11 The Brighter Buccaneer

"Badminton," he boomed, "is a game which pre-eminently requires physical fitness-a thing which we politicians also re­quire. I myself could scarcely be expected to carry out my work at the Ministry of International Trade if I were not physically fit. And badminton is the game by which I keep myself fit to carry out my duties as a politician. Of course I shall never play as well as you people do; but we politicians can only try to do our best in the intervals between our other duties." There was a static hum.

"Badminton," boomed the frog-like voice tirelessly, "is a game which makes you fit and keeps you fit; and we politicians --"

Simon Templar groaned aloud, and hurled himself at the radio somewhat hysterically. At odd times during the past year he had accidentally switched on to Sir Joseph Whipplethwaite speaking at the annual dinners of the North British Lacrosse League, the British Bowling Association, the Southern Chess Congress, the International Ice Skating Association, the Royal Toxophilite Society, and the British Squash Racquets Associa­tion; and he could have recited Sir Joseph Whipplethwaite's speech from memory, with all its infinite variations.

In that mellow oak-beamed country pub, where he had gone to spend a restful week-end, the reminder of that appalling politician was more than he could bear.

"It's positively incredible," he muttered to himself, returning limply to his beer. "I'll swear that if you put that into a story as an illustration of the depths of imbecility that can be reached by a man who's considered fit to govern this purblind country, you'd simply raise a shriek of derisive laughter. And yet you've heard it with your own ears-half a dozen times. You've heard him playing every game under the sun in his after-dinner speeches, and mixing it fifty-fifty with his godlike status as a politician. And that-that-that blathering oaf is a member of His Majesty's Cabinet and one of the men on whom the British Empire's fate depends. O God, O Montreal!"

Words failed him, and he buried his face wrathfully in his tankard.

But he was not destined to forget Sir Joseph Whipplethwaite that week-end or ever again; for early on the Monday morning a portly man with a round red face and an unrepent­ant bowler hat walked into the hotel, and Simon recognized him with some astonishment.

"Claud Eustace himself, by the Great White Spat of Professor Clarence Skinner!" he cried. "What brings my little ray of sunshine here?"

Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal looked at him suspiciously. "I might ask the same question."

"I'm recuperating," said the Saint blandly, "from many months of honest toil. There are times when I have to get away from London just to forget what gas fumes and soot smell like. Come and have a drink."

Teal handed his bag to the boots and chewed on his gum continuously.

"What I'm wanting just now is some breakfast. I've been on the go since five o'clock this morning without anything to eat."

"That suits me just as well," murmured the Saint, taking the detective's arm and steering him towards the dining-room. "I see you're staying. Has some sinister local confectioner been selling candy at illegal hours?"

They sat down in the deserted room, and Teal ordered him­self a large plate of porridge. Then his sleepily cherubic blue eyes gazed at the Saint again, not so suspiciously as before, but rather regretfully.

"There are times when I wish you were an honest man, Saint," Teal said.

Simon raised his eyebrows a fraction. "There's something on your mind, Claud," he said. "May I know it?"

Mr. Teal pondered while his porridge was set before him, and dug a spoon into it thoughtfully. "Have you heard of Sir Joseph Whipplethwaite?"

Simon stared at him; and then he covered his eyes. "Have I not!" he articulated tremulously. He flung out a hand. " 'Badminton,' " he boomed, " 'is a game that has made we politicians what we are. Without badminton, we politicians --' "

"I see you have heard of him. Did you know he lived near here?"

Simon shook his head. He knew that Sir Joseph Whipple­thwaite had acquired the recently-created portfolio of the Min­ister of International Trade, and had gathered from broadcast utterances that Sir Joseph considered Whipplethwaite an ideal man for the job, but he had not felt moved to investigate the matter further. His energetic life was far too full to allow him time to trace the career of every pinhead who exercised his jaw in the Houses of Parliament at the long-suffering taxpayer's expense.

"His house is only about a mile away-a big modern place with four or five acres of garden. And whatever you like to think about him yourself, the fact remains that he has fairly important work to do. Things go through his office that it's sometimes important to keep absolutely secret until the proper time comes to publish them."

Simon Templar had never been called slow. "Good Lord, Teal-is this a stolen treaty business?"