11 The Brighter Buccaneer

"No-it's a swell cigar. Would you mind showing me what this name looks like?"

The other's eyes opened rather blankly, but he took out a pencil and sketched a character on the back of the envelope.

"There she is, friend. Say, you're looking at me like I was a mummy come to life. What's the matter?"

The Saint filled his lungs. For him, the day had suddenly bloomed out into a rich surpassing beauty that only those who have shared his delight in damaging the careers of pompous old sinners with bushy grey face-hair can understand. The radiance of his own inspiration dazzled him.

"Nothing's the matter," he said seraphically. "Nothing on earth could be the matter on a day like this. How many mil­lions will your Mr. Froussard give for that Buddha?"

"Well, millions is a large word," said Amberson, cautiously, looking at the Saint in not unreasonable perplexity. "But I guess I could pay fifteen thousand bucks for it."

"You find the bucks, and I'll find your Buddha," said the Saint.

Amberson grinned, and stood up.

"I don't know whether you've got an ace in the hole or whether you're just pulling my leg," he remarked; "but if you can find that Buddha the fifteen grand are waitin' for you. Say, I'm real grateful to you for helpin' me out like this. Come to the Savoy and have lunch tomorrow-and you can bring the Buddha with you, if you've found it."

"Thanks," said the Saint. "I'll do both."

He showed Amberson to the door, and came straight back to grab the telephone. Sir Ambrose Grange was out, he was in­formed, but he was expected back about six. Simon bought his evening paper, found that the favourite had won-he never backed favourites-and was at the telephone again, when the hour struck.

"I'm taking you at your word and coming over to see you, Sir Ambrose."

"Delighted, my dear sir," said the knight, somewhat plaintively. "But if you'd told me I could have got hold of some girls --"

"Never mind the girls," said Simon.

He arrived at the lodgings in Seymour Street where Sir Am­brose maintained his modest bachelor pied-a-terre half an hour later, and plunged into his business without preliminaries.

"I've come to buy your Buddha," he said. "Two thousand was what your uncle wanted, wasn't it?"

Sir Ambrose goggled at him for some seconds; and then he laughed feebly.

"Ho, ho, ho! I bought that one, didn't I, by gad! Getting a bit slow on the uptake, what? Never mind, sir-have a drink."

"I'm not being comic," said the Saint. "I want your Buddha and I'll give you two thousand for it. I backed sixteen losers last week, and if I don't get a good mascot I shall be in the bankruptcy court."

After several minutes he was able to convince Sir Ambrose that his lunacy, if inexplicable, was backed up by a ready chequebook. He wrote the figures with a flourish, and Sir Am­brose found himself fumbling for a piece of paper and a stamp to make out the receipt.

Simon read the document through-it was typical.

Received from Mr. Simon Templar, by cheque, the sum of Two Thousand Pounds, being payment for a Brass Buddha which he knows is only worth fifteen shillings.

Ambrose Grange.

"Just to prove I knew what I was doing? I expected that."

Sir Ambrose looked at him suspiciously.

"I wish I knew what you wanted that thing for," he said. "Even my uncle only wanted us to get a thousand for it, but I thought I'd double it for luck. Two thousand couldn't be much more impossible than one." He heaved with chin-quivering mirth. "Well, my dear sir, if you can make a profit on two thousand, I shan't complain. Ho, ho, ho, ho! Have a drink."

"Sometimes," said the Saint quite affably, "I wonder why there's no law classifying men like you as vermin, and authoriz­ing you to be sprayed with DDT on sight."

He routed out Peter Quentin before going home that night, and uttered the same philosophy to him-even more affably. The brass Buddha sat on a table beside his bed when he turned in, and he blew it a kiss before he switched out the light and sank into the dreamless sleep of a contented corsair.

He paraded at the Savoy at twelve-thirty the next day.

At two o'clock Patricia Holm found him in the grill room.

Simon beckoned the waiter who had just poured out his coffee, and asked for another cup.

"Well," he said, "where's Peter?"

"His girl friend stopped in a shop window to look at some stockings, so I came on." Her eyebrows were faintly question­ing. "I thought you were lunching with that American."

Simon dropped two lumps of sugar into his cup and stirred it lugubriously.

"Pat," he said, "you may put this down in your notes for our textbook on Crime-the perfect confidence trick, Version Two. Let me tell you about it."

She lighted a cigarette slowly, staring at him.