The Saint in the Sun (10 page)

“Somehow, I’m sure you’ll never turn out to be an old maid,” he said cheerfully.

“But if Mr Gull really has a system-you said it was always possible-“

“It could still be just as dangerous. Perhaps I haven’t been careful enough how I phrased some of the things I’ve said. There are theoretically infallible systems-but in practice they eventually blow up. For instance, it’s a fact that about two out of five favorites win. So in theory, you only have to double your stake after each loser, and fairly soon you must hit a winner and show a net profit. According to you, Uncle Tom is a rather simple soul, and he may have figured this out in his little head and thought he’d discovered something like atomic energy. But the snag is that the average two-out-of-five is the end result of a lot of very erratic winning and losing runs. There are plenty of days when no favorites win at all. Now, suppose you started with a bet of ten pounds; doubling up, you bet twenty, forty, eighty, a hundred and sixty, then three hundred and twenty on the sixth race. The next day, you have to start off betting six hundred and forty, twelve hundred and eighty, twentyfive hundred and sixty, five thousand one hundred and twenty-and if that one wins at even money, you net exactly ten pounds. If it goes down, your next bet would be more than ten thousand-and where would you find the bookies to take it?”

“And I suppose there have been two days in a row without a winning favorite?”

“There have. Perhaps not often, but now and again they happen. I don’t say that that’s Uncle Tom’s system, but it could be something along those lines. If so, he may have been lucky so far, but one day it’s going to blow up with an almighty bang, as sure as there’ll be a frost before summer.”

“Then I only hope it lasts long enough for him to give everyone their money back.”

“That’ll take about ten months, on the present schedule,” he said. “I don’t think I can hold my breath that long.”

It was hard enough for him to wait until after breakfast the next day and an hour at which the morning mail could be safely assumed to have been delivered and opened.

The one subscriber of the five earmarked for the first refunds who was also marked with an X on Mr Gull’s private list had an address in North London and a telephone number in the directory.

“This is the Sportsman’s Guide,” said the Saint, to the cantankerous elderly voice that answered. “We understand that you were a client of one of our advertisers, Mr Tom Gull.”

“That is correct.”

“Mr Gull tells us that he is going out of business and is refunding all investments. Has he notified you of that?”

“I received a letter to that effect this morning, enclosing my money.”

Simon took a deep breath.

“Until then, did you receive your dividends regularly?”

“I did. It was a most satisfactory service. In fact, I think it’s most inconsiderate of him to discontinue it so arbitrarily. But there you are. Nothing seems to have any stability these days.”

“That’s what comes of keeping horses in them,” said the Saint sympathetically, and hung up.

Another of the five was also in the London directory, but the number did not answer.

The other three addresses were in Beaconsfield, Windsor, and Staines. It took some time to find out and connect with the next number through the hotel switchboard-he had taken a room at Skindle’s to remain closer to the subject of his investigation- but when he introduced himself with the same formula, the response was startlingly different.

“I never heard of him.”

“You are Mr Eric Botolphome?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“But you haven’t had any dealings with Mr Gull.”

“I have not. And I never heard of your publication, either.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Botolphome,” said the Saint slowly. “We must have been misinformed.”

“The name,” said his respondent plaintively, “is pronounced ‘Boffam’.”

“Congratulations,” Simon said, and carefully cradled the handset again.

Scanning his lists, he realized that the process of having telephone numbers in a wide range of different towns researched and requested through the hotel switchboard and assorted exchanges would put a strain on the hotel operator and the lines at her disposal which would test her patience as much as his own. On the other hand, Windsor and Staines could both be reached in a single twelve-mile drive which might not take any more time and which would give a physical vent to his impatience- besides satisfying a foaming curiosity about the types who might or might not make up Mr Gull’s strange inventory of contributors.

He threw on a coat and ran downstairs and began driving.

The address in Windsor turned out to be a weathered brick villa on Vansittart Road built on stark Edwardian lines that harmonized excellently with the complexion and corseted contours of the beldam who finally opened the door.

