The Happy Highwayman (The Saint Series) Read online

  As he leapt out of the car and dashed towards the house he cannoned into a small and weirdly apparelled elderly gent who was apparently emerging from the gate at the same time. Mr Westler checked himself involuntarily, and the elderly gent, sent flying by the impact, bounced off a gatepost and tottered back at him. He clutched Harry by the sleeve and peered up at him pathetically.

  “Glhwf hngwglgl,” he said pleadingly, “kngnduk glu bwtlhjp mnyihgli?”

  “Oh, go choke yourself,” snarled Mr Westler impatiently.

  He pushed the little man roughly aside and went on.

  Jacqueline opened the door to him, and Mr Westler steeled himself to kiss her on the forehead with cousinly affection.

  “I was an awful swine the other day, Jackie. I don’t know what could have been the matter with me. I’ve always been terribly selfish,” he said with an effort, “and at the time I didn’t really see how badly Granny had treated you. She didn’t leave you anything except those letters, did she?”

  “She left me a hundred pounds,” said Jacqueline calmly.

  “A hundred pounds!” said Harry indignantly. “After you’d given up everything else to take care of her. And she left me more than four thousand pounds and the house and everything in it. It’s disgusting! But I don’t have to take advantage of it, do I? I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately—”

  Jacqueline lighted a cigarette and regarded him stonily. “Thanks,” she said briefly. “But I haven’t asked you for any charity.”

  “It isn’t charity,” protested Mr Westler virtuously. “It’s just a matter of doing the decent thing. The lawyers have done their share—handed everything over to me and seen that the will was carried out. Now we can start again. We could pool everything again and divide it the way we think it ought to be divided.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, that’s been done already.”

  “But I’m not happy about it. I’ve got all the money, and you know what I’m like. I’ll probably gamble it all away in a few months.”

  “That’s your affair.”

  “Oh, don’t be like that, Jackie. I’ve apologized, haven’t I? Besides, what Granny left you is worth a lot more than money. I mean those letters of hers. I’d willingly give up a thousand pounds of my share if I could have had those. They’re the one thing of the old lady’s which really mean a great deal to me.”

  “You’re becoming very sentimental all of a sudden, aren’t you?” asked the girl curiously.

  “Maybe I am. I suppose you can’t really believe that a rotter like me could feel that way about anything, but Granny was the only person in the world who ever really believed any good of me and liked me in spite of everything. If I gave you a thousand pounds for those letters, it wouldn’t be charity—I’d be paying less than I think they’re worth. Let’s put it that way if you’d rather, Jackie. An ordinary business deal. If I had them,” said Mr Westler, with something like a sob in his voice, “they’d always be a reminder to me of the old lady and how good she was. They might help me to go straight—”

  His emotion was so touching that even Jacqueline’s cynical incredulity lost some of its assurance. Harry Westler was playing his part with every technical trick that he knew, and he had a mastery of these emotional devices which victims far more hard-boiled than Jacqueline had experienced to their cost.

  “I’m thoroughly ashamed of myself, and I want to put things right in any way I can. Don’t make me feel any worse than I do already. Look here, I’ll give you two thousand pounds for the letters and I won’t regret a penny of it. You won’t regret it either, will you, if they help me to keep out of trouble in future?”

  Jacqueline smiled in spite of herself. It was not in her nature to bear malice, and it was very hard for her to resist an appeal that was made in those terms. Also, with the practical side of her mind, she was honest enough to realise that her grandmother’s letters had no sentimental value for her whatever, and that two thousand pounds was a sum of money which she could not afford to refuse unless her pride was compelled to forbid it; her night out with the Saint had helped her to forget her problems for the moment, but she had awakened that morning with a very sober realization of the position in which she was going to find herself within the next forty-eight hours.

  “If you put it like that I can’t very well refuse, can I?” she said, and Harry jumped up and clasped her fervently by the hand.

