13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

For several minutes after the detective had gone Mr. Journ was in a daze. It was the first time that the consequences of his actions had loomed up in his vision as glaring realities. Arrest—police court—remand—the Old Bailey—penal servi­tude—the whole gamut of a crash, he had known about in the abstract like everyone else; but his self-confident imagina­tion had never paused to put himself in the leading role. The sudden realisation of what had crept up upon him struck him like a blow in the solar plexus. He sat trembling in his chair, gasping like a stranded fish, feeling his knee-joints melting like butter in a frightful paralysis of panic. Whenever he had visualized the end before, it had never been like this: it had been on a date of his own choosing, after he had made all his plans in unhurried comfort, when he could pack up and beat his trail for the tall timber as calmly as if he had been going off on a legitimate business trip, without fear of interference. This catastrophe pouncing on him out of a clear sky scattered his thoughts like dry leaves in a gale.

And then he got a grip on himself. The getaway still had to be made. He still had an hour—and the banks were open. If he could keep his head, think quickly, act and plan as he had never had to do before, he might still make the grade.

"I'm feeling a bit washed out," he told his secretary; and certainly he looked it. "I think I'll go home."

He went out and hailed a taxi, half expecting to feel a heavy hand drop on his shoulder even as he climbed in.

It was getting late, and he had several things to do. He had been so sure that his Brazilian Timber Bonds had a long lease of life ahead of them that he had not yet given any urgent thought to the business of shifting his profits out of the coun­try. At the first bank where he called he presented a cheque whose size pushed up the cashier's eyebrows.

"This will practically close your account, Mr. Journ," he said.

"It won't be out for long," Journ told him, with all the nonchalance he could muster. "I'm putting through a rather big deal this afternoon, and I've got to work in cash."

He stopped at two other banks, where he had accounts in different names; and also at a safe-deposit, where his box yielded him a thick wad of various European currencies. When he had finished, his brief-bag was bulging with more than sixty thousand pounds in negotiable cash.

He climbed back into his taxi and drove to his apartment near Baker Street. There would not be much time for pack­ing, he reflected, studying his watch feverishly; but he must pick up his passport, and as many everyday necessities as he could cram into a valise in five minutes would be a help. The taxi stopped; and Mr. Journ opened the door and prepared to jump out; but before he could do so a man appeared at the opening and plunged in on top of him, practically throw-ing him back on to the seat. Sumner Journ's heart leaped sickeningly into his mouth; and then he recognised the dark piratical features of "Inspector Tombs."

"Whasser matter?" Journ got out hoarsely.

"You can't go in there," rapped the Saint. "Teal's on his way. Put the raid forward half an hour. They're looking for you." He opened the driver's partition. "South Kensington Station," he ordered. "And step on it!"

The taxi moved on again, and Mr. Journ stared wildly out of the windows. A uniformed constable chanced to cross the street behind them towards his door. He sank back in terror; and Simon closed the partition and settled into the other corner.

"But what am I going to do?" quavered Journ. "My pass­port's in there!"

"It wouldn't be any use to you," said the Saint tersely. "We know you've got one, and we know what name it's in. They'll be watching for you at all the ports. You'd never get through."

"But where can I go?" Journ almost sobbed.

Simon lighted a cigarette and looked at him.

"Have you got any more money?"

"Yes." Sumner Journ saw his companion's keen blue eyes fixed on the swollen brief-bag which he was clutching on his knees, and added belatedly: "A little."

"You'll need a lot," said the Saint. "I've risked my job standing outside your apartment to catch you when you arrived, if you got there before Teal; and I didn't do it for nothing. Now listen. I've got a friend who does a bit of smuggling from the Continent with a private aeroplane. He's got his own landing-grounds, here and in France. I've done him a few favours, the same as I've done for you already, and I can get him to take you to France—or further, if you want to go. It's your only chance; and it'll cost you two thousand pounds."

Mr. Journ swallowed.

"All right," he gulped. "All right. I'll pay it."

"It's cheap at the price," said Inspector Tombs, and leaned forward to give further instructions to the driver.

Presently they turned into a mews off Queen's Gate. Simon paid off the cab, and asked the garage proprietor for the loan of a telephone. He spoke a few cryptic words to his con­nection, and returned smiling.