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 Templar removed the 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 recognized 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, and they stood gaping dumbly at his retreating 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 as he was trying to board an outward-bound Swedish timber-ship. He did not find the five thousand pounds’ worth 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 suitcase 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 suitcase 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 more idea what happened to the swag than 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 CID 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 successes 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 than 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 cleanup 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 speaker 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 two dollars eighty-five cents 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 table, as well as a half-dozen games of chemin-de-fer, which were 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 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 north to open the club, and it happened that there was a zealous young detective-sergeant from Vine Street at the next table. It was a small and inexpensive chop-house 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.
Halfway 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 did ring me up,” 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 than 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.”
Max had done some thinking overnight. He was not expecting to be interviewed by Mr Teal, but he had his own ideas on the subject that the detective raised.
“What of it?”
“We want to get the Saint, Kemmler. You might be able to help us. Why not tell me some more about it?”
Max Kemmler grinned.
“Sure. Then you know just why the Saint’s interested in me, and I can take the rap with him. That dick at the next table ought to have listened some more—then he could have told you I was warned about that one. No, thanks, Teal! The Saint and me are just buddies together, and he rang me up to ask me to a party. I’m not saying he mightn’t get fresh some time, but I can look after that. He might kind of meet with an accident.”
It was not the first time that Teal had been met with a similar lack of enthusiasm, and he knew the meaning of the word ‘no’ when it was pushed up to him in a certain way. He departed heavily, and Simon Templar, who was sipping a cocktail within view of the vestibule, watched him go.
“You might think Claud Eustace really wanted to arrest me,” he remarked, as the detective’s broad back passed through the doors.
His companion, a young man with the air of a gentlemanly prize-fighter, smiled sympathetically. His position was privileged, for it was not many weeks since the Saint’s cheerful disregard for the ordinances of the Law had lifted him out of a singularly embarrassing situation with a slackness that savoured of sorcery. After all, when you have been youthfully and foolishly guilty of embezzling a large sum of money from your employers in order to try and recoup the losses of an equally youthful and foolish speculation, and a cheque for the missing amount is slipped into your hands by a perfect stranger, you are naturally inclined to see that stranger’s indiscretions in an unusual light.
“I wish I had your life,” said the young man—his name was Peter Quentin, and he was still very young.
“Brother,” said the Saint good-humouredly, “if you had my life you’d have to have my death, which will probably be a sticky one without wreaths. Max Kemmler is a tough egg all right, and you never know.”
Peter Quentin stretched out his legs with a wry grimace.
“I don’t know that it isn’t worth it. Here am I, an A1 proposition to any insurance company, simply wasting everything I’ve got with no prospect of ever doing anything else. You saved me from getting pushed in clink, but of course there was no hope of my keeping my job. They were very nice and friendly when I confessed and paid in your cheque, but they gave me the air all the same. You can’t help seeing their point of view. Once I’d done a thing like that I was a risk to the Company, and next time they mightn’t have been so lucky. The result is that I’m one of the great unemployed, and no dole either. If I ever manage to get another job, I shall have to consider myself well off if I’m allowed to sit at an office desk for two hundred and seventy days out of the year, while I get fat and pasty and dream about the pension that’ll be no use to me when I’m sixty.”
“Instead of which you want to go on a bread-and-water diet for a ten-years’ sentence,” said the Saint. “I’m a bad example to you, Peter. You ought to meet a girl who’ll pull all that out of your head.”
He really meant what he said. If he refused even to consider his own advice, it was because the perilous charms of the life that he had long ago chosen for his own had woven a spell about him that nothing could break. They were his meat and drink, the wine that made unromantic days worth living, his salute to buccaneers who had had better worlds to conquer. He knew no other life.
Max Kemmler was less poetic about it. He was in the game for what he could get, and he wanted to get it quickly. Teal’s visit to him that morning had brought home to him another danger that that accidentally eavesdropping plainclothes man in the restaurant had thrown across
his path. Whatever else the police knew or did not know, they now had the soundest possible reason to believe that Max Kemmler’s holiday in England had turned towards profitable business, for nothing else could provide a satisfactory reason for the Saint’s interest. His croupier had warned him of that, and Max was taking the warning to heart. The pickings had been good while they lasted, but the time had come for him to be moving.
There was big play at the club that night. Max Kemmler inspired it, putting forth all the bonhomie that he could call upon to encourage his patrons to lose their shirts and like it. He ordered in half a gross of champagne, and invited the guests to help themselves. He had never worked so hard in his life before, but he saw the results of it when the club closed down at four in the morning and the weary staff counted over the takings. The boule table had had a skinner, and money had changed hands so fast in the chemin-de-fer parties that the management’s ten per cent commission had broken all previous records. Max Kemmler found himself with a comfortingly large wad of crumpled notes to put away. He slapped his croupiers boisterously on the back and opened the last bottle of champagne for them.
“Same time again tomorrow, boys,” he said when he took his leave. “If there’s any more jack to come out of this racket, we’ll have it.”
As a matter of fact, he had no intention of reappearing on the morrow, or on any subsequent day. The croupiers were due to collect their week’s salary the following evening, but that consideration did not influence him. His holiday venture had been even more remunerative than he had hoped and he was going while the going was good.
Back at the Savoy he added the wad of notes from his pocket to an even larger wad which came from a sealed envelope, which he kept in the hotel manager’s safe, and slept with his booty under his pillow.
During his stay in London he had made the acquaintance of a passport specialist. His passage was booked back to Montreal on the Empress of Britain, which sailed the next afternoon, and a brand-new Canadian passport established his identity as Max Harford, grain dealer, of Calgary.
The Brighter Buccaneer (The Saint Series) Page 6
