12 The Saint in London (The Misfortunes of Mr Teal)

"My dear boy, your conviction was mentioned quite prominently in the newspapers. I remember that it was considered remarkable that a youth" of your age should have produced the cleverest forgeries that the police witness could remember. The rest is merely a matter of deduction and elementary psychology." Nordsten leaned back and rolled his match between the finger and thumb of one hand. "But I remember thinking at the time what a pity it was that so much talent should have

been employed in a comparatively poor field of effort. If only you had had proper guidance--if you'd had someone behind you who could dispose of your products without the slightest possibility of detection--wouldn't it have been quite a different story?"

Simon did not answer; and Nordsten went on, as if addressing the match: "If you had another chance to use your gifts in the same way, for even greater profits, but without any risk, wouldn't you see what a marvellous opportunity it was?"

The Saint sighed quite noiselessly--a deep slow inhalation of breath that took all the rich air of adventure into his lungs.

"I don't understand," he said stubbornly; and Nordsten's hard faded stare turned to him with a sudden resolution.

"Then I'll put it more plainly. You could do some work for me, Vickery. I'll pay you magnificently. I can make you richer than you've ever been even in your dreams. Do you want the chance or not?"

Simon shook his head. It was an effort.

"It's too risky," he said; but he spoke in a way that carried no conviction.

"I've promised to eliminate the risk," said Nordsten impatiently. "Listen--would you like a hundred thousand pounds?"

The Saint was silent for a longer time. His mouth opened, and he gaped at the financier more or less as he would have expected the real Tim Vickery to gape, in startlement and incredulity and a swelling hunger of greed; and not all of that was an effort. The same queer tingle of supernatural expectation touched his spine as had touched it when he discovered that quartet of detectives gathering in Bond Street eight hours ago; the same tiny pulse beat in his brain, but those were things that Ivar Nordsten could not see.

"What do I have to do?" he asked at last; and that humourless twitch moved the corners of the financier's thin mouth again.

"I'll show you."

Nordsten got up and opened the door. Following him out into the hall and up the broad oak staircase, the Saint's face relaxed in a fleeting smile that hardly reached beyond the corners of his eyes. It was, he reflected, only in keeping with the rest of his madcap existence that he should have been in such a situation at that moment--it was the only logical sequel to the crazy impulse which had put him into the driving seat of that prehistoric taxi such a short while ago. Adventures were still to the adventurous. One-saw the tail of a wild goose whisk by in the arid deserts of the commonplace and grabbed it; and the chase led inevitably to a land flowing with un-godliness and boodle. And he would not have had his life ordered on any other lines. . . .

They went down a long corridor carpeted ins rich purple; and Nordsten opened a door at the end. It gave onto a kind of small lobby, from which other doors opened on three sides. Nordsten opened the one on the left and led him in.

It was a fairly large room with windows opening onto the falling view which the Saint had seen when he approached the house. There was a good rug on the floor, and a couple of armchairs; but it was the rest of the furnishings which were unusual. Looking them over slowly, Simon grasped their purpose. The room was fitted up as a complete engraving and printing plant in miniature. There was a drawing board with a green-shaded light, a workbench at one end of which were set out orderly rows of tools and a neat stack of steel plates, an electric warming plate, bottles of printing ink of every conceivable colour, and larger containers of acid and etching ground. In one cor-ner was a new hand press of the most modern design, and in another corner were boxes of paper of various sizes.

"I think you'll find everything you could want," Nordsten said suavely; "but if you should require anything else, it will be procured as soon as you ask for it."

Simon moistened his lips.

"What do you want me to copy?" he asked.

Nordsten went to the drawing board and picked up a small sheaf of papers which had been placed at one side of it.

"As many of these as you can manage," he said. Some will be more difficult than others--perhaps you would do better to start on the easiest ones, You will have to work hard, but not so fast that you cannot do your best work. I will pay you one hundred thousand pounds as an indefinite retainer, and fifty thousand pounds for every plate you complete to my satisfaction. Do I take it that the proposition appeals to you?"