13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

The solicitor put his finger-tips together.

"What proof have you, Mr.—ah—Kinsall," he inquired gently, "of the existence of this will?"

Willie stopped skipping for a moment. And then, with a painful wrench, he flung bluff to the winds. He had no proof, and he knew it.

"All right," he said. "I won't go to the police. I'll buy it What do you want?"

Simon pursed his lips.

"I doubt," he said, "whether the will is any longer for sale. Mr. Walter's cheque is already in my bank, and I am only waiting for it to be cleared before handing the document over to him."

"Nonsense!" yelped Willie, but he used a much coarser word for it. "Walter hasn't got it yet. I'll give you as much as he gave—and you won't have to return his money. He wouldn't dare go into court and say what he gave it to you for."

The Saint shook his head.

"I don't think," he said virtuously, "that I would break my bargain for less than twenty thousand pounds."

"You're a thief and a crook!" howled Willie.

"So are you," answered the temporary Mr. Penwick mildly. "By the way, this payment had better be in cash. You can go round to your bank and get it right away. I don't like to have to insist on this, but Mr. Walter said he was coming round in about an hour's time, and if you're going to make your offer in an acceptable form——"

It is only a matter of record that Willie went. It is also on record that he took his departure in a speed and ferment that eclipsed even his arrival; and Simon Templar went to the tele­phone and called Patricia.

"You must have done a great job, darling," he said. "What did you get out of it?"

"Five hundred pounds," she told him cheerfully. "I got an open cheque and took it straight round to his bank—I'm just pushing out to buy some clothes, as soon as I've washed this paint off my face."

"Buy a puce jumper," said the Saint, "and christen it Willie. I want to keep it for a pet."

Rather less than an hour had passed when the front door bell pealed again; and Simon looked out of the window and beheld the form of Walter Kinsall standing outside. He went to let the caller in himself.

Mr. Walter Kinsall was a little taller and heavier than his brother, but the rat-like mould of his features and his small beady eyes were almost the twins of his brother's. At that point their external resemblance temporarily ended, for Wal­ter's bearing was not hysterical.

"Well, Mr. Penwick," he said gloatingly, "has my cheque been cleared?"

"It ought to be through by now," said the Saint. "If you'll wait a moment, I'll just phone up the bank and make sure."

He did so, while the elder Kinsall rubbed his hands. He paused to reflect, with benevolent satisfaction, what a happy chance it was that his first name, while bearing the same initial as his brother's, still came first in index sequence, so that this decayed solicitor, searching the telephone directory for putative kin of the late Sir Joseph, had rung him up first. What might have happened had their alphabetical order been different, Walter at that moment hated to think.

"Your cheque has been cleared," said the Saint, returning from the telephone; and Walter beamed.

"Then, Mr. Penwick, you have only to hand me the will——"

Simon knit his brows.

"The situation is rather difficult," he began; and suddenly Walter's face blackened.

"What the devil do you mean—difficult?" he rasped. "You've had your money. Are you trying——"

"You see," Simon explained, "your brother has been in to see me."

Walter gaped at him apoplectically for a space; and then he took a threatening step forward.

"You filthy double-crossing——"

"Wait a minute," said the Saint. "I think this is Willie coming back."

He pushed past the momentarily paralysed Walter, and went to open the front door again. Willie stood on the step, puffing out his lean rat-like cheeks and quivering as if he had just escaped from the paws of a hungry cat. He scrabbled in his pockets, tugged out a thick sheaf of banknotes, and crushed them into the Saint's hands as they went down the hall.

"It's all there, Mr. Penwick," he gasped. "I haven't been long, have I? Now will you give me——"

It was at that instant that he entered the room which Simon Templar had rented for the occasion, and saw his brother; and his failure to complete the sentence was under­standable.

For a time there was absolute silence, while the two de­voted brothers glared at each other with hideous rigidity. Simon Templar took out his cigarette case and selected a smoke at luxurious leisure, while Willie stared at Walter with red-hot eyes, and Walter glowered at Willie with specks of foam on his lips. Then the Saint stroked the cog of his lighter; and at the slight sound, as if invisible strait-jackets which held them immobile had been conjured away, the two men started towards each other with simultaneous detonations of speech.

"You slimy twister!" snarled Walter.

"You greasy shark!" yapped Willie.