  “You’ll really do it, Jackie? You don’t know how much I appreciate it.”

  She disengaged herself quietly. “It doesn’t do me any harm,” she told him truthfully. “Would you like to have the letters now?”

  “If they’re anywhere handy. I brought some money along with me, so we can fix it all up right away.”

  She went upstairs and fetched the letters from the dressing table in her grandmother’s room. Mr Westler took them and tore off the faded ribbon with which they were tied together with slightly trembling fingers which she attributed to an unexpected depth of emotion. One by one he took them out of their envelopes and read rapidly through them. The last sheet of the third letter was a different kind of paper from the rest. The paper was discoloured and cracked in the folds, and the ink had the rusty brown hue of great age, but he saw the heavy official seal in one corner and strained his eyes to decipher the stiff old-fashioned script.

  We, Philip Edmond Wodehouse, Commander of the Most Noble Order of the Bath, Governor in the name of Her Britannic Majesty of the Colony of British Guiana, by virtue of the powers conferred upon us by Her Majesty’s Privy Council, do hereby proclaim and declare to all whom it may concern that we have this day granted to Sidney Farlance, a subject of Her Majesty the Queen, and to his heirs and assigns being determined by the possession of this authority, the sole right to prospect and mine for minerals of any kind whatsoever in the territory indicated and described in the sketch map at the foot of this authority, for the term of nine hundred and ninety-nine years from the date of these presents.

  Given under our hand and seal this third day of January Eighteen Hundred and Fifty-six.

  At the bottom of the sheet, below the map and description, was scrawled in a different hand:

  This is all for you. S.F.

  Harry Westler stuffed the letters into his pocket and took out his wallet. His heart was beating in a delirious rhythm of ecstasy and sending the blood roaring through his ears like the crashing crescendo of a symphony. The Gates of Paradise seemed to have opened up and deluged him with all their reservoirs of bliss. The whole world was his sweetheart. If the elderly gent whose strange nasal gargling he had dismissed so discourteously a short time ago had cannoned into him again at that moment, it is almost certain that Mr Westler would not have told him to go choke himself. He would probably have kissed him on both cheeks and given him a shilling.

  For the first time in his life, Harry Westler counted out twenty hundred-pound notes as cheerfully as he would have counted them in.

  “There you are, Jackie. And I’m not foolish—it takes a load off my mind. If you think of anything else I can do for you, just let me know.”

  “I think you’ve done more than anyone could have asked,” she said generously. “Won’t you stay and have a drink?”

  Mr Westler declined the offer firmly. He had no moral prejudice against drinking, and in fact he wanted a drink very badly, but more particularly he wanted to have it in a place where he would not have to place any more restraint on the shouting rhapsodies that were seething through his system like bubbles through champagne.

  Some two hours later, when Simon Templar drifted into the house, he found Jacqueline still looking slightly dazed. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  “Simon!” she gasped. “You must be a mascot or something. You’ll never guess what’s happened.”

  “I’ll tell you exactly what’s happened,” said the Saint calmly. “Cousin Harry has been here, told you that he’d rather have dear old Granny’s love letters than all the money in the w
orld, and paid you the hell of a good price for them. At least I hope he paid you the hell of a good price.”

  Jacqueline gaped at him weakly. “He paid me two thousand pounds. But how on earth did you know? Why did he do it?”

  “He did it because a lawyer called on him this morning and told him that Sidney Farlance had collared an absolutely priceless mining concession when he was in British Guiana, and that there was probably something about it in the letters which would be worth a million to whoever had them to prove his claim.”

