It was here that the sportiness of Simon Templar fell into considerable disrepute. He was quite unreasonably reluctant to surrender his share in a fortune for the sake of science. He failed to see what all the fuss was about. What, he wanted to know, was there to prevent Mr. Fallon continuing his scientific researches under the existing arrangement? Louie, with the sweat streaming down inside his shirt, ran through a catalogue of excuses that would have made the fortune of a politician.
The Saint became mercenary. This was a language which Louie Fallon could talk, much as he disliked it. He offered to return the money which Simon had invested. He did, in fact, actually return the money; and the Saint wavered. Louie became reckless. He was not quite as broke as he had tried to tell Mr. Solomon.
'I could give you five hundred pounds,' he said. 'That's a quick profit for you, isn't it? And you would still have your salary as manager.'
'Five hundred pounds isn't a lot of money,' said the Saint callously.
Louie winced, but he held on. After some further argument, in which he played a tragically unsuccessful part, a bonus of fifteen hundred pounds was agreed on.
'I'll go round to the bank and get it for you right away,' he said.
He did not go round to the bank, because he had no bank account; but he went to see Mr. Solomon, who on such occasions served an almost equally useful purpose. Louie's credit was good, and he was able to secure a loan to make up the deficiencies in his own purse at a purely nominal fifty per cent interest. He hurried back to the flat where he had left Simon Templar and stuck the notes into his hand—it was the only time Mr. Fallon had ever parted gladly with any sum of money.
'Now I shall have to get to work,' said Mr. Fallon, indicating that he wished to be alone.
'What about my contract as manager?' murmured the Saint.
'I'll ring up my solicitor and ask him to fix it right away,' Louie promised him. 'Come round and see me again tomorrow, and I'll have it waiting for you.'
Five minutes after Simon Templar had left him, he was tearing back to Mr. Solomon in a taxi, with the paraphernalia from his washstand stacked up on the seat, and his suitcases beside him.
'I've made my fortune, Sol,' he declared somewhat hysterically. 'All this thing needs is some proper financing. Watch me, and I'll show you what I can do.'
He set out to demonstrate what he could do; but something seemed to have gone wrong with the formula. He tried again, with equally unsatisfactory results. He tried three and four times more, but he produced no diamonds. Something inside him turned colder every time he failed.
'I tell you, I saw him do it, Sol,' he babbled frantically. 'He mixed the things up himself, and somehow he hit on the proportions that I've been lookin' for all these years.'
'Maybe he has der diamonds palmed in his hand ven he puts it in der tin, Louie,' suggested Mr. Solomon cynically.
Louie sat with his head in his hands. The quest for synthetic wealth faded beside another ambition which was starting to monopolise his whole horizon. The only thing he asked of life at that moment was a chance to meet the Saint again—preferably down a dark alley beside the river, with a blunt instrument ready to his hand. But London was full of men who cherished that ambition. It always would be.
WATCH FOR THE SIGN
OF THE SAINT
HE WILL BE BACK
