" Max Kemmler was grimly amused. "Well, I'd like to see him try it."

  "He's tried a lot of things like that and got away with them, Mr. Kemmler," said the croupier awkwardly.

  Max turned down one corner of his mouth.

  "Yeah? So have I. I guess I'm pretty tough myself, what I mean."

  He had a reminder of the conversation the next morning, when a plump and sleepy-looking man called and introduced himself as Chief Inspector Teal.

  "I hear you've had a warning from the Saint, Kemmler-one of our men heard you talking about it last night."