“It would certainly be well employed,” said Mr Thoat, a trifle shakily. “And I’m flattered that you should have chosen me, out of all the possible—”
“That was not flattery, or a random selection, Mr Thoat. Frankly, I have investigated several deserving organizations of the same type as yours. What impressed me, as a business man, about the Angels of Abstinence, is that they are run on a practical businesslike basis which actively aids and in no way compromises their idealistic objectives. I understand that you alone are responsible for this. That makes you the man for me. To get the most out of the income I am talking about calls for a business man as well as a crusader. It amounts to about sixteen thousand pounds a year.”
Mr Thoat somehow managed not to choke on the first mouthful of shredded fodder which had just been set before him.
“I think I shall be able to justify your confidence, Mr Tombs.”
“There are, of course, a few conditions.”
“Of what kind?”
“Purely technical, in your case, but I feel I must pass them on to you, since they’re the same as the ones which the trust imposes on me. What they amount to is that your life must be absolutely blameless, even above suspicion. That you must never be convicted of an offense against public decorum, of riotous behavior, scandalous conduct, criminal associations, drunkenness or even having taken a drink — all that sort of thing. It’s all in the deed which I’ve told my lawyer to draw up.”
“I hardly think that will be any problem,” said Mr Thoat, with a certain indulgent smugness.
“I’m sure it won’t — but in the fantastic event that any such thing should occur, all payments would automatically stop, or never start. We have to take that precaution, the lawyers tell me. Then you will have to give a few simple undertakings on how the money will not be spent — such as advertising in periodicals which also accept liquor advertising, you know the sort of thing...”
They talked of this and kindred matters for the rest of the meal — if that word can be applied to the ingestion of such provender as they had been served.
“I hope we can meet and sign this deed the day after tomorrow,” Simon said finally.
“The day after tomorrow?” Mr Thoat’s eyebrows went up remonstratively. “But that’s Sunday!”
“I know. But I had enough trouble getting my lawyer to work tomorrow to get it done. And I hardly think that signing a couple of papers like these would be called working on the Lord’s Day. Unfortunately I have to be in New York on business the first thing Monday morning — I’m taking a plane at midnight Sunday. I’d like to have this done before I leave. Just in case of accidents, you know.”
Mr Thoat nodded. The prospect of Mr Sebastian Tombs being jet-propelled to his eternal rest by some mechanical malfunction in mid-Atlantic, with this munificent endowment uncompleted, gave him a cold shiver.
“I understand. But as I think I’ve mentioned, this Sunday is rather a busy day for me.”
Simon knew that, too. There was about to break out in London another of those international conventions with which every major city must periodically be afflicted; only this was not the type which has consolations for saloon-keepers, night club impresarios, and ladies of flexible morality, like the average run of these jamborees, being billed as a World Temperance Congress of groups whose avowed objective was the ruin of all such iniquitous entrepreneurs. It was to be launched that Sunday by a grand parade of delegates from Hyde Park to Trafalgar Square, intended to dramatize the fact of their presence in town and to draw expectant attention to the week of speech-making and resolution-adopting which was to follow, during which some of the world’s most talented firebrands would denounce assorted forms of fun with all the hyperbolic savagery and violence to be expected of proper advocates of temperance.
“The parade is supposed to start at two-thirty, isn’t it?” said the Saint. “I know that nothing would stop you leading the Angels of Abstinence yourself, but surely you could get away for lunch? My apartment is just off Park Lane, only two minutes from the park. If you could be there at one, I’ll have a nice salad waiting, and promise to get you back with ten minutes to spare.”
Mr Thoat pursed his lips.
“Yes, I suppose I could manage that. It seems to be the only way.”
“Splendid! I’ll have the papers and everything ready. Now I must run — I have another appointment which just won’t wait.”
This was literally true, the appointment being dictated by the still unrevised licensing laws of England, which in a few minutes would ruthlessly compel the pub around the corner to close for the afternoon, thus making it impossible to satisfactorily wash away the taste of the boiled sausages and Sanitade which Simon Templar had been unable to finish. But he left Mr Thoat in an obliviously happy daze through which even the fact that the bill for their deplorable repast still remained to be paid did not penetrate until too late.
Mr Thoat had already relegated the transaction through which the beneficent Sebastian Tombs had introduced himself to the category of past business, but it was not so easily filed away by County Constable George Yelland, who had lingered on at the barn after Mr Thoat took his sedate departure.
“What exactly are you keeping here?” asked the earnest young officer.
“Cocoa beans,” said Selina Thoat airily.
“Oh. I suppose they’re not really too valuable to leave here.”
“Not unless somebody stole all of them. That would come to quite a lot. Papa got these at a bargain. Are you married?”
Constable Yelland managed not to jump.
“No, miss.”
“There’s a dance in Hertford tomorrow night. I wish I could go.”
“I hadn’t heard about it.”
“I wish you could take me.”
“I don’t think your father would approve of that, miss.”
“Papa will be busy in London, with a welcoming dinner for some of our people. But he could do a lot for you — putting in a word about you in the right places — if I asked him to.”
“Thank you, miss. But I’m afraid I’m on duty Saturday night. It’s always a busy time.”
“I could help you, too. Like I did that night at the Golden Stag.”
Constable Yelland tried to ignore a sensation of extraordinary discomfort.
“I hope you didn’t do anything beyond your duty to tell the truth, miss. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot of miles to cover on this round...”
She watched him thoughtfully as he mounted his bicycle and pedalled away.
George Yelland, however, as an aspirant to the higher honors of the CID, was not the kind of policeman to remove a thought from his mind, once it had entered it, as efficiently as he had been taught to remove his person from unprofessional situations. The responsibility of Mr Thoat’s barn stayed with him, accentuated by a vaguely unsatisfied query about its contents, which caused him to keep it under even closer surveillance than was called for by simple self-interest.
He made a particular point of passing by several times the next day, since the workmen were observing the union Sabbath, and it was in the afternoon that he discovered a car parked off the road where the builder’s trucks had furrowed an entrance, and a man studying the barn with a kind of interest that could be definitely described as calculating.
This was no insignificant tribute to the histrionic ability of Monty Hayward, who on the Saint’s instructions had been trying to maintain that effect for more than an hour before the constable arrived.
“May I ask what you’re doing here?” Yelland said, as the book prescribed.
“Casing the joint,” Monty said easily.
“May I have your name, sir?”