The Tall Timber
The queer things that have led Simon Templar into the paths of boodle would in themselves form a sizable volume of curiosities; but in the Saint's own opinion none of these strange starting-points could ever compare, in sheer intrinsic uniqueness, with the moustache of Mr. Sumner Journ.
Simon Templar's relations with Chief Inspector Teal were not always unpleasant. On that morning he had met Mr. Teal in Piccadilly Circus and insisted on standing him lunch; and both of them had enjoyed the meal.
"And yet you'll probably be trying to arrest me again next week," said the Saint.
"I shouldn't be surprised," said Mr. Teal heavily.
They stood in the doorway of Arthur's, preparing to separate; and Simon was idly scanning the street when the moustache of Mr. Sumner Journ hove into view.
Let it be said at once that it was no ordinarily overgrown moustache, attracting attention by nothing but its mere vulgar size. It was, in fact, the reverse. From a slight distance no moustache was visible at all; and the Saint was looking at Mr. Journ simply by accident, as a man standing in the street will sometimes absent-mindedly follow the movements of another. As Mr. Journ drew nearer, the moustache was still imperceptible; but there appeared to be a slight shadow on his upper lip, as if it were disfigured by a small mole. And it was not until he was passing a yard away that the really exquisite singularity of the growth dawned upon Simon Templar's mind.
On Mr. Sumner Journ's upper lip, approximately fourteen hairs had been allowed to grow, so close together that the area they occupied could scarcely have been larger than a shirt button. These fourteen hairs had been carefully parted in the middle; and each little clique of seven had been carefully waxed and twisted together so that they stuck out about half an inch from their patron's face like the horns of a snail. In the whole of Simon Templar's life, which had encountered a perhaps unusual variety of developments of facial hair, ranging from the handlebar protuberances of the South-shire Insurance Company's private detective to the fine walrus effect sported by a Miss Gertrude Tinwiddle who contributed the nature notes in the Daily Gazette, he had never seen any example of hair culture in which such passionate devotion to detail, such a concentrated ecstasy of miniaturism, such an unostentatious climax of originality, had simultaneously arrived at concrete consummation.
Thus did the moustache of Mr. Journ enter the Saint's horizon and pass on, accompanied by Mr. Journ, who looked at them rather closely as he went by; and lest any suspicious reader should be starting to get ideas into his head, the historian desires to explain at once that this moustache has nothing more to do with the story, and has been described at such length solely on account of its own remarkable features qua face-hair. But, as we claimed at the beginning, it is an immutable fact that if it had not been for this phenomenal decoration the Saint would hardly have noticed Mr. Journ at all, and would thereby have been many thousands of pounds poorer. For, shorn of that incomparable appendage, Mr. Journ was quite an ordinary-looking business man, thin, dark, hatchet-faced, well and quietly dressed; and although he was noticeably hard about the eyes and mouth, there was really nothing else about him which would have caused the Saint to stare fascinatedly after him and ejaculate in a hushed voice: "Well, I am a piebald pelican balancing rubber balls on my beak!"
Wherefore Mr. Teal would have had no reason to turn his somnolent gaze back to the Saint with a certain dour and puzzled humour, and to say: "I should have thought he was a fellow you'd be sure to know."
"Never set eyes on him in my life," said the Saint. "Do you know who he is?"
"His name's Sumner Journ," Mr. Teal said reluctantly, after a slight pause.
Simon shook his head.
"Even that doesn't ring a bell," he said. "What does he do? No bloke who cultivated a nose-tickler like that could do anything ordinary."
"Sumner Journ doesn't," stated the detective flatly.
He seemed to have realised that he had said too much already; and it was impossible to draw any further information from him. He took his leave rather abruptly, and Simon gazed after his plump departing back with a tiny frown. The only plausible explanation of Teal's sudden taciturnity was that Mr. Journ was engaged in some unlawful or nearly unlawful activities — Teal had had enough trouble with the victims whom the Saint found for himself, without conceiving any ambition to press fresh material into his hands. But if Chief Inspector Teal did not want the Saint to know more about Mr. Sumner Journ, that was sufficient reason for the Saint to become abnormally inquisitive; and as a matter of fact, his investigations had not proceeded very far when a minor coincidence brought them up to date without further effort.
