Brighter Buccaneer (22 page)

Benny tilted the last of the Liebfraumilch into Mr. Tombs’s glass, and Mr. Tombs looked up.

“I suppose I should. It sounds dishonest, but I was trying to put myself in the position of being faced with the temptation, instead of theorising about it. Face to face with a thousand pounds in cash, and needing money to take my wife abroad, I might easily-er-succumb. Not that I mean to imply —”

“My dear fellow, I’m not going to blame you,” said Benny heartily. “I’d do the same thing myself. I’d reason it out that a man who carried a thousand pounds in cash about with him had plenty more in the bank. It’s the old story of fair game. We may be governed by plenty of laws, but our consciences are still very primitive when we’ve no fear of being caught.”

There was a silence after that, in which Mr. Tombs finished his last angel on horseback, mopped the plate furtively with the last scrap of toast, and accepted a cigarette from Benny’s platinum case. The pause gave him his first chance to remember that he was meeting the sympathetic Mr. Lucek in order to hear about a business proposition-as Benny intended that it should. As a waiter approached with the bill, Mr. Tombs said tentatively: “About your-um-advertisement —”

Benny scrawled his signature across the account, and pushed back his chair.

“Come up to my sitting-room and we’ll talk about it.”

They went up in the lift, with Benny unconcernedly puffing Turkish cigarette smoke, and down an expensively carpeted corridor. Benny had an instinctive sense of dramatic values. Without saying anything, and yet at the same time without giving the impression that he was being intentionally reticent, he opened the door of his suite and ushered Mr. Tombs in.

The sitting-room was small but cosily furnished. A large carelessly-opened paper parcel littered the table in the centre, and there was a similar amount of litter in one of the chairs. Benny picked up an armful of it and dumped it on the floor in the corner.

“Know what these things are?” he asked off-handedly.

He took up a handful of the litter that remained on the chair and thrust it under Mr. Tombs’s nose. It was generally green in colour; as Mr. Tombs blinked at it, words and patterns took shape on it, and he blinked still harder.

“Pound notes,” said Benny. He pointed to the pile he had dumped in the corner. “More of ‘em.” He flattened the brown paper around the carelessly-opened parcel on the table, revealing neat stacks of treasure packed in thick uniform bundles. “Any amount of it. Help yourself.”

Mr. Tombs’s blue eyes went wider and wider, with the lids blinking over them rapidly as if to dispel an hallucination.

“Are they-are they really all pound notes?”

“Every one of ‘em.”

“All yours?”

“I guess so. I made ‘em, anyway.”

“There must be thousands.”

Benny flung himself into the cleared armchair.

“I’m about the richest man in the world, Mr. Tombs,” he said. “I guess I must be the richest, because I can make money as fast as I can turn a handle. I meant exactly what I said to you just now. I made those notes!”

Mr. Tombs touched the pile with his finger tips, as if he half expected them to bite him. His eyes were rounder and wider than ever.

“You don’t mean-forgeries?” he whispered.

“I don’t,” said Benny. “Take those notes to the nearest bank -tell the cashier you have doubts about them-and ask him to look them over. Take ‘em to the Bank of England. There isn’t a forgery in the whole lot-but I made ‘em! Sit down and I’ll tell you.”

Mr. Tombs sat down, stiffly. His eyes kept straying back to the heaps of wealth on the floor and the table, as though at each glance he would have been relieved rather than surprised if they had vanished.

“It’s like this, Mr. Tombs. I’m taking you into my confidence because I’ve known you a couple of hours and I’ve made up my mind about you. I like you. Those notes, Mr. Tombs, were printed from a proof plate that was stolen out of the Bank of England itself by a fellow who worked there. He was in the engraving department, and when they were making the plates they made one more than they needed. It was given to him to destroy-and he didn’t destroy it. He was like the man we were talking about-the man in the taxi. He had a genuine plate that would print genuine pound notes, and he could keep it for himself if he wanted to. All he had to do was to make an imitation plate that no one was going to examine closely-you can’t tell a lot from a plate, just looking at it-and cut a couple of lines across it to cancel it. Then that would be locked up in the vaults and probably never looked at again, and he’d have the real one. He didn’t even know quite what he’d do with the plate when he had it, but he kept it. And then he got scared about it being found out, and he ran away. He went over to New York, where I come from.

“He stopped in the place I lived at, over in Brooklyn. I got to know him a bit, though he was always very quiet and seemed to have something on his mind. I didn’t ask what it was, and I didn’t care. Then he got pneumonia.

