13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

He had the book next day; and after ploughing through the first dozen pages his worst fears were realised. Peter Quentin was not destined to take his place in the genealogy of literature with Dumas, Tolstoy, and Conan Doyle. The art of writing was not in him. His spelling had a grand simplicity that would have delighted the more progressive orthographists, his grammatical constructions followed in the footsteps of Gertrude Stein, and his punctuation marks seemed to have more connection with intervals for thought and opening beer-bottles than with the requirements of syntax.

Moreover, like most first novels, it was embarrassingly per­sonal.

It was this fact which made Simon follow it to the bitter end, for the hero of the story was one "Ivan Grail, the Robbin Hood of modern crime," who could without difficulty be identified with the Saint himself, his "beutifull wife," and "Frank Morris his acomplis whos hard-biten featurs consealed a very clever brain and witt." Simon Templar swal­lowed all the flattering evidences of hero-worship that adorned the untidy pages, and actually blushed. But after he had reached the conclusion—inscribed "FINNIS" in tri­umphant capitals—he did some heavy thinking.

Later on he saw Peter again.

"What was it that bit your features so hard?" he asked. "Did you try to kiss an alligator?"

Peter turned pink.

"I had to describe them somehow," he said defensively.

"You're too modest," said the Saint, after inspecting him again. "They were not merely bitten—they were thoroughly chewed."

"Well, what about the book?" said Peter hopefully. "Was it any good?"

"It was lousy," Simon informed him, with the privileged candour of friendship. "It would have made Dumas turn in his grave. All the same, it may be more readable after I've revised it for you. And perhaps we will let Comrade Par-stone publish it after all."

Peter blinked.

"But I thought——"

"I have an idea," said the Saint. "Parstone has published dud books too long. It's time he had a good one. Will you get your manuscript back from him, Peter—tell him you want to make a few corrections, and after that you'll send him his money and let him print it. For anyone who so successfully conceals a very clever brain and wit," he added cruelly, "there are much more profitable ways of employing them than writing books, as you ought to know."

For two weeks after that the Saint sat at his typewriter for seven hours a day, hammering out page after page of neat manuscript at astonishing speed. He did not merely revise Peter Quentin's story—he rewrote it from cover to cover, and the result would certainly not have been recognised by its original creator.

The book was sent in again from his own address, and consequently Peter did not see the proofs. Simon Templar read them himself; and his ribs were aching long before he had finished.

The Gay Adventurer, by Peter Quentin, was formally pushed out upon a callous world about two months later. The Times did not notice it, the library buyers did not refill their fountain pens to sign the order forms, Mr. James Douglas did not take it as the text of a centre-page de­nunciation in the Sunday Express, the lynx-eyed scouts of Hollywood did not rush in with open contracts; but never­theless it was possible for a man with vast patience and dogged determination to procure a copy, by which achieve­ment Mr. Parstone had fulfilled the letter of his contract. Simon Templar did not need to exercise patience and determination to obtain his copy, because the author's presenta­tion dozen came to his apartment; and it happened that Peter Quentin came there on the same morning.

Peter noticed the open parcel of books, and fell on them at once, whinnying like an eager stallion. But he had scarcely glanced over the first page when he turned to the Saint with wrathful eyes.

"This isn't my book at all," he shouted indignantly. "We'll call it a collaboration if you like," said the Saint generously. "But I thought you might as well have the credit. My name is so famous already——"

Peter had been turning the pages frantically. "But this—this is unlawful!" he expostulated.    "It's—— it's——"

"Of course it is," agreed the Saint. "And that's why you must never tell anyone that I had anything to do with it. When the case conies to court, I shall expect you to perjure yourself blue in the face on that subject."