"But why shouldn't you?" he demanded. "I said we'd pool our resources, and I ought to be able to arrange it. Now, suppose we go to Birmingham together—that is, if you don't think I'm thrusting myself on you too much——"
And that part also was absurdly easy; so that Mr. Gilbert Tanfold returned to his more modest hotel much later that night with his heart singing the happy song of a vulture diving on a particularly fruity morsel of carrion. He had not even had to devise any pretext to induce the simple Tombs to travel to Birmingham—Mr. Tombs had already planned the trip in his itinerary with a thoughtfulness which almost suggested that he had foreseen Mr. Tanfold's need. And yet, once again, this obvious explanation never occurred seriously to Gilbert Tanfold. He preferred to believe in miracles wrought for his benefit by a kindly Providence, which was a disastrous error for him to make.
The rest of his preparations proceeded with the same smoothness of routine. They went to Birmingham together on the Friday, and kept the steward busy on the Pullman throughout the journey. In Birmingham they had lunch together, diluted with more liquor. By the time they were ready for their visit to the studios of G. Tanfold & Co., Mr, Tanfold estimated that his companion was in an ideal condition to enjoy his experience. On arrival they were informed, most unveraciously, that urgent business had called Mr. Tanfold himself to London, but he had arranged that they should have the free run of the premises. The entertainment offered, it is sufficient to record, was one in which Mr. Tanfold believed he had surpassed himself as an impresario of impropriety.
Mr. Tombs, with remarkable fortune, was able to conclude his business on the Saturday morning, and returned to London on the Sunday. He announced his intention of leaving for Paris on the Tuesday, and they parted with mutual expressions of goodwill. Mr. Tanfold said that he himself would return to London on Monday, and they arranged to lunch together on that day and go on to paint the town red.
When Mr. Tanfold arrived at the Palace Royal Hotel a little before one o'clock on Monday, however, he did not have the air of a man who was getting set to experiment in what could be done with a pot of red paint and the metropolitan skyline. Laying his hat and stick on the table and pulling off his lavender-tinted gloves in Mr. Tombs's suite, he was laconically unresponsive to the younger Tombs's effusive cries of welcome.
"Look here, Tombs," he said bluntly, when he had straightened his heliotrope tie, "there's something you'd better know."
"Tell me all, dear old wombat," said Mr. Tombs, who appeared to have acquired some of the frothier mannerisms of the City during his visit. "What have you done?"
"I haven't introduced myself properly," said his guest brazenly. "I am Gilbert Tanfold."
For a moment the antipodean Tomblet seemed taken aback; and then he grinned good-humouredly.
"Well, you certainly spruced me, Gilbert," he said. "What a joke! So it was really your own studio we went to!"
Mr. Tombs grinned again. He made remarks about Mr. Tanfold's unparalleled sense of humour in terms which were clearly designed to be flattering, but which were too biological in trend to be acceptable in mixed company. Mr. Tanfold, however, was not there to be flattered. He cut his host short with a flick of one well-manicured hand.
"Let's talk business," he said shortly. "I've got a photograph that was taken of you while you were at the studio."
Mr. Tombs's expression wavered uncertainly; and it may be mentioned that that waver was not the least difficult of the facial exercises which the Saint had had to go through during his acquaintance with Mr. Tanfold. For the expression which was at that moment spreading itself across Simon Templar's inside was a wholly different affair, which would have made the traditional Cheshire cat look like a mask of melancholy: even then, he had not outgrown the urchin glee of watching the feet of the ungodly planting themselves firmly on the banana-skin of doom.
Nevertheless, outwardly he wavered.
"Photograph?" he repeated.
Mr. Tanfold drew out his wallet, extracted a photograph therefrom, and handed it over. The Saint stared at it, and beheld his own unmistakable likeness, except for the hornrimmed spectacles which were not a normal part of his attire, wrapped in a most undignified grapple with a damsel whose clothing set up its own standard of the irreducible minimum of diaphanous underwear.
"Good Lord!" he gasped. "When was this taken?"
"You ought to remember," said Mr. Tanfold, polishing his finger-nails on his coat lapel.
"But—but ——" The first dim inkling of the perils of the picture which he held seemed to dawn on Mr. Tombs, and he choked. "But this was an accident! You remember, Tanfold. They wanted her to sit on top of a step-ladder—they asked me to help her up—and I only caught her when she slipped——"
"I know," said Mr. Tanfold. "But nobody else does. You're the mug, Tombs. That photograph wouldn't look so good in a Melbourne paper, would it? With a caption saying: 'Son of prominent Melbourne business man "holding the baby" at artists' revel in Paris'—or something like that."
Mr. Tombs swallowed.
"But I can explain it all," he protested. "It was——"
"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."