Saint Intervenes (6 page)

“What
about the directors?” queried Hammel.

“They’ll
get a wire too, of course, signed by the manager
on the spot. And don’t
forget that I’m a director. Every
penny I have is tied up in that
company—it’s my company,
lock, stock, and barrel. They’ll call a special
meeting, and I’ll
know exactly what they’re doing about it. Of course
they’ll cable the manager for more details, but I can arrange to see
that his
reply don’t get through to them before Friday lunch.”

Costello
fingered his wispy moustache.

“And
we sell out on Friday morning,” he said.

Mr. Oates
nodded emphatically.

“We do
more than sell out. We sell ourselves short, and
unload twice as much
stock as we’re holding. The story’ll get
all over England over
the week-end, and when the Exchange
opens on Monday morning the shares’ll
be two a penny. We
make our profit both ways.”

“It’s
a big risk,” said Hammel seriously.

“Well,
I’m taking it for you, ain’t I?” said Mr. Oates. “All
you have
to do is to help me spread the buying and selling about, so it don’t look too
much like a one-man deal. I’m
standing to take all the knocks. But it can’t
go wrong. I’ve
used Ischolskov before—I’ve got too much on him for him
to try and
double-cross me, and besides he’s getting paid
plenty. My being on
the Midorient board makes it water
tight. I’m taken in the same as the
rest of ‘em, and I’m hit as
hard as they are. You’re doing all the buying
and selling from
now on—there won’t be a single deal in my name that any
one can
prove against me. And whatever happens, don’t sell
till I give you the
wire. I’ll be the first to know when the
crash is coming, and
we’ll hold out till the last moment.”

They
talked for an hour longer, after which they went out to a belated but
celebratory lunch. Mr. Oates left his office early that afternoon, and
therefore
he did
not even think of the movements of his new secretary
when she went home. But if he had been privileged to observe them, he
would have been very little wiser; for Mr. O
ates was one of the numerous people who knew the Saint
only by name, and if he had seen the sinewy
sunburned young
man who met her at
Piccadilly Circus and bore her off for a
cocktail he might have suffered a pang of jealousy, but he would have had
no cause for alarm.

“We
must have an Old Fashioned, Pat,” said the Saint,
when they were
settled in Oddenino’s. “The occasion calls for one. There’s a wicked look
in your eye that tells me you have
some news. Have you sown a few more
wild Oates?”

“Must
you?” she protested weakly.

“Shall
we get him an owl?” Simon suggested.

“What
for?” asked Patricia unguardedly.

“It
would be rather nice,” said the Saint reflectively, “to get Titus an owl.”

Patricia
Holm shuddered.

Over the
cocktails and stuffed olives, however, she relented.

“It’s
started,” she said. “Hammel and Costello had a long
conference with him this
morning. I suppose they finished it
after
lunch, but I’d heard enough before they went out.”

She told
him every detail of the discussion that had taken
place in Mr. Titus
Oates’s private office, and Simon Templar
smiled approvingly
as he listened. Taken in conjunction with
what he already knew,
the summaries of various other conversations which she had reported to him, it
left him with the
whole structure of the conspiracy clearly catalogued in
his
mind.

“You
must remember to take that microphone out of his
office first thing in
the morning,” he remarked. “It might
spoil things if Titus
came across it, and I don’t think you’ll need to listen any more… . Here,
where did you get that from?”

“From
sowing my wild Oates,” said Patricia angelically, as
the
waitress departed with a five-pound note on her tray.

Simon
Templar regarded her admiringly.

“Darling,”
he said at length, “there are no limits to your
virtues. If you’re as
rich as that, you can not only buy me
another Old Fashioned but you can take
me to dinner at the
Barcelona
as well.”

On the way
to the restaurant he bought an
Evening Stand
ard
and opened
it at the table.

“Midorient
closed at 21,” he said. “It looks as if we shall
have to
name a ward in our Old Age Home for Retired
Burglars after Comrade
Oates.”

“How
much shall we make if we buy and sell with him?”
asked the girl.

The Saint
smiled.

“I’m
afraid we should lose a lot of money,” he said. “You
see, Titus
isn’t going to sell.”

She stared
at him, mystified; and he closed the menu and
laughed at her
silently.

“Did
you by any chance hear Titus boasting about a stamp he bought for his
collection last night?” he asked, and she
nodded. “Well,
old darling, I’m the bird who sold it to him.
I never thought I
should sink to philatelism even in my
dotage, but in this case it seemed the
best way to work. Titus
is already convinced that I’m the greatest
stamp-sleuth in
captivity, and when he hears about the twopenny blue
Mauri
tius I’ve discovered for him he will be
fairly purring through
the town. I
don’t see any reason why our Mr. Oates should
go unpunished for his
sins and make a fortune out of this
low swindle. He collects stamps, but
I’ve got an even better
hobby. I collect queer friends.” The
Saint was lighting a ciga
rette, and his blue eyes danced over the
match. “Now listen carefully while I tell you the next move.”

Mr.
Wallington Titus Oates was gloating fruitily over the
closing prices on the
Friday evening when his telephone bell
rang.