“Tom Gull?” she croaked. “What does he do?”

“He runs a kind of betting service.”

She cupped a hand to her ear.

“Eh?”

“A kind of betting service.”

“I don’t need a vet. Haven’t had any animals around since my last cat died.”

“No, betting,” Simon said, with increased projection. “You invest money with him, and he backs horses with it and sends you the profits.”

“Young man,” said the matriarch crustily, “if I had my way, I’d see all the bookmakers hanged, like they used to hang people for sheep-stealing. All this betting and bingo, it’s no wonder we can’t stop the Russians occupying the moon. And people like you, trying to get customers for them, you’re no better than they are.”

She slammed the door in his face.

The nominee in Staines, a few miles further on, proved to be the proprietor of a small grocery store on the road out towards Laleham. In a more genial way, he was no less definite.

“Who, me? Not bloody likely. The Guide’s all right, but some o’ those advertisements make me laugh. I like to have a little bet sometimes, but I want to know what I’m puttin’ my half-crown on. Anyone who’d send someone a hundred quid to play with, like that, must be a proper Charley, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so.”

Simon went back to his car and studied his second list-the names which had been singled out with an X in Mr Gull’s personal register. Of the remaining six, one lived in Croydon, but the others were in Bournemouth, Worthing, Sevenoaks, Torquay, and Scarborough-a variety of respectable distances in too many different directions for it to be practicable to continue the investigation by personal visits.

He drove back to Skindle’s, stopping on the way to buy a large and expensive box of chocolates, and hoping that the telephone operator had a sweet tooth and a sympathetic disposition.

Already he had an inkling of a pattern, but it was not until that evening that he had finally succeeded in contacting all the names and proving it beyond peradventure.

“The ones with the crosses are all satisfied customers,” he told Penelope. “The others are real live people too-or at least the four I’d jotted down-but every one of them denies having had anything to do with Brother Gull.”

Her eyes were big and wide.

“Why would they do that?”

“It could be because they’re all ashamed to admit that they’re secret gamblers. But I doubt it. I want to have another look at the original card index.”

They went to the office after dinner, and he went through the cards one by one, confirming an impression which he had suddenly recalled that afternoon, during one of the waits between calls.

“Had you noticed that apart from the London addresses, which come up regularly, the earliest replies all came from the south and west, and not too far away? Later on they get more varied- here’s St Albans, Cambridge, Clacton, Folkestone … But there isn’t one of the ‘O’ names with an address as far away as Torquay or Scarborough.”

“No, I hadn’t,” she said. “Would it be because people living a long way from London aren’t so interested in racing?”

“Not that I ever heard. Who do you think goes to all those tracks in the North-and even in Scotland?”

“Yes, that was silly. But then, what is the answer?”

“I think we may have stumbled on a Communist conspiracy to ruin the capitalist countries by debasing their currency. Tom Gull is a mad scientist who has invented a molecular multiplier which makes three or four fivers out of one. The advertisement is a code which tells all the cell captains to send in as much cash as they can; after a while they get it back, but the Central Committee has built up a store of perfect duplicates ready to flood the international exchanges. The ‘O’ names, of course, are the eggheads who are secretly cooperating in the scheme. The ‘X’ is a shorthand form of the hammer and sickle, and indicates the elite of the organization. Tom Gull’s cabin is actually a camouflaged rocket pad-“

“And he’s got the fuel buried in all the flower-beds he digs up. I know. There’s somebody who writes books like that.”

The Saint’s smile was a silent laugh.

“Is Gull going racing again tomorrow?” he asked.

“He said he was going to Ascot again. He was there today.”

“Good. Then it should be safe to have a closer look at that shack of his in the afternoon.”

“Do you have a theory, really?”

“It’s such a wild one that I wouldn’t dare tell you until I’ve proved it,” he said. “Then if I’m wrong, you won’t classify me with that writer. But invite me for cocktails tomorrow, and I may dazzle you with my brilliance.”

He had one more call to make in the morning, to David Lewin of the Express, and before lunch he had the answer to a question which gave him considerably more confidence when he set out for Cookham.

