13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

"It's all fixed," he said. "Let's go."

There was a car waiting—a big cream and red speedster that looked as if it could pass anything else on the road and cost its owner a small fortune for the privilege. In a few moments Mr. Journ, still clutching his precious bag, found himself being whirled recklessly through the outskirts of Lon­don.

He released one hand from his bag to hold on to his hat, and submitted to the hurricane speed of the getaway in a kind of trance. The brilliant driving of his guide made no im­pression on his numbed brain, and even the route they took registered itself on his mind only subconsciously. His whole existence had passed into a sort of cyclonic nightmare which took away his breath and left a ghastly gnawing emptiness in his chest. The passage of time was merely a change in the positions of the hands of his watch, without any other signifi­cance.

And then, in the same deadened way, he became aware that the car had stopped, and the driver was getting out. They were in a narrow lane far from the main road, somewhere between Tring and Aylesbury.

"This is as far as we go, brother," said the Saint.

Mr. Journ levered himself stiffly out. There were open fields all around, partly hidden by the hedges which lined the lane.

Inspector Tombs was lighting another cigarette.

"And now, dear old bird," he murmured, "you must pay your fare."

Sumner Journ nodded, and fumbled with the fastening of his case.

"But I don't mind taking it in the bag," Simon said quietly.

Mr. Journ looked up. There was a subtle implication in the way the words were said which struck a supernatural chill into his blood. And in the next second he knew why; for his lifting eyes looked straight into the muzzle of an automatic.

Slowly Mr. Journ's eyes dilated. He stopped breathing. A cold intangible hand closed round his heart in a vice-like grip; and the muscles of his face twitched spasmodically.

"But you can't do that!" he screamed suddenly. "You can't take it all!"

"That is a matter of opinion," said the Saint equably; and then, before Mr. Journ really knew what was happening, a strong brown hand had shot out and grasped the brief-bag and twitched it out of Mr. Journ's desperate grip with a deft twist that was too quick for the eye to follow.

With a guttural gasp Sumner Journ lurched forward to tear it back, and found himself pushed away like a child!

"Now don't be silly," said the Saint. "I don't want to hurt you—much. You've lived like a prince for four years on the sucker crop, and a bloke like you can always think up a new racket. Don't take it so much to heart. Disguise yourself and make a fresh start. Shave off your moustache, and no one will recognise you."

"But what am I going to do?" Sumner Journ shrieked at him as he seated himself again in the car. "How am I going to get away?"

Simon stopped with his foot on the clutch.

"Bless my soul!" he said. "I almost forgot."

He dipped a long arm into the tonneau and brought up a small article which he pushed into Mr. Journ's trembling hands. Then the great car leapt away with a sudden roar from the exhaust, and Mr. Journ was left staring at his consolation prize with a face that had gone ashen grey.

It was a little toy aeroplane; and tied to it was a tag label on which was written:

With the compliments of the Saint.

XII

The Art Photographer

"It becomes increasingly obvious," said the Saint, "that the time has arrived when we shall have to squash Mr. Gilbert Tanfold."

He did not utter this prophecy within the hearing of Mr. Tanfold, for that would have been a gesture of a kind in which Simon Templar indulged more rarely now than he had once been wont to do. If the time had arrived when the squashing of Mr. Tanfold became a public service which no altruistic freebooter could refuse to perform, the time had also passed when the squashing could be carried out with full theatrical honours, with a haloed drawing on a plain card left pinned to the resultant blob of grease to tell the world that Simon Templar had been there. There was too much interest in his activities at Scotland Yard for anything like that to be entered upon without an elaborate preparation of alibis, which was rather more trouble than he thought Mr. Tanfold was worth. But the ripeness for squashing, the zerquetschenreiftichkeit, if we may borrow a word which the English lan­guage so unhappily lacks, of Mr. Gilbert Tanfold, even if it could not be made a public ceremony, could not be over­looked altogether for any such trivial reason.

The advertisements of Mr. Tanfold appeared in the black pages of several appropriate journals, and were distin­guished by their prodigality of exclamation marks and their unusual vagueness of content. The specimen which was an­swered by a certain Mr. Tombs was fairly typical.

PARISIAN ART PHOTOS !!!!!!!!

rare !         extraordinary !!

Special offer! (Cannot be repeated!) 100

unique poses, 3/6 post free. Exceptional