13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

The uninitiated may sometimes be tempted to think that the career of a twentieth-century brigand is nothing but a series of dramatically satisfying high spots interluded with periods of ill-gotten ease; but nothing could be farther from the truth. The Saint's work was never done. He knew better than anyone that golden-fleeced sheep rarely fall miraculously out of Heaven for the shearing; and while he certainly enjoyed a liberal allowance of high spots, many of the intervals between them were taken up with the dull practical business of picking up clues, sifting stray fragments of gossip from all quarters that came his way, and planning the paths by which future high spots were to be attained. He followed a score of false scents for every one that led him to profit, and there was none which he could pass by; for he never knew until the moment of coincidence and inspiration which would lead him to big game and which would lead to nothing more than a stray mouse.

The garrulousness of Mr. Penwick was a case in point. Solicitors hear many secrets; and when they have been struck off the rolls and nurse a grievance, and their downward path is lubricated by a craving for juniper juice which they are not financially equipped to indulge as deeply as they would wish, there is always the chance that a modern buccaneer with an attentive mind, who will provide gin in limitless quantities, may sooner or later hear some item of reminis­cence that will come in useful one day.

Some weeks passed before Mr. Penwick came in useful; and Simon was not thinking of him at all when Patricia Holm looked up from the newspaper one morning and said: "I see your friend Sir Joseph Kinsall is dead."

The Saint, who was smoking a cigarette on the windowsill and looking down into the sunlit glades of the Green Park, was not immediately impressed.

"He's not my pal—he's the bibulous Penwick's," he said, and in his mind ran over the stories which Mr. Penwick had told him. "May I see?"

He read through the news item, and learned that Sir Joseph had succumbed to an attack of pneumonia at ten o'clock the previous morning. A well-known firm of London solicitors was said to be in possession of his will; and the disposition of his vast fortune would probably be disclosed later that day.

"Well, that'll give Walter and Willie something new to squabble over," Simon remarked, and thought nothing more about it until that evening, when a late edition told him that the Kinsall millions, according to a will made in 1927, would be divided equally between his two sons.

That appeared to close the incident; and Simon decided that the late Sir Joseph had found the only possible answer to the choice between two such charming heirs as the gods had blessed him with. He dismissed the affair with a char­acteristic shrug as only one of the false scents which had crossed his path in his twelve years of illicit hunting; and he was turning to the back page for the result of the 4.30 when a wobbly hand clutched his sleeve, and he looked around to behold a vision of the garrulous Mr. Penwick arrayed in a very creased and moth-eaten frock coat and a top hat which had turned green in the years of idleness.

"Hullo," Simon murmured, and automatically ordered a double pink gin. "Whose funeral have you been to?"

Mr. Penwick clutched at the glass which was provided, downed half the contents, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"Ole boy," he said earnestly, "I'm going to be reinshtated. Congrashulate me."

Indubitably he was very drunk; and the Saint relaxed into perfunctory attention.

"Splendid," he said politely. "When did you hear the news ?"

"They got to reinshtate me now," said Mr. Penwick, "be­cause I'm only schap hoosh got Kinshallsh will." He dabbed astigmatically at the Saint's evening paper. "Jew read newsh? They shay moneysh divided between Wallern Willie 'cording to will he made in nineen-twenny-sheven. Pish!" said Mr. Penwick, snapping his fingers. "Bosh! That will wash re­voked yearsh ago. I got the will he made in nineen-thirry-two. Sho they got to reinshtate me. Can't have sholishitor shtruck off rollsh hoosh got will worth millionsh."

Simon's relaxation had vanished in an instant—it might never have overcome him. He glanced round the bar in sud­den alarm, but fortunately the room was empty and the barmaid was giggling with her colleague at the far end of her quarters.

"Wait a minute," he said firmly, and steered the unsteady Mr. Penwick to a table as far removed as possible from po­tential eavesdroppers. "Tell me this again, will you?"