He enjoyed a couple of pasties and a pint of bitter at the Crown, and left his car parked there when he left soon after two o’clock to retrace the riverside footpath to the railroad track.

He stood hidden at the edge of the thicket for a while, studying the hut. This time there was no smoke coming from the chimney and no other sign of occupancy, but the only way to make finally sure of that was to go close enough to expose himself. He took a diagonal course that would lead him past it by at least fifteen yards, and studiously avoided any appearance of interest in it. Then when he was near enough he flashed a sidelong glance at the door without turning his head, and saw that there was a padlock in place which could not possibly have been fixed from inside.

He turned and went directly to it. The lock was a good one, but like many such installations it was betrayed by the hasp which it secured, which was fastened to the woodwork merely with four screws which offered no resistance to the screwdriver blade of the Saint’s Swiss army pocket-knife. He put the screws in his pocket for future replacement, opened the door, and went in.

The interior, dimly lighted by the one grimy window, was stuffy with the mingled stalenesses of beer, smoke, and sweat. Gardening tools stood in three corners, and some soiled articles of clothing hung on hooks. A battered kettle and a dirty saucepan sat on the small black stove. There was a dresser with a stained and scarred top on which stood an enamel basin, a chipped cup and saucer, a couple of plates, some cheap flatware, and a can of beans. The only other furniture was an ancient armchair with the stuffing leaking through rents in the upholstery, and an iron bedstead with drab blankets carelessly heaped on a bare gray mattress.

If what he was looking for was there at all, there were not many places where it could be hidden. The dresser drawers yielded only a disorderly hodge-podge of clothing, canned food, old magazines, patent medicines, pieces of string and wire, and an empty gin bottle. Through the larger splits in the chair his probing fingers touched only springs and cotton batting. The mattress seams showed no signs of having been recently re-sewn. That left only the floor, which he checked board by board, until under the bed, when he moved it away from the wall, he found one that was loose and which came up easily.

From the hollow underneath he pulled out a stout canvas bag tied with a cord threaded through a row of grommets around the neck. Stencilled on one side were the words:
PETRIPLAST LTD.

SLOUGH.

The bag bulged with a load that was half-hard but springy. He loosened the cord, plunged a hand in, and brought it out with a mass of paper money, most of it fives.

A change in the intensity of light, rather than anything positively seen, made him turn and look up sharply.

Tom Gull stood in the doorway. It could have been no one else, in a suit that looked as if it had been slept in, but with a garish necktie knotted under a clean but threadbare collar. Tom Gull, dressed to go to the races, or to tell Penelope he was going, but already returned home instead. The untidy gray hair and ruddy face matched the impression that Simon had had from a distance, but at closer quarters it could be observed that the tint of cheeks and nose had not been produced by wind and sun without the assistance of internally administered colorants. The bear-like posture was the same, too, but not the speed with which he snatched up a pitchfork that leaned against the nearest wall.

“Hold it!” the Saint’s voice crackled. “We mustn’t get blood on it!”

For an instant the man was thrown off his mental stride, and that was sufficient to check him physically. But the fork was still levelled at the Saint’s chest, the tines gleaming wickedly sharp, poised on the whim of the gardener’s powerful arm like an arrow on the string of a drawn bow.

“Wot you think you’re doing ‘ere?”

“I know all about this,” Simon said urgently, trying to keep his precarious hold on the other’s attention. He threw the bag down on the bed so that the lettering on it was uppermost. “About a year ago this was stolen from the train to High Wycombe-the payroll for the Petriplast branch factory there. I was checking this morning on what robberies there’d been in the neighborhood where a lot of cash disappeared that’d never been found. There was about thirtytwo thousand pounds in this. The guard put up a fight, and the men on the train were caught, but not before they’d thrown the bag out of a window. It was believed that they had accomplices waiting beside the line who got away with it and left them to take the rap, though they swore they didn’t. I know what really happened. You were moseying around on your way to the local, and you stumbled over the bag and picked it up.”