11 The Brighter Buccaneer

world for the way you're feeling. Really, sir, you'll feel quite different after you've had it.'

Croon put out a white, flabby hand. He managed to take a gulp of the hot soup; then another. It had a slightly bitter taste which seemed familiar. The cabin swam around him again, more dizzily than before, and his eyes closed in merciful drowsiness.

He opened them in his own bedroom. His servant was draw­ing back the curtains, and the sun was streaming in at the windows.

The memory of his nightmare made him feel sick again, and he clenched his teeth and swallowed desperately. But the floor underneath was quite steady. And then he remembered some­thing else, and struggled up in the bed with an effort which threatened to overpower him with renewed nausea.

'Give me my chequebook,' he rasped. 'Quick-out of my coat pocket --'

He opened it frantically and stared at a blank stub with his face growing haggard.

'What's today?' he asked.

'This is Saturday, sir,' answered the surprised valet.

'What time?'

'Eleven o'clock, sir. You said I wasn't to call you --'

But Mr. Melford Croon was clawing for the telephone at his bedside. In a few seconds he was through to his bank in Lon­don. They told him that his cheque had been cashed at ten.

Mr. Croon lay back on the pillows and tried to think out how it could have been done.

He even went so far as to tell his incredible story to Scotland Yard, though he was not by nature inclined to attract the at­tention of the police.

A methodical search was made in Lloyd's Register, but no mention of a ship called the Christabel Jane could be found. Which was not surprising, for Christabel Jane was the name temporarily bestowed by Simon Templar on a dilapidated Thames tug which had wallowed very convincingly for a few hours in the gigantic tank at the World Features studio at Teddington for the filming of storm scenes at sea, which would undoubtedly have been a great asset to Mr. Croon's Consolidated Albion Film Company if the negotiations for the lease had been successful.

The Owners' Handicap

'THE art of crime,' said Simon Templar, carefully mayon­naising a section of truite r la gelce, 'is to be versatile. Repeti­tion breeds contempt-and promotion for flat-footed oafs from Scotland Yard. I assure you, Pat, I have never felt the slightest urge to be the means of helping any detective on his upward climb. Therefore we soak bucket-shops one week and bootleg­gers the next, the poor old Chief Inspector Teal never knows where he is.'

Patricia Holm fingered the stem of her wineglass with a faraway smile. Perhaps the smile was a trifle wistful. Perhaps it wasn't. You never know. But she had been the Saint's partner in outlawry long enough to know what any such oratorical opening as that portended; and she smiled.

'It dawns upon me,' said the Saint, 'that our talents have not yet been applied to the crooked angles of the Sport of Kings.'

'I don't know,' said Patricia mildly. 'After picking the winner of the Derby with a pin, and the winner of the Oaks with a pack of cards --'

Simon waved away the argument.

'You may think,' he remarked, 'that we came here to cele­brate. But we didn't. Not exactly. We came here to feast our eyes on the celebrations of a brace of lads of the village who always tap the champagne here when they've brought off a coup. Let me introduce you. They're sitting at the corner table behind me on your right.'

The girl glanced casually across the restaurant in the direc­tion indicated. She located the two men at once- there were three magnums on the table in front of them, and their ap­pearance was definitely hilarious.

Simon finished his plate and ordered strawberries and cream.

'The fat one with the face like an egg and the diamond tiepin is Mr. Joseph Mackintyre. He wasn't always Mackintyre, but what the hell? He's a very successful bookmaker; and, be­lieve it or not, Pat, I've got an account with him.'

'I suppose he doesn't know who you are?'

'That's where you're wrong. He does know-and the idea simply tickles him to death. It's the funniest thing he has to talk about. He lets me run an account, pays me when I win, and gets a cheque on the nail when I lose. And all the time he's splitting his sides, telling all his friends about it, and watching everything I do with an eagle eye- just waiting to catch me trying to put something across him.'

'Who's the thin one?'

'That's Vincent Lesbon. Origin believed to be Levantine. He owns the horses, and the way those horses run is nobody's business. Lesbon wins with 'em when he feels like it, and Mackintyre fields against 'em so generously that the starting price usually goes out to the hundred-to-eight mark. It's an old racket, but they work it well.'

Patricia nodded. She was still waiting for the sequel that was bound to come-the reckless light in the Saint's eyes presaged it like a red sky at sunset. But he annihilated his strawberries with innocent deliberation before he leaned back in his chair and grinned at her.

'Let's go racing tomorrow,' he said, 'I want to buy a horse.'

They went down to Kempton Park, and arrived when the runners for the second race were going up. The race was a Selling Plate; with the aid of his faithful pin, Simon selected an outsider that finished third; but the favourite won easily by two lengths. They went to the ring after the numbers were posted, and the Saint had to bid up to four hundred guineas before he became the proud owner of Hill Billy.

As the circle of buyers and bystanders broke up, Simon felt a hand on his arm. He looked around, and saw a small thick-set man in check breeches and a bowler hat who had the unmis­takable air of an ex-jockey.