11 The Brighter Buccaneer

and good Scotch, we shall draw nigh to Brother James with our haloes fairly glistening. It was just for a man like him that I was sav­ing up my Perfect Crime.'

If the Saint's halo was not actually visibly luminous when he called at Mr. Deever's offices the next morning, he at least looked remarkably harmless. A white flower ('for purity,' said the Saint) started in his button-hole and flowed in all direc­tions over his coat lapel; a monocle was screwed into his right eye; his hat sat precariously on the back of his head; and his face was relaxed into an expression of such amiably aristo­cratic idiocy that Mr. Deever's chief clerk-a man hardly less sour-visaged than Mr. Deever himself-was even more ob­sequious than usual.

Simon said he wanted a hundred pounds, and would cheer­fully give a jolly old note of hand for it if some Johnnie would explain to him what a jolly old note of hand was. The clerk explained, oleaginously, that a jolly old note of hand was a somewhat peculiar sort of thing that sounded nice in adver­tisements, but wasn't really used with important clients. Had Mr.-er-Smith? had Mr. Smith any other kind of security?

'I've got some jolly old premium bonds,' said the Saint; and the clerk nodded his head in a perfect sea of oil.

'If you can wait a moment, sir, perhaps Mr. Deever will see you himself.'

The Saint had no doubt that Mr. Deever would see him. He waited around patiently for a few minutes, and was ushered into Mr. Deever's private sanctum.

'You see, I lost a bally packet at Derby yesterday-every blinkin' horse fell down dead when I backed it. I work a sys­tem, but of course you can't back a winner every day. I know I'll get it back, though-the chappie who sold me the system said it never let him down.'

Mr. Deever's eyes gleamed. If there was anything that satisfied every one of his requirements for a successful loan, it was an asinine young man with a monocle who believed in racing systems.

'I believe you mentioned some security, Mr.-er-Smith. Naturally we should be happy to lend you a hundred pounds without any formalities, but --'

'Oh, I've got these jolly old bonds. I don't want to sell 'em, because they're having a draw this month. If you hold the lucky number you get a fat bonus. Sort of lottery business, but quite gilt-edged an' all that sort of thing.'

He produced a large envelope, and passed it across Mr. Deever's desk. Deever extracted a bunch of expensively water­marked papers artistically engraved with green and gold letter­ing which proclaimed them to be Latvian 1929 Premium Loan (British Series) Bonds, value L25 each.

The financier crunched them between his fingers, squinted at the ornate characters suspiciously through a magnifiying glass, and looked again at the Saint.

'Of course, Mr. Smith, we don't keep large sums of money on the premises. But if you like to leave these bonds with me until, say, two o'clock this afternoon, I'm sure we can make a satisfactory arrangement.'

'Keep 'em by every manner of means, old bean,' said the Saint airily. 'So long as I get the jolly old quidlets in time to take 'em down to the three-thirty today, you're welcome.'

Conveniently enough, this happened to be the first day of the Manchester September meeting. Simon Templar paraded again at two o'clock, collected his hundred pounds, and re­joined Peter Quentin at their hotel.

'I have a hundred pounds of Brother James's money,' he announced. 'Let's go and spread it around on the most frantic outsiders we can find.'

They went to the races, and it so happened that the Saint's luck was in. He had doubled Mr. Deever's hundred pounds when the result of the last race went up on the board-but Mr. Deever would not have been seriously troubled if he had lost the lot. Five hundred pounds' worth of Latvian Bearer Bonds had been deposited as security for the advance, and in spite of the artistic engraving on them there was no doubt that they were genuine. The interval between Simon Templar's visit to Mr. Deever in the morning and the time when the money was actually paid over to him had been devoted to an expert scru­tiny of the bonds, coupled with inquiries at Mr. Deever's brokers, which had definitely established their authenticity- and the Saint knew it.

'I wonder,' Simon Templar was saying as they drove back into the town, 'if there's any place here where you could buy a false beard. With all this money in our pockets, why should you wait for Nature to grow it?'

Nevertheless, it was not with the air of a man who has col­lected a hundred pounds over a couple of well- chosen winners that the Saint came to Mr. Deever the next day. It was Satur­day, but that meant nothing to Mr. Deever. He was a man who kept only the barest minimum of holidays and much good business might be done with temporarily embarrassed members of the racing fraternity on the second day of the meeting.

It appeared very likely on this occasion.

'I don't know how the horse managed to lose,' said the Saint mournfully.

'Dear me!' said Mr. Deever unctuously. 'Dear me! Did it lose?'

The Saint nodded.

'I don't understand it at all. The chappie who sold me this system said it had never had more than three losers in succession. And the stakes go up so frightfully fast. You see, you have to put on more money each time, so that when you win you get back your losses as well. But it simply must win today --'

'How much do you need to put on today, Mr. Smith?'

'About eight hundred pounds. But what with buzzing around an' having a few drinks and what not, don't you know -if you could make it an even thou --'

Mr. Deever rubbed his hands over each other with a face of abysmal gloom.

'A thousand pounds is quite a lot of money, Mr.-er-Smith, but of course, if you can offer some security-purely as a business formality, you understand --'

'Oh, I've got lots of those jolly old Latvian Bonds,' said the Saint. 'I think I bought about two hundred of 'em. Got to try and pick up a bonus somehow, what?'

Mr. Deever nodded like a mandarin.