“Nobody else had ever paid any attention to him, so it seemed to be up to me. I did what I could for him-it didn’t amount to much, but he appreciated it. I paid some of the rent he owed. The doctor found he was half starved-he’d landed in New York with just a few pounds, and when those were gone he’d lived on the leavings he could beg from chop houses. He was starving himself to death with a million pounds in his grip! But I didn’t know that then. He got worse and worse; and then they had to give him oxygen one night, but the doctor said he wouldn’t see the morning anyhow. He’d starved himself till he was too weak to get well again.

“He came to just before the end, and I was with him. He just looked at me and said: ‘Thanks, Benny.’ And then he told me all about himself and what he’d done. ‘You keep the plate,’ he said. ‘It may be some good to you.’

“Well, he died in the morning, and the landlady told me to hurry up and get his things out of the way as there was another lodger coming in. I took ‘em off to my own room. There wasn’t much; but I found the plate.

“Maybe you can imagine what it meant to me, after I’d got it all figured out. I was just an odd-job man in a garage then, earning a few dollars a week. I was the man in the taxi again. But I had a few dollars saved up; I’d have to find the right paper, and get the notes printed-I didn’t know anything about the technical side of it. It’d cost money; but if it went through all right that poor fellow’s legacy would make me a millionaire. He’d starved to death because he was too scared to try it; had I got the guts?”

Benny Lucek closed his eyes momentarily, as if he were reliving the struggle with his conscience.

“You can see for yourself which way I decided,” he said. “It took time and patience, but it was still the quickest way of making a million I’d ever heard of. That was six years ago. I don’t know how much money I’ve got in the bank now, but I know it’s more than I can ever spend. And it was like that all of three years ago.

“And then I started thinking about the other people who needed money, and I began to square my conscience by helping them. I was working over in the States then, of course, changing this English money in small packets at banks all over the continent. And I started giving it away-charities, down-and-outs, any good thing I could think of. That was all right so far as it went. But then I started thinking, that fellow who gave me the plate was English, and some of the money ought to go back to people in England who needed it. That’s why I came across. Did I tell you that fellow left a wife behind when he ran away? It took me two months to find her, with the best agents I could buy; but I located her at last serving in a tea-shop, and now I’ve set her on her feet for life, though she thinks it was an uncle she never had who died and left her the money. But if I can find any other fellow whose wife needs some money he can’t earn for her,” said Benny nobly, “I want to help him too.”

Mr. Tombs swallowed. Benny Lucek was a master of elocution among his other talents, and the manner of his recital was calculated to bring a lump into the throat of an impressionable listener.

“Would you like some money, Mr. Tombs?” he inquired.

Mr. Tombs coughed.

“I-er-well-I can’t quite get over the story you’ve told me.”

He picked up a handful of the notes, peered at them minutely, screwed them in his fingers, and put them down again rather abruptly and experimentally, as if he were trying to discover whether putting temptation from him would bring a glow of conscious virtue that would compensate for the worldly loss. Apparently the experiment was not very satisfactory, for his mouth puckered wistfully.

“You’ve told me all about yourself,” said Benny, “and about your wife being delicate and needing to go away for a long sea voyage. I expect there’s trouble about getting your children a proper education that you haven’t mentioned at all. You’re welcome to put all that right. You can buy just as many of these notes as you like, and twenty pounds per hundred is the price to you. That’s exactly what they cost me in getting the special paper and inks and having them printed—the man I found to print ‘em for me gets a big rake-off, of course. Four shillings each is the cost price, and you can make yourself a millionaire if you want to.”

Mr. Tombs gulped audibly.

“You’re-you’re not pulling” my leg, are you?” he stammered pathetically.

“Of course I’m not. I’m glad to do it.” Benny stood up and placed one hand affectionately on Mr. Tombs’s shoulders. “Look here, I know all this must have been a shock to you. It wants a bit of getting used to. Why don’t you go away and think it over? Come and have lunch with me again tomorrow, if you want some of these notes, and bring the money with you to pay for them. Call me at seven o’clock and let me know if I’m to expect you.” He picked up a small handful of money and stuffed it into Mr. Tombs’s pocket. “Here-take some samples with you and try them on a bank, just in case you still can’t believe it.”

Mr. Tombs nodded, blinking.

“I’m the man in the taxi again,” he said with a