13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

Mr. Tanfold's bouncing larynx almost throttled him. Never in all his days had he so much as dreamed of being the victim of such a staggering unblushing impudence. In a kind of daze, he felt himself being gripped by the arm; and a brief pano­rama of London streets swam dizzily through his vision and dissolved deliriously into the façade of the Palace Royal Hotel. Even the power of speech did not return to him until he found himself once more in the painfully reminiscent sur­roundings of Mr. Tombs's suite.

"Well," he demanded hoarsely, "what's the game?"

"The game," answered Simon Templar genially, "is the royal and ancient sport of hoisting engineers with their own pe­tards, dear old wallaby. Take a look at where you are, Gil­bert. I'm here to let you out of the mess—at a price."

Mr. Tanfold's mouth opened.

"But that—that's blackmail!" he gasped.

"It doesn't bother me what you call it," Simon said calmly. "I want twenty-five thousand pounds to forget that you forged my signature. How about it?"

"You can't get it," Tanfold spat out. "If I published that photograph——''

"I should laugh myself sick," said the Saint. "I'm afraid there's something you'd better get wise to, brother. My father isn't a prominent Melbourne business man and social reformer at all, except for your benefit; and you can paste enlargements of that picture all over Melbourne Town Hall for all I care. Make some inquiries outside the bar downstairs, gorgeous, and get up to date. Come along, now—which is it to be? Twenty-five thousand smackers or the hoosegow? Take your choice."

Mr. Tanfold's face was turning green.

"I haven't got so much money in  cash,"  he  squawked.

"I'll give you a week to find it," said the Saint mercilessly, "and I don't really care much if you do go bankrupt in the process. I find you neither ornamental nor useful. But just in case you think forgery is the only charge you have to answer, you might like to listen to this."

He went through the communicating door to the bedroom and was back in a moment. Suddenly through the door, Mr. Tanfold heard the sounds of his own voice.

"Let's talk business. . . . I've got a photograph that was taken of you while you were at the studio. .  ."

With his face going paler and paler, Mr. Tanfold listened. He made no sound until the record was finished, and then he let out an abrupt squeal.

"But that isn't all of it!" he yelled. "It leaves off before the place where you gave me the cheque!"

"Of course it does," said the Saint shamelessly. "That would spike the forgery charge, wouldn't it? But as it stands, you've got two things to answer. First you tried to blackmail me; and then, when you found that wouldn't work, you forged my signature to a cheque for ten thousand quid. It was all very rash and naughty of you, Gilbert; and I'm sure the police would take a very serious view of the case—particularly after they'd investigated your business a bit more. Well, well, well, brother—we all make mistakes, and I'm afraid I shall have to send that dictaphone record along to Chief Inspector Teal, as well as charging you with forgery, if you haven't come through with the spondulix inside seven days."

Once again words rose to Mr. Tanfold's lips; and once again, glimpsing the unholy gleam in the Saint's eye and re­membering his previous experience in that room, they stuck in his throat. And once again Simon went to the door and opened it.

"This is the way out," said the Saint.

Mr. Gilbert Tanfold moved hazily towards the portal. As he passed through it, a pair of hands fell on his shoulders and steadied him with a light but masterful grip. Some premoni­tion of his fate must have reached him, for his shrill cry dis­turbed the regal quietude of the Palace Royal Hotel even before the toe of a painfully powerful shoe impacted on his tender posterior and lifted him enthusiastically on his way.

XIII

The Man Who Liked Toys

Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal rested his pudgy elbows on the table and unfolded the pink wrappings from a fresh wafer of chewing gum.

"That's all there was to it," he said. "And that's the way it always is. You get an idea, you spread a net out among the stool pigeons, and you catch a man. Then you do a lot of dull routine work to build up the evidence. That's how a real detective does his job; and that's the way Sherlock Holmes would have had to do it if he'd worked at Scotland Yard."

Simon Templar grinned amiably, and beckoned a waiter for the bill. The orchestra yawned and went into another dance number; but the floor show had been over for half an hour, and Dora's Curfew was hurrying the drinks off the tables. It was two o'clock in the morning, and a fair proportion of the patrons of the Palace Royal had some work to think of before the next midnight.

"Maybe you're right, Claud," said the Saint mildly.