11 The Brighter Buccaneer

He dragged a small brass image out of his pocket and set it up on the table between the glasses. Simon glanced at it, and recognized it at once. It was one of those pyramidal figures of a seated Buddha, miniatures of the gigantic statue at Kamakura, which find their place in every tourists' curio shop from Kara­chi to Yokohama.

"That, sir," said the sentimentalist's nephew, "was my un­cle's. He bought it in Shanghai when he was a young man, and he called it his mascot. He used to burn a joss-stick in front of it every day-said the ju-ju wouldn't work without it. And then, when he died, what do you think we found in his will?"

Simon was getting accustomed to Sir Ambrose's interrogative style, but the Saint was not very easily silenced.

"A thousand quid to buy joss-sticks," he hazarded.

Sir Ambrose shook his head rather impatiently, till both his chins wobbled.

"No, sir. Something much worse than that. We found that not a penny of his money could be touched until this ridicu­lous thing had been sold for two thousand pounds. He said that only a man who was prepared to pay a sum like that for it would appreciate it properly and give it the attention he wanted. Personally, I think that anyone who paid a sum like that for it could be put in a lunatic asylum without a certificate. But there it is in his will, and the lawyers say we can't upset it. I've been carrying the damned thing about with me half a week, showing it to all the antique shops in London, and the best offer I've had is fifteen shillings."

"But surely," said the Saint, "you could get a friend of yours to buy it, and give him the two thousand back with a spot of interest as soon as the executors unbuttoned?"

"If anything like that could have been done, sir, I'd have done it. But the old fool thought of that himself, and he left strict instructions that the executors were to be satisfied be­yond all possible doubt that the sale was a genuine one. And he made his bank the executors, damn him! If you've ever tried to put anything over on a bank you'll know what a hope we've got of doing anything like that. No-the best thing we can ever hope to do is to find some genuine stranger and sell it to him while he's drunk."

Simon picked up the image and examined it closely. It was unexpectedly heavy, and he guessed that the brass casting must have been filled with lead. On the base there was a line of Chinese characters cut into the metal and filled with red.

"Funny language," observed Sir Ambrose, leaning over to point to the characters. "I've often wanted to meet a Chink who could tell me what they write on things like this. Look at that thing there like a tadpole with wings. I'll bet that's a par­ticularly dirty swear-it's twice the size of the other words. Have a drink."

The Saint looked at his watch.

"I'm afraid I'll have to be getting home," he observed.

"Come and see me one evening," said Sir Ambrose. "You've got my address on my card, and I like your company. Come along one night next week, and I'll invite some girls."

Simon reached his flat in time to see Peter Quentin and Patricia Holm climbing out of a taxi. They were in evening dress, and the Saint surveyed them rudely.

"Well," he said, "have you mugs finished pretending to be numbers one and two of the Upper Ten?"

"He's jealous," said Patricia, on Peter Quentin's arm. "His own tails have been in pawn so long that the moths have done them in."

A misguided friend had presented the Saint with tickets for the Opera. Simon Templar, in one of his fits of perversity, had stated in no uncertain terms that it was too hot to put on a starched shirt and listen to perspiring tenors dying in C flat for four hours, and Peter Quentin had volunteered to be Patricia's escort.

61

"We thought of some bacon and eggs," Peter said, "and we wondered if you'd like to treat us."

"I thought you might treat me," murmured the Saint. "As an inducement for me to be seen out with a girl whose clothes have all slipped down below her waist, and a pie-faced tough disguised as a waiter, it's the least you can offer."

Back in the taxi, they asked him how he had spent the eve­ning.

"I've been drinking with one of the most septic specimens in London," said the Saint thoughtfully. "And if I can't make him wish he hadn't told me so much about himself I won't have another bath for six years."

The problem of securing an adequate contribution towards his old-age pension from Sir Ambrose Grange occupied the Saint's mind considerably for the next twenty-four hours. Sir Ambrose had gratuitously introduced himself as such a perfect example of the type of man whom the Saint prayed to meet that Simon felt that his reputation was at stake. Unless some­thing suitably unpleasant happened to Sir Ambrose in a very short space of time, the Saint would sink down to somewhere near zero in his own estimation of himself-a possibility that was altogether too dreadful to contemplate.