"This might interest you," said Monty Hayward one evening.
"This" was a very tastefully prepared booklet, on the cover of which was printed: "BRAZILIAN TIMBER BONDS: A Gold Mine for the Small Investor." Simon took it and glanced at it casually; and then he saw something on the first page of the pamphlet which brought him to attention with a delighted start:
Managing Director: SUMNER JOURN Esq., Associate of the Institute of Timber Planters, Fellow of the International Association of Wood Pulp Producers; formerly Chairman of South American Mineralogical Investments, Ltd., etc., etc.
"How did you get hold of this, Monty?" he asked.
"A young fellow in the office gave it to me," said Monty. "Apparently he was trying to make a bit of money on the side by selling these bonds; but lots of people seem to have heard about 'em. I pinched the book, and told him not be an ass because he'd probably find himself in clink with the organisers when it blew up; but I thought you might like to have a look at it."
"I would," said the Saint thoughtfully, and opened another bottle of beer.
He read the booklet through at his leisure, later, and felt tempted to send Monty Hayward a complimentary case of Carlsberg on the strength of it; for the glow of contentment and goodwill towards men which spreads over the rabid entomologist who digs a new kind of beetle out of a log is as the frosts of Siberia to the glow which warms the heart of the professional buccaneer who uncovers a new swindle.
For the stock-in-trade of Mr. Sumner Journ was Trees.
It may be true, as the poet bleats, that Only God Can Make A Tree; but it is also true that only a man capable of growing such a moustache as lurked coyly beneath the sheltering schnozzola of Mr. Sumner Journ could have invented such an enticing method of making God's creation pay gigantic dividends.
The exposition started off with a picture of some small particles of matter collected in a teacup; and it was explained that these were the seeds of pinus palustris, or the long-leaved pine. "Obviously," said the writer, "even a child must know that these can only be worth a matter of pennies." There followed an artistic photograph of some full-grown pines rearing towards the sky. "Just as obviously," said the writer, "everyone must see that these trees must have some value worth mentioning; probably a value that would run into pounds." The actual value, it was explained, did indeed run into pounds; in fact, the value of the trees illustrated would be £3 or more. Furthermore, declared the writer, whereas in Florida these trees took 45 years to reach maturity, in the exceptional climate of the Brazilian mountains they attained their full growth in about 10 years. The one great drain on timber profits hitherto had been the cost of transport; but this the Brazilian Timber Company had triumphantly eliminated by purchasing their ground along the banks of the Parana River (inset photograph of large river) which by the force of its current would convey all logs thrown into it to the coast at no cost at all.
Investors were accordingly implored, in their own interests, to gather together at least ₤30 and purchase with it a Brazilian Timber Bond — which could be arranged, if necessary, by installments. On buying this bond, they would become the virtual owners of an acre of ground in this territory, and the seeds of trees would be planted in it without further charge. It was asserted that twenty-five trees could easily grow on this acre, which when cut down at maturity would provide 100 cords of wood. Taking the price of wood at ₤3 a cord, it was therefore obvious that in about 10 years' time this acre would be worth ₤300 — "truly," said the prospectus, "a golden return on such a modest investment." The theme was developed at great length with no little literary skill, even going so far as to suggest that on the figures quoted, the investor who bought one ₤30 bond every year for 10 years would in the 11th year commence to draw an annuity of ₤300 per annum for ever, since as soon as the trees had been felled in the first acre it could be planted out again.
"Well, have you bought your Brazilian Timber Bond?" asked Monty Hayward a day or two later.
Simon grinned and looked out of the window — he was down at the country house in Surrey which he had recently bought for a week-end retreat.
"I've got two acres here," he murmured. "We might look around for somebody to give us sixty quid to plant some more trees in it."