  She looked at him aghast. “A mining concession? I don’t remember anything about it—”

  “You wouldn’t,” said the Saint kindly. “It wasn’t there until I slipped it in when I got you to show me the letters at breakfast time this morning. I sat up for the other half of the night faking the best imitation I could of what I thought a concession ought to look like, and apparently it was good enough for Harry. Of course I was the lawyer who told him all about it, and I think I fed him the oil pretty smoothly, so perhaps there was some excuse for him. I take it that he was quite excited about it—I see he didn’t even bother to take the envelopes—”

  Jacqueline opened her mouth again, but what she was going to say with it remained a permanently unsolved question, for at that moment the unnecessarily vigorous ringing of a bell stopped her short. The Saint cocked his ears speculatively at the sound, and a rather pleased and seraphic smiled worked itself into his face.

  “I expect this is Harry coming back,” he said. “He wasn’t supposed to see me again until tomorrow, but I suppose he couldn’t wait. He’s probably tried to ring up at the address I had printed on my card, and discovered that there ain’t no such lawyers as I was supposed to represent. It will be rather interesting to hear what he has to say.”

  For once, however, Simon’s guess was wrong. Instead of the indignant equine features of Harry Westler, he confronted the pink imploring features of the small and shapeless elderly gent with whom he had danced prettily around the gateposts the day before. The little man’s face lighted up, and he bounced over the doorstep and seized the Saint joyfully by both lapels of his coat.

  “Mnyng hlfwgl!” he crowed triumphantly. “Ahkgap glglgl hndiup hwmp!”

  Simon recoiled slightly. “Yes. I know,” he said soothingly. “But it’s five o’clock on Fridays. Two bob every other yard.”

  “Ogh hmbals!” said the little man.

  He let go the Saint’s coat, ducked under his arms, and scuttled on into the living-room.

  “Hey!” said the Saint feebly.

  “May I explain, sir?”

  Another voice spoke from the doorway, and Simon perceived that the little man had not come alone. Someone else had taken his place on the threshold—a thin and mournful-looking individual whom the Saint somewhat pardonably took to be the little man’s keeper.

  “Are you looking after that?” he inquired resignedly. “And why don’t you keep it on a lead?”

  The mournful-looking individual shook his head.

  “That is Mr Horatio Ive, sir. He is a very rich man, but he suffers from an unfortunate impediment in his speech. Very few people can understand him. I go about with him as his interpreter, but I have been in bed for the last three days with a chill—”

  A shrill war-whoop from the other room interrupted the explanation.

  “We’d better go and see how he’s getting on,” said the Saint.

  “Mr Ive is very impulsive, sir,” went on the sad-looking interpreter. “He was most anxious to see somebody here, and even though I was unable to accompany him he has called here several times alone. I understand that he found it impossible to make himself understood. He practically dragged me out of bed to come with him now.”

  “What’s he so excited about?” asked the Saint, as they walked towards the living-room.

  “He’s interested in some letters, sir, belonging to the late Mrs Laine. She happened to show them to him when they met once several years ago, and he wanted to buy them. She refused to sell them for sentimental reasons, but as soon as he read of her death he decided to approach her heirs.”

  “Are you talking about her love letters from a bird called Sidney Farlance?” Simon asked hollowly.

  “Yes, sir. The gentleman who worked in British Guiana. Mr Ive is prepared to pay something like ten thousand pounds—is anything the matter, sir?”

  Simon Templar swallowed. “Oh, nothing,” he said faintly. “Nothing at all.”

  They entered the living-room to interrupt a scene of considerable excitement. Backing towards the wall, with a blank expression of alarm widening her eyes, Jacqueline Laine was staring dumbly at the small elderly gent, who was capering about in front of her like a frenzied Redskin, spluttering yard after yard of his incomprehensible adenoidal honks interspersed with wild piercing squeaks apparently expressive of intolerable joy. In each hand he held an envelope aloft like a banner.

  As his interpreter came in, he turned and rushed towards him, loosing a fresh stream of noises like those of a hysterical duck.

  “Mr Ive is saying, sir,” explained the interpreter, raising his voice harmoniously above the din, “that each of those envelopes bears a perfect example of the British Guiana one-cent magenta stamp of 1856, of which only one specimen was previously believed to exist. Mr Ive is an ardent philatelist, sir, and these envelopes—”

  Simon Templar blinked hazily at the small crudely printed stamp in the corner of the envelope which the little man was waving under his nose.

