13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

Naturally this lavishness of discord was a thing which grew up through the years. It was not achieved at one stroke. When Walter, aged four, realised that Willie, aged two months, was commanding the larger share of his parents' time and attention, and endeavored to brain him with a toy tomahawk, their mutual jealousy was merely embryonic. When Willie, aged seven, discovered that by lying awake at night until after Walter, aged eleven, had gone to sleep, he was able to rifle Walter's pockets of a judicious share of their current collection of sweets, pennies, pieces of string, and elastic bands, his ideas of retaliation were only passing through the experimental stage. But when Walter, aged twenty, found that he was able to imitate the handwriting of Willie, aged sixteen, so well that he succeeded in drawing out of Willie's savings bank account a quantity of money whose disappear­ance was ever afterwards a mystery, it might be said that their feud was at least within sight of the peaks to which it was destined later to rise.

The crude deceptions of youth, of course, gave place to subtler and less overtly illegal stratagems as the passing years gave experience and greater guile. Even their personal rela­tionship was glossed over with a veneer of specious affability which deceived neither.

"How about running down to my place for the week-end?" suggested Willie, aged twenty-seven.

Walter ran down; and at dead of night descended to the study and perused all of Willie's private correspondence that he could find, obtaining an insight into his brother's affairs which enabled him to snap up the bankrupt shoe repairing business which Willie was preparing to take over at a give­away price.

"Come and have lunch one day," invited Walter, aged thirty-five.

Willie came at a time when Walter was out, and beguiled a misguided secretary into letting him wait in Walter's private office. From letters which were lying on the desk he gained the information through which he subsequently sneaked a mining concession in Portuguese East Africa from under Walter's very nose.

The garrulous Mr. Penwick had several other anecdotes on the same lines to tell, the point of which was to establish beyond dispute the fraternal affection of the Bros. Kinsall.

"Even their father got fed up with them," said Mr. Penwick. "And he wasn't a paragon, by any means. You must have heard of Sir Joseph Kinsall, the South African mil­lionaire? Well, he's their father. Lives in Malaga now, from what I hear. I used to be his solicitor, before I was struck off the rolls. Why, I've still got his last will and testament at home. Living abroad, he doesn't know about my misfor­tune; and I've kept the will because I'm going to be rein­stated. I had an awful time with him when he was over here. First he made a will leaving everything to 'em equally. Then he tore it up and left everything to Walter. Then he tore that one up and left everything to Willie. Then he tore that up and made another. He just couldn't make up his mind which of 'em was the worst. I remember once. . . ."

What Mr. Penwick remembered once he could be counted on to remember again. His garrulousness was due only in part to a natural loquacity of temperament: the rest of it could without injustice be credited to the endless supplies of pink gin which Simon Templar was ready to pay for.

The Saint had met Mr. Penwick for the first time in a West End bar; and thereafter had met him a number of times in other bars. He had never had the heart to shatter Mr. Penwick's fond dream that reinstatement was just around the corner; but it is doubtful whether Mr. Penwick really be­lieved it himself. Gin was Mr. Penwick's fatal weakness; and after several encounters with his watery eyes, his shaky hands, and his reddened and bulbous nose, it was hard to imagine that he could ever occupy his former place in the legal pro­fession again. Nevertheless, Simon Templar had sought his company on many occasions; for the Saint was not snobbish, and he had his own vocation to consider.