13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

'Your father wouldn't listen to any explanations when your younger brother made a mistake, would he?' said Tanfold. 'Besides, what were you doing in that studio at all? Take a look at where you are, Tombs, and get down to business. I'm here to sell you the negative of that picture—at a price.'

The Saint's mouth opened.

'But that—that's blackmail!' he gasped.

'It doesn't bother me what you call it,' Tanfold said smug­ly. 'There's the position, and I want five thousand pounds to let you out of it.'

Simon's eyes narrowed.

'Well, perhaps this'll bother you,' he said; and a fist like a chunk of stone shot over and sent Tanfold sprawling into the opposite corner of the room. Mr. Tombs unbuttoned his coat. 'Get up and come back for some more, you lousy crook,' he invited.

Tanfold wiped his smashed lips with his handkerchief, and spat out a tooth. His small eyes went black and evil, but he did not get up.

'Just for that, it'll cost you ten thousand,' he said viciously. 'That stuff won't help you, you damn fool. Whatever you do, you won't get the plate back that way.'

'It gives me a lot of fun, anyway,' said the Saint coldly. 'And I only wish your miserable body could stand up to more of it.'

He picked Mr. Tanfold up by the front of his mauve shirt with one hand, and slammed him back into the corner again with the other; and then he dropped into a chair by the table, pushed Mr. Tanfold's hat and stick on to the floor, and took out a cheque-book and a fountain-pen. He made out the cheque with some care, and dropped that also on the floor.

'There's your money,' he said, and watched the trembling Mr. Tanfold pick it up. 'Now you can get out.'

Mr. Tanfold had more things to say, but caught a glimpse of the unholy light in Mr. Tombs's mild blue eye, and changed his mind in the nick of time. He gathered up his hat and stick and got out.

In one of the washrooms of the hotel he repaired some of the damage that had been done to his natty appearance, and reflected malevolently that Mr. Tombs was somewhat op­timistic if he thought he was going to secure his negative for a paltry ten thousand pounds after what had happened. In a day or two he would make a further demand—but this time he would take the precaution of doing it by telephone. With a photograph like that in his possession, Mr. Tanfold could see nothing to stop him bleeding his victim to the verge of suicide; and he was venomously prepared to do it.

He looked at the cheque again. It was made payable to Bearer, and was drawn on a bank in Berkeley Street. Ten minutes later he was passing it through the grille.

'Do you mind waiting a few moments, sir?' said the cashier. 'I don't know whether we have enough currency to meet this without sending out.'

Mr. Tanfold took a chair and waited, continuing his spite­ful thoughts. He waited five minutes. He waited ten minutes. Then he went to the counter again.

'We're a bit short on cash, sir,' explained the cashier, 'and it turns out that the bank we usually borrow from is a bit short too. We've sent a man to another branch, and he ought to be back any minute now.'

A few moments later the clerk beckoned him.

'Would you step into the manager's office, sir?' he asked. 'We don't like passing such a large sum as ten thousand pounds over the counter. I'll give it to you in there, if you don't mind.'

Still unsuspecting, Mr. Tanfold stepped in the direction indicated. And the first person he saw in the office was the younger Tombs.