But none of these things could noticeably have saddened Simon Templar, even if he had known about them. Peter Quentin, intruding on the conclusion of the Saint's breakfast shortly afterwards, felt that the question, "Well, Simon, how's life?" was superfluous; but he asked it.
"Life keeps moving," said the Saint. "Another Royal Commission has been appointed, this time to discuss whether open-air restaurants would be likely to lower the moral tone of the nation. Another law has been passed to forbid something or other. A Metropolitan Policeman has won a first prize in the Irish Sweep. And you?"
Peter helped himself to a cigarette, and eyed the Saint's blue silk Cossack pyjamas with the unconscious and unreasonable smugness of a man who has dressed for breakfast and been about for hours.
"I can see that I haven't any real criminal instincts," he remarked. "I get up too early. And what are the initials for?"
Simon glanced down at the monogram embroidered on his breast pocket.
"In case I wake up in the middle of the night and can't remember who I am," he said. "What's new about Julian?"
"He skips today," said Peter. "Or perhaps tomorrow. Anyway, he's been to the bank already and drawn out more money than I've ever seen before in hard cash. That's why I thought I'd better knock off and tell you."
Mr. Julian Lamantia should be no stranger to us. We have seen him being thrown into the Thames on a rainy night. We have seen him in his J. L. Investment Bureau, contributing to the capital required for buying a completely worthless block of shares.
If Mr. Lamantia had restricted himself to such enterprises as those in which the Saint's attention had first been directed towards him, we might still have been able to speak of him in the present tense. He had, in his prime, been one of the astutest skimmers of the Law of his generation. Unfortunately for him he became greedy, as other men like him have become before; and in the current wave of general depression he found that the bucket-shop business was not what it was. His mind turned towards more dangerous but more profitable fields.
Out through the post, under the heading of the J. L. Investment Bureau, went many thousands of beautifully printed pamphlets, in which was described the enormous profit that could be made on large short-term loans. The general public, said the pamphlet, was not in a position to supply the sums required for these loans, and therefore all these colossal profits gravitated exclusively into the pockets of a small circle of wealthy financial houses. Nevertheless, explained the pamphlet, as the hymn-book had done before it, little drops of water, little grains of sand, make the tiddly-tum-tum and the tumty-tum. It was accordingly mooted that, under the auspices of the J. L. Investment Bureau, sums of from £5 to £10 might be raised from private investors and in the aggregate provide the means for making these great short-term loans, of which the profits would be generously and proportionately shared with the investors.
It was a scheme which, in one form or another, is as old as some of the younger hills and as perennially fruitful as a parson's wife. Helped on by the literary gifts of Mr. Lamantia, it proceeded in this reincarnation as well as it always will. From the first issue of circulars thousands of pounds poured in, and after a very brief interval the first monthly dividend was announced at ten per cent — and paid. In another thirty days the second month's dividend was announced at fifteen per cent — and paid. The third month's dividend was twenty per cent— "which," a second issue of circulars hoped, "should remain as a regular working profit" — and the money was pouring in almost as fast as it could be banked. The original investors increased their investments frantically, and told their friends, who also subscribed and spread the good news. The dividends, of course, were paid straight out of the investors' own capital and the new subscriptions that were continually flowing in; but any suspicion of such low duplicity was, as usual, far from the minds of the innocent suckers who in a few months built up Mr. Julian Lamantia's bank balance to the amazing total of £85,000.
Like all get-rich-quick schemes, it had its inevitable breaking point, and this Mr. Lamantia knew. "Clean up while it lasts, and get out," is the only possible motto for its promoter; but a certain fatal doubt has often existed about how long it may safely be expected to last. Mr. Lamantia thought that he had gauged the duration to a nicety. On this morning whose events we have been following, Mr. Lamantia drew out his balance from the bank, packed it neatly in a small leather bag, and called back at his office. Perhaps that was a foolish thing to do, but his new secretary was a very beautiful girl. It was Saturday, and the week-end would give him a long start on his getaway. He had a new passport in another name, his passage was booked from Southampton, his luggage was packed and gone, his moustache ready for mowing: only one more thing was needed.
"Well," he said bluntly, "have you made up your mind?"
"I should like to come, Mr. Lamantia."
"Julian," said Mr. Lamantia attractively, "will do. Haven't you got a first name — Miss Allfield?"
"Kathleen," said the girl, with a smile. "Usually Kate."
The name meant nothing to Mr. Lamantia, who did his best to hold aloof from ordinary criminal circles. He said he preferred Kathleen.
"When do you go?" she asked.
"This afternoon."
"But you told me —"
"I've had to change my plans. I had a cable from Buenos Aires at my hotel this morning — I must get there as soon as I possibly can."
He had not taken her into his confidence. That could be done later, by delicate and tactful stages, if he felt like prolonging the liaison. His projected journey to South America had been discussed as a purely business affair, in connection with vague talk of a gigantic loan to the Argentine National Railways.
"It would be a wonderful trip for you," he said. "New places, new people, no end of new entertainments. Never mind about a lot of luggage. You can go home now and pack everything you want to take from London; anything else you need you can buy at Lisbon."
She hesitated for a few moments, and then turned her deep brown eyes back to him.
"All right."
His gaze stripped her in quiet elation, but he did not try to make love to her. There would be plenty of time for that. He put on his hat again and went home to finish the last items of his packing; and when he had gone Kate Allfield picked up his private telephone and called the Saint's apartment.
Peter Quentin answered it, and returned after a few minutes to the bathroom, where the Saint was washing his razor.
"It's today," he said. "The boat train leaves at two-thirty, and Kate is supposed to be meeting Julian for lunch at the Savoy first. Kate," said Peter reflectively, unaware that the same thought had struck Mr. Lamantia, "isn't nearly so nice as Kathleen."
Simon turned off the taps that were filling his bath, threw off his pyjamas, and sank into the warm water.
"You have been seeing quite a lot of her lately, haven't you?" he murmured.
"Only on business," said Peter, with unnecessary clearness. "After she put us on to this stunt of Julian's, and volunteered to do the inside work —"
"And the new vocabulary, Peter? Did you get that out of a book?"
The Saint's mocking blue eyes swerved down from the ceiling and aimed directly at the other's face. Peter went red.