"The really brilliant part of it," said Monty, filling his pipe, "is that this bloke proposes to pay out all the profit in a lump in ten years' time; but until then he doesn't undertake to pay anything. So if he's been working this stunt for four years now, as it says in the book, he's still got another five years clear to go on selling his bonds before any of the bondholders has a right to come round and say: 'Oi, what about my three hundred quid?' Unless some nosey parker makes a special trip into the middle of Brazil and comes back and says there aren't any pine trees growing in those parts, or he's seen the concession and it's just a large swamp with a few blades of grass and a lot of mosquitoes buzzing about, I don't see how he can help getting away with a fortune if he finds enough mugs."
The Saint lighted a cigarette.
"There's nothing to stop him taking it in," he remarked gently, "but he's still got to get away with it."
Mr. Sumner Journ would have seen nothing novel in the qualification. Since the first day when he began those practical surveys of the sucker birth-rate, the problem of finally getting away with it, accompanied by his moustache and his plunder, had never been entirely absent from his thoughts, although he had taken considerable pains to steer a course which would keep him outside the reach of the Law. But the collapse of South American Mineralogical Investments, Ltd., had brought him within unpleasantly close range of danger, and about the ultimate fate of Brazilian Timber Bonds he had no illusions.
Simon Templar would have found nothing psychologically contradictory in the fact that a man who, cultivating the world's most original moustache with microscopic perfection of detail, had overlooked the fundamental point that a moustache should be visible, should, when creating a Timber Company, have overlooked the prime essential that the one thing which a Timber Company must possess, its sine qua non, so to speak, is timber. Mr. Journ had compiled his inducements with unlimited care from encyclopedias and the information supplied by genuine timber-producing firms, calculating the investors' potential profits according to a mathematical system of his own; the only thing he had omitted to do was to provide himself with the requisite land for afforestation. He had selected his site from an atlas, and had immediately forgotten all the other necessary steps towards securing a title to it.
In the circumstances, it was only natural that Mr. Sumner Journ, telling tall stories about timber, should remember that the day was coming when he himself would have to set out, metaphorically at least, in the direction of the tall timber which is the fugitive's traditional refuge; but he reckoned that the profit would be worth it.
The only point on which he was a trifle hazy, as other such schemers have been before him, was the precise moment at which the getaway ought to be made; and it was with a sudden sinking of heart that he heard the name of the man who called to see him at his office on a certain afternoon.
"Inspector Tombs?" he said with a rather pallid heartiness. "I think I have met you somewhere before."
"I'm the C. I. D. Inspector in this division," said the visitor blandly.
Mr. Journ nodded. He knew now where he had seen his caller before — it was the man who had been talking to Chief Inspector Teal in Swallow Street when he went by a few days ago, and who had stared at him so intently.
Mr. Journ opened a drawer and took out a box of cigars with unsteady hands.
"What can I do for you, Inspector?" he asked.
Somewhat to his surprise, Inspector Tombs willingly helped himself to a handful, and sat down in an armchair.
"You can give me money," said Inspector Tombs brazenly; and the wild leaping of Sumner Journ's heart died down to a painful throbbing.
"For one of your charities, perhaps? Well, I have never been miserly—"
The Saint shook his head.
"For me," he said flatly. "The Yard has asked us to keep an eye on you, and I think you need a friend in this manor. Chuck the bluffing, Journ — I'm here for business."
Sumner Journ was silent for a moment; but he was not thinking of resuming the bluff. That wouldn't help. He had to thank his stars that his first police visitor was a man who so clearly and straightforwardly understood the value of hard cash.
"How much do you want?" he asked.
"Two hundred pounds," was the calm reply.
Mr. Journ put up a hand and twirled one of the tiny horns of his wee moustache with the tip of his finger and thumb. His hard brown eyes studied Inspector Tombs unwinkingly.
"That's a lot of money," he said with an effort.
"What I can tell you is worth it," Simon told him grimly.
Mr. Journ hesitated for a short time longer, and then he took out a cheque-book and dipped his pen in the inkwell.
"Make it out to Bearer," said the Saint, who in spite of his morbid affection for the cognomen of "Tombs" had not yet thought it worth while opening a bank account in that name.
