13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

Newdick did not mind being called an old bean. He had no instinctive desire to snub wealthy-looking young men with five-thousand-pound Hirondels who added jollity to his old company. The fact was that he was just beginning to recognise the manna for what it was, and his soul was suffering the same emotions as those which had afflicted ,the Israelites in their time when they contemplated the miracle. The Saint came in. Mr. Newdick's 'office' was a small roughly-fashioned cubicle about the size of a telephone booth, containing a small table littered with papers and over­laid with a thin film of dust—it scarcely seemed in keeping with the neatly engraved brass plate on the door which pro­claimed it to be the registered offices of the Newdick Helicopter Company, Limited, but his visitor did not seem dis­tressed by it.

'What did you want to know?' asked Mr. Newdick.

Simon observed him to be a middle-aged man of only vaguely military appearance, with sharp eyes that looked at him unwaveringly. That characteristic alone might have de­ceived most men; but Simon Templar had moved in disreput­able circles long enough to know that the ability to look an­other man squarely in the eye is one of the most fallacious indices of honesty.

'Well,' said the Saint amiably, tendering a platinum ciga­rette-case, 'the fact is that I'm interested in helicopters. I happen to have noticed your little place several times recently when I've been passing, and I got the idea that it was quite a small show, and I wondered if there might by any chance be room for another partner in it.'

'You mean,' repeated Mr. Newdick, checking back on the incredible evidence of his ears, 'that you wanted to take an interest in the firm?'

Simon nodded.

'That was the jolly old idea,' he said. 'In fact, if the other partners felt like selling out, I might take over the whole blinkin' show. I've got a good deal of time on my hands, and I like pottering about with aeroplanes and what not. A chap's got to do something to keep out of mischief, what? Besides, it doesn't look as if you were doing a lot of business here, and I might be able to wake the jolly old place up a bit. Sort of aerial roadhouse, if you know what I mean. Dinners— drinks—dancing—pretty girls. . . . What?'

'I didn't say anything,' said Mr. Newdick.

'All right. What about it, old bean?'

Mr. Newdick scratched his chin. The notion of manna had passed into his cosmogony. It fell from Heaven. It was real. Miracles happened. The world was a brighter, rosier place.

'One of your remarks, of course,' he said, 'is somewhat uninformed. As a matter of fact, we are doing quite a lot of business. We have orders, negotiations, tenders, con­tracts. ...' The eloquent movement of one hand, temporarily released from massaging his chin, indicated a whole field of industry of which the uninitiated were in ignorance. 'How­ever,' he said, 'if your proposition were attractive enough, it would be worth hearing.'

Simon nodded.

'Well, old bean, who do I put it to?'

'You may put it to me, if you like,' said Mr. Newdick. 'I am Oscar Newdick.'

'I see. But what about the other partners, Oscar, old sprout?'

Mr. Newdick waved his hand.

'They are largely figureheads,' he explained. 'A few friends, with very small interests—just enough to meet the technical requirements of a limited company. The concern really belongs to me.'

Simon beamed.

'Splendid!' he said. 'Jolly good! Well, well, well, dear old Newdick, what d'you think it's worth ?'

'There is a nominal share value of twenty-five thousands pounds,' said Mr. Newdick seriously. 'But, of course, they are worth far more than that.