13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

Simon Templar would have found nothing psychologically contradictory in the fact that a man who, cultivating the world's most original moustache with microscopic perfection of detail, had overlooked the fundamental point that a mous­tache should be visible, should, when creating a Timber Company, have overlooked the prime essential that the one thing which a Timber Company must possess, its sine qua non, so to speak, is timber. Mr. Journ had compiled his in­ducements with unlimited care from encyclopedias and the information supplied by genuine timber-producing firms, cal­culating the investors' potential profits according to a mathe­matical system of his own; the only thing he had omitted to do was to provide himself with the requisite land for affor­estation. He had selected his site from an atlas, and had im­mediately forgotten all the other necessary steps towards securing a title to it.

In the circumstances, it was only natural that Mr. Sumner Journ, telling tall stories about timber, should remember that the day was coming when he himself would have to set out, metaphorically at least, in the direction of the tall timber which is the fugitive's traditional refuge; but he reckoned that the profit would be worth it.

The only point on which he was a trifle hazy, as other such schemers have been before him, was the precise moment at which the getaway ought to be made; and it was with a sud­den sinking of heart that he heard the name of the man who called to see him at his office on a certain afternoon.

"Inspector Tombs?" he said with a rather pallid heartiness. "I think I have met you somewhere before."

"I'm the C. I. D. Inspector in this division," said the visitor blandly.

Mr. Journ nodded. He knew now where he had seen his caller before—it was the man who had been talking to Chief Inspector Teal in Swallow Street when he went by a few days ago, and who had stared at him so intently.

Mr. Journ opened a drawer and took out a box of cigars with unsteady hands.

"What can I do for you, Inspector?" he asked.

Somewhat to his surprise, Inspector Tombs willingly helped himself to a handful, and sat down in an armchair.

"You can give me money," said Inspector Tombs brazenly; and the wild leaping of Sumner Journ's heart died down to a painful throbbing.

"For one of your charities, perhaps? Well, I have never been miserly——"

The Saint shook his head.

"For me," he said flatly. "The Yard has asked us to keep an eye on you, and I think you need a friend in this manor. Chuck the bluffing, Journ—I'm here for business."

Sumner Journ was silent for a moment; but he was not thinking of resuming the bluff. That wouldn't help. He had to thank his stars that his first police visitor was a man who so clearly and straightforwardly understood the value of hard cash.

"How much do you want?" he asked.

"Two hundred pounds," was the calm reply.

Mr. Journ put up a hand and twirled one of the tiny horns of his wee moustache with the tip of his finger and thumb. His hard brown eyes studied Inspector Tombs unwinkingly.

"That's a lot of money,"  he said with an effort.

"What I can tell you is worth it," Simon told him grimly.

Mr. Journ hesitated for a short time longer, and then he took out a cheque-book and dipped his pen in the inkwell.

"Make it out to Bearer," said the Saint, who in spite of his morbid affection for the cognomen of "Tombs" had not yet thought it worth while opening a bank account in that name.

Journ completed the cheque, blotted it, and passed it across the desk. In his mind he was wondering if it was the fee for Destiny's warning: if Scotland Yard had asked the local division to "keep an eye on him," it was a sufficient hint that his activities had not passed unnoticed, and a sug­gestion that further inquiries might be expected to follow. He had not thought that it would happen so soon; but since it had happened, he felt a leaden heaviness at the pit of his stomach and a restless anxiety that arose from something more than a mere natural resentment at being forced to pay petty blackmail to a dishonest detective. And yet, so great was his seasoning of confidence that even then he was not anticipating any urgent danger.

"Well, what can you tell me?" he said.

Simon put the cheque away.

"The tip is to get out," he said bluntly; and Mr. Journ went white.

"Wha-what?" he stammered.

"You shouldn't complain," said the Saint callously. "You've been going for four years, and you must have made a packet. Now we're on to you. When I tell you to get out, I mean it. The Yard didn't ask us to keep an eye on you. What they did was to send an order through for a raid this afternoon. Chief Inspector Teal is coming down himself at four o'clock to take charge of it. That's worth two hundred pounds to know, isn't it?"

He stood up.

"You've got about an hour to clear out—you'd better make the most of it," he said.