Journ completed the cheque, blotted it, and passed it across the desk. In his mind he was wondering if it was the fee for Destiny's warning: if Scotland Yard had asked the local division to "keep an eye on him," it was a sufficient hint that his activities had not passed unnoticed, and a suggestion that further inquiries might be expected to follow. He had not thought that it would happen so soon; but since it had happened, he felt a leaden heaviness at the pit of his stomach and a restless anxiety that arose from something more than a mere natural resentment at being forced to pay petty blackmail to a dishonest detective. And yet, so great was his seasoning of confidence that even then he was not anticipating any urgent danger.
"Well, what can you tell me?" he said.
Simon put the cheque away.
"The tip is to get out," he said bluntly; and Mr. Journ went white.
"Wha-what?" he stammered.
"You shouldn't complain," said the Saint callously. "You've been going for four years, and you must have made a packet. Now we're on to you. When I tell you to get out, I mean it. The Yard didn't ask us to keep an eye on you. What they did was to send an order through for a raid this afternoon. Chief Inspector Teal is coming down himself at four o'clock to take charge of it. That's worth two hundred pounds to know, isn't it?"
He stood up.
"You've got about an hour to clear out — you'd better make the most of it," he said.
For several minutes after the detective had gone Mr. Journ was in a daze. It was the first time that the consequences of his actions had loomed up in his vision as glaring realities. Arrest — police court — remand — the Old Bailey — penal servitude — the whole gamut of a crash, he had known about in the abstract like everyone else; but his self-confident imagination had never paused to put himself in the leading role. The sudden realisation of what had crept up upon him struck him like a blow in the solar plexus. He sat trembling in his chair, gasping like a stranded fish, feeling his knee-joints melting like butter in a frightful paralysis of panic. Whenever he had visualized the end before, it had never been like this: it had been on a date of his own choosing, after he had made all his plans in unhurried comfort, when he could pack up and beat his trail for the tall timber as calmly as if he had been going off on a legitimate business trip, without fear of interference. This catastrophe pouncing on him out of a clear sky scattered his thoughts like dry leaves in a gale.
And then he got a grip on himself. The getaway still had to be made. He still had an hour — and the banks were open. If he could keep his head, think quickly, act and plan as he had never had to do before, he might still make the grade.
"I'm feeling a bit washed out," he told his secretary; and certainly he looked it. "I think I'll go home."
He went out and hailed a taxi, half expecting to feel a heavy hand drop on his shoulder even as he climbed in.
It was getting late, and he had several things to do. He had been so sure that his Brazilian Timber Bonds had a long lease of life ahead of them that he had not yet given any urgent thought to the business of shifting his profits out of the country. At the first bank where he called he presented a cheque whose size pushed up the cashier's eyebrows.
"This will practically close your account, Mr. Journ," he said.
"It won't be out for long," Journ told him, with all the nonchalance he could muster. "I'm putting through a rather big deal this afternoon, and I've got to work in cash."
He stopped at two other banks, where he had accounts in different names; and also at a safe-deposit, where his box yielded him a thick wad of various European currencies. When he had finished, his brief-bag was bulging with more than sixty thousand pounds in negotiable cash.
He climbed back into his taxi and drove to his apartment near Baker Street. There would not be much time for packing, he reflected, studying his watch feverishly; but he must pick up his passport, and as many everyday necessities as he could cram into a valise in five minutes would be a help. The taxi stopped; and Mr. Journ opened the door and prepared to jump out; but before he could do so a man appeared at the opening and plunged in on top of him, practically throwing him back on to the seat. Sumner Journ's heart leaped sickeningly into his mouth; and then he recognised the dark piratical features of "Inspector Tombs."
"Whasser matter?" Journ got out hoarsely.
"You can't go in there," rapped the Saint. "Teal's on his way. Put the raid forward half an hour. They're looking for you." He opened the driver's partition. "South Kensington Station," he ordered. "And step on it!"
The taxi moved on again, and Mr. Journ stared wildly out of the windows. A uniformed constable chanced to cross the street behind them towards his door. He sank back in terror; and Simon closed the partition and settled into the other corner.
"But what am I going to do?" quavered Journ. "My passport's in there!"