He had
reason to gloat. The news story provided by the cablegrams of Mr. Ischolskov
had been so admirably worded that it had hit the front page of every afternoon
edition the
previous day; and a jumpy market had done the rest. The
results
exceeded his most optimistic estimates. On the Wednes
day night Midorients
had closed at 32, and dealings in the
street had taken them up to 34. They
opened on Thursday
morning at 38, and went to 50 before noon. One lunch
edition
ran a special topical article on fortunes made in oil, the sun
shone
brilliantly, England declared for 537 for six wickets in
the first
Test, all the brokers and jobbers felt happy, and
Midorients finally
went to 61 at the close. Moreover, in the
evening paper which
Mr. Oates was reading there could not
be found a breath of suspicion directed
against the news which
had caused the boom. The Midorient directors
had issued a
statement declaring that they were awaiting further
details,
that their manager on the spot was a reliable man not
given
to hysterical exaggerations, and that for the moment they were satisfied
that prosperity had returned to an oil field which, they
pointed
out, had merely been suffering a temporary set-back. Mr. Gates had had much to
do with the wording of the state
ment himself; and if it erred somewhat on the
side of opti
mism, the error could not by any stretch of imagination
have been described as criminal misrepresentation.

And when
Mr. Oates picked up his receiver and heard
what it had to say,
his cup was filled to overflowing.

“I’ve
got you that twopenny blue,” sad a voice which he
recognised. “It’s
a peach! It must be one of the most perfect
specimens in
existence—and it’ll only cost you nine hundred
quid.”

Mr. Oates
gripped the receiver, and his eyes lighted up with
the unearthly fire
which illumines the stare of the collector
when he sees a coveted
trophy within his grasp. It was, in its
way, a no less starkly
primitive manifestation than the dilat
ing nostrils of a
bloodhound hot on the scent.

“Where
is it?” barked Mr. Oates, in the baying voice of
the same hound.
“When can I see it? Can you bring it round?
Have you got it
yourself? Where is it ?

“Well,
that’s the snag, Mr. Oates,” said the Saint apolo
getically. “The
owner won’t let it go. He won’t even let it
out of his safe until
it’s paid for. He says he’s got to have a
cheque in his pocket
before he’ll let me take it away. He’s a
crotchety old bird,
and I think he’s afraid I might light a
cigarette with it or
something.”

Mr. Oates
fairly quivered with suppressed emotion.

“Well,
where does he live?” he yelped. “I’ll settle him. I’ll
go round
and see him at once. What’s his name? What’s the
address ?”

“His
name is Dr. Jethero,” Simon answered methodically,
“and
he lives at 105 Matlock Gardens, Netting Hill. I think you’ll catch him
there—I’ve only just left him, and he said nothing about going out.”

“Dr.
Jethero—105—Matlock—Gardens—Notting—Hill,”
repeated Mr. Oates,
reaching for a message pad and scribbling
frantically.

“By
the way,” said the Saint, “I said he was crotchety, but
you may
think he’s just potty. He’s got some sort of a bee in
his bonnet about
people trying to get in and steal his stamp,
and he told me that if
you want to call and see him you’ve
got to give a password.”

“A
password?” bleated Mr. Oates.

“Yes.
I told him that everybody knew Titus Oates, but ap
parently that wasn’t
good enough for him. If you go there you’ve got to say ‘I was whipped from
Aldgate to Newgate
and from Newgate to Tyburn.’ Can you remember that?”

“Of course,” said Mr.
Oates indignantly. “I know all about
that.
Titus Oates was an ancestor of mine. Come and see me
in the morning, my dear boy—I’ll have a present
waiting for
you. Good-bye.”

Mr. Oates
slammed back the receiver and leapt up as if unleashed. Dithering with ecstasy
and excitement, he stuffed
his note of the address into his pocket,
grabbed a cheque
book, and dashed out into the night.

The taxi
ride to his destination seemed interminable, and
when he got there he
was in such a state of expectant rap
ture that he flung the driver a pound
note and scurried up
the steps without waiting for change. The
house was one of
those unwieldly Victorian edifices with which the west of
London is
encumbered against all hopes of modern develop
ment; and in the dim
street lighting he did not notice that all
the windows were
barred, nor would he have been likely to speculate upon the reasons for that
peculiar feature if he had
noticed it.

The door
was opened by a white-coated man, and Mr. O
ates almost bowled
him over as he dashed past him into
the hall.

“I
want Dr. Jethero,” he bayed. “I’m Titus Oates!”

The man
closed the door and looked at him curiously.

“Mr.
Titus Oates, sir?”

“Yes!” roared the
financier impatiently. “Titus Oates. Tell
him I was whipped from Aldgate to Newgate, and from Newgate to Tyburn.
And hurry up!”

The man
nodded perfunctorily, and edged past him at a
cautious distance of
which Mr. Oates was too wrought up to
see the implications.

“Yes,
sir. Will you wait in here a moment, sir?”

Mr. Oates
was ushered into a barely furnished distempered
room and left there.
With an effort he fussed himself down to a superficial calm—he was Titus Oates,
a power in the
City, and he must conduct himself accordingly. Dr.
Jethero
might misunderstand a blundering excitement. If he was
crotchety,
and perhaps even potty, he must be handled with
tact. Mr. Oates
strode up and down the room, working off
his overflow of excitement. There was a
faint characteristic
flavour of iodoform in
the air, but Mr. Oates did not even
notice that.