  “You mean,” he said cautiously, “that Mr Ive is really only interested in the envelopes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Not the letters themselves?”

  “Not the letters.”

  “And he’s been flapping around the house all this time trying to tell somebody about it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Simon Templar drew a deep breath. The foundations of the world were spinning giddily around his ears, but his natural resilience was inconquerable. He took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

  “In that case,” he said contentedly, “I’m sure we can do business. “What do you say, Jacqueline?”

  Jacqueline clutched his arm and nodded breathlessly.

  “Hlgagtsk sweghlemlgh,” beamed Mr Ive.

  THE WELL-MEANING MAYOR

  An article in the Bulldog and a huge supercharged super-streamlined sports car brought Simon Templar into Elmford. It was not, the sort of town which would ordinarily have attracted him, being one of those large and grim and gaudy seaside resorts so dear to the hearts of the British bourgeoisie; his career of lawlessness had been led mostly in busier and more sophisticated cities where crime was more plentiful and the opportunities of afflicting it with his own brand of freelance justice correspondingly more frequent. Chief Inspector Teal of Scotland Yard would have been pinkly surprised to find him there, and would have brooded suspiciously over the news. For where Simon Templar went there was generally trouble, even if it was trouble of a kind that is unromantically rare in the experience of most police officers.

  “How did a fellow like that ever get called the Saint?” more than one harassed detective had been heard to demand of an unhelpful audience.

  Simon went on his cheerful way and left the police to work over the riddle without his assistance. It never troubled him very much to be called a crook; he admitted with disarming candour that he had to make a living somehow. But that he brought with him a justice swifter and more deadly than the Law, many men for whom the Law had had loopholes had discovered to their misfortune. To the Saint, it was the adventure that mattered most of all.

  Only a man whose instinct for adventure was inspired with more than ordinary insight would have looked for it in Elmford, but the Saint was interested in what he had read about a certain Mr Purdell, and the Saint’s insatiable curiosity was another of his deep-rooted instincts.

  Sam Purdell never quite knew how he became Mayor. He was a small and portly man with a rou
nd blank face and a round blank mind, who had built up a moderately profitable furniture business over the last thirty-five years and acquired in the process a round pudding-faced wife, and a couple of suet dumplings of daughters.

  But the inexhaustible zeal for improving the circumstances and morals of the community, that fierce drive of ambition and the twitching of the ears for the ecstatic homage of multitudes whenever he went abroad, that indomitable urge to be a leader of his people from which Hitlers, Mussolinis, and Mosleys are born, was not naturally in him.

  It is true that at the local Conservative club, of which he was a prominent member, he had often been stimulated by an appreciative audience and a large highball to lay down his views on the way in which he thought everything on earth ought to be run, but there was nothing outstandingly indicative of a political future in that.

  This is a disease which is liable to attack even the most honest and respectable citizens in such circumstances. But the idea that he himself should ever occupy the position in which he might be called upon to put all those beautiful ideas into practice had never entered Sam Purdell’s head in those simple early days, and if it had not been for the drive supplied by Al Eisenfeld, it might never have materialized.

  “You ought to be on the Town Council, Sam,” Mr Eisenfield had insisted at the close of one of these perorations several years before.

  Sam Purdell considered the suggestion.

  “No, I wouldn’t be clever enough,” he said modestly.

  To tell the truth, he had heard the suggestion before, had repudiated it before and had always wanted to hear it contradicted. Al Eisenfeld obliged him. It was the first time anybody had been so obliging, but Al Eisenfeld was Mr Purdell’s partner in most of his business enterprises, and Mr Purdell had long cherished a harmless envy of his partner’s superior brilliance, which often seemed to make Sam’s presence in the combine look almost superfluous. Coming from Al, the contradiction had a rather flattering weight.