"It wouldn't be any use to you," said the Saint tersely. "We know you've got one, and we know what name it's in. They'll be watching for you at all the ports. You'd never get through."
"But where can I go?" Journ almost sobbed.
Simon lighted a cigarette and looked at him.
"Have you got any more money?"
"Yes." Sumner Journ saw his companion's keen blue eyes fixed on the swollen brief-bag which he was clutching on his knees, and added belatedly: "A little."
"You'll need a lot," said the Saint. "I've risked my job standing outside your apartment to catch you when you arrived, if you got there before Teal; and I didn't do it for nothing. Now listen. I've got a friend who does a bit of smuggling from the Continent with a private aeroplane. He's got his own landing-grounds, here and in France. I've done him a few favours, the same as I've done for you already, and I can get him to take you to France — or further, if you want to go. It's your only chance; and it'll cost you two thousand pounds."
Mr. Journ swallowed.
"All right," he gulped. "All right. I'll pay it."
"It's cheap at the price," said Inspector Tombs, and leaned forward to give further instructions to the driver.
Presently they turned into a mews off Queen's Gate. Simon paid off the cab, and asked the garage proprietor for the loan of a telephone. He spoke a few cryptic words to his connection, and returned smiling.
"It's all fixed," he said. "Let's go."
There was a car waiting — a big cream and red speedster that looked as if it could pass anything else on the road and cost its owner a small fortune for the privilege. In a few moments Mr. Journ, still clutching his precious bag, found himself being whirled recklessly through the outskirts of London.
He released one hand from his bag to hold on to his hat, and submitted to the hurricane speed of the getaway in a kind of trance. The brilliant driving of his guide made no impression on his numbed brain, and even the route they took registered itself on his mind only subconsciously. His whole existence had passed into a sort of cyclonic nightmare which took away his breath and left a ghastly gnawing emptiness in his chest. The passage of time was merely a change in the positions of the hands of his watch, without any other significance.
And then, in the same deadened way, he became aware that the car had stopped, and the driver was getting out. They were in a narrow lane far from the main road, somewhere between Tring and Aylesbury.
"This is as far as we go, brother," said the Saint.
Mr. Journ levered himself stiffly out. There were open fields all around, partly hidden by the hedges which lined the lane.
Inspector Tombs was lighting another cigarette.
"And now, dear old bird," he murmured, "you must pay your fare."
Sumner Journ nodded, and fumbled with the fastening of his case.
"But I don't mind taking it in the bag," Simon said quietly.
Mr. Journ looked up. There was a subtle implication in the way the words were said which struck a supernatural chill into his blood. And in the next second he knew why; for his lifting eyes looked straight into the muzzle of an automatic.
Slowly Mr. Journ's eyes dilated. He stopped breathing. A cold intangible hand closed round his heart in a vice-like grip; and the muscles of his face twitched spasmodically.
"But you can't do that!" he screamed suddenly. "You can't take it all!"
"That is a matter of opinion," said the Saint equably; and then, before Mr. Journ really knew what was happening, a strong brown hand had shot out and grasped the brief-bag and twitched it out of Mr. Journ's desperate grip with a deft twist that was too quick for the eye to follow.
With a guttural gasp Sumner Journ lurched forward to tear it back, and found himself pushed away like a child!
"Now don't be silly," said the Saint. "I don't want to hurt you — much. You've lived like a prince for four years on the sucker crop, and a bloke like you can always think up a new racket. Don't take it so much to heart. Disguise yourself and make a fresh start. Shave off your moustache, and no one will recognise you."
"But what am I going to do?" Sumner Journ shrieked at him as he seated himself again in the car. "How am I going to get away?"
Simon stopped with his foot on the clutch.
"Bless my soul!" he said. "I almost forgot."
He dipped a long arm into the tonneau and brought up a small article which he pushed into Mr. Journ's trembling hands. Then the great car leapt away with a sudden roar from the exhaust, and Mr. Journ was left staring at his consolation prize with a face that had gone ashen grey.
It was a little toy aeroplane; and tied to it was a tag label on which was written:
With the compliments of the Saint.