11 The Brighter Buccaneer

'Are you a reporter?' asked the other wearily.

'I have a conscience,' said the Saint. 'What's your name, and what do you do?'

'Inwood. I'm a chemist and-a sort of inventor.' The shabby man gazed apathetically at the cup of coffee which had been set before him. 'I ought to thank you for saving my life, I suppose, but --'

'Take it as a gift,' said the Saint breezily. 'I was only thinking of our rails. I've got a few shares in the company, and your method of suicide makes such a mess. Now tell me why you did it.'

Inwood looked up.

'Are you going to offer me charity?'

'I never do that. My charity begins at home, and stays on with Mother like a good girl.'

'I suppose you've got some sort of right to an answer,' said Inwood tiredly. 'I'm a failure, that's all.'

'And aren't we all?' said the Saint. 'What did you fail at, uncle?'

'Inventing. I gave up a good job ten years ago to try and make a fortune on my own, and I've been living from hand to mouth ever since. My wife had a small income of her own, and I lived on that. I did one or two small things, but I didn't make much out of them. I suppose I'm not such a genius as I thought I was, but I believed in myself then. A month or so ago, when we were right at the end of our tether, I did make a little discovery.'

The shabby man took from his pocket a small brass tube like a girl's lipstick case, and tossed it across the table. Simon removed the cap, and saw something like a crayon-it was white outside, with a pink core.

'Write something-with your pen, I mean,' said Inwood.

Simon took out his fountain-pen and scribbled a couple of words on the back of the menu. Inwood blew on it till it dried, and handed it back.

'Now rub it over with that crayon.'

Simon did so, and the writing disappeared. It vanished quite smoothly and easily, at a couple of touches, without any hard rubbing, and the paper was left without a trace of discolora­tion or roughness.

'Just a useful thing for banks and offices,' said Inwood.

'There's nothing else like it. An ink eraser tears up the paper. You can buy a chemical bleacher, and several firms use it, but that's liquid-two re-agents in separate bottles, and you have to put on drops of first one and then the other. That thing of mine is twice as simple and three times quicker.'

Simon nodded.

'You're not likely to make a million out of it, but it ought to have quite a reasonable sale.'

'I know that,' said Inwood bitterly. 'I didn't want a mil­lion. I'd have been glad to get a thousand. I've told you-I'm not such a genius as I thought I was. But a thousand pounds would have put us on our feet again-given me a chance to open a little shop or find a steady job or something. But I'm not going to get a penny out of it. It isn't my property-and I invented it! ... We've been living on capital as well as income. This would have put us straight. It had to be protected.'

The old man's faded eyes blinked at the Saint pitifully. 'I don't know anything about things like that. I saw a patent agent's advertisement in a cheap paper, and I took it to him. I gave him all my formulae-everything. That was a fortnight ago. He told me he'd have to make a search of the records before my patent could be taken out. I had a letter from him this morning, and he said that a similar specification had been filed three days ago.'

The Saint said nothing; but his blue eyes were suddenly very clear and hard.

'You see what it was?' In his weakness the shabby inventor was almost sobbing. 'He swindled me. He gave my specifications to a friend of his and let him file them in his own name. I couldn't believe it. I went to the Patent Office myself this morning: a fellow I found there helped me to find what I wanted. Every figure in the specification was mine. It was my specification. The coincidence couldn't possibly have been so exact, even if somebody else had been working on that same idea at the same time as I was. But I can't prove anything. I haven't a shilling to fight him with. D'you hear? He's ruined me --'

'Steady on, uncle,' said the Saint gently. 'Have you seen this bird again?'

'I'd just left his office when-when you saw me at Charing Cross,' said Inwood shakily. 'He threw me out. When he found he couldn't bluff me he didn't bother to deny anything. Told me to go on and prove it, and be careful I didn't give him a chance to sue me for libel. There weren't any witnesses. He could say anything he liked --'

'Will you tell me his name?'

'Parnock.'

'Thanks.' Simon made a note on the back of an envelope. 'Now will you do something else for me?'

'What is it?'

'Promise not to do anything drastic before Tuesday. I'm going away for the week-end, but Parnock won't be able to do anything very villainous either. I may be able to do something for you-I have quite a way with me,' said the Saint bashfully.

This was on a Friday-a date that Simon Templar had never been superstitious about. He was on his way to Burnham for a week-end's bumping about in a ten-ton yawl, and the fact that Mr. Inwood's misadventure had made him miss his train was a small fee for the introduction to Mr. Parnock. He caught a later train with plenty of time to spare; but before he left the elderly chemist he obtained an address and telephone number.

He had another surprise the next morning, for he was searching for a certain penny to convince his incredulous host and owner of the yawl about a statement he had made at the breakfast table, and he couldn't find it.

'You must have spent it,' said Patricia.

'I know I haven't,' said the Saint. 'I paid our fares yester­day afternoon out of a pound note; and I bought a magazine for a bob-I didn't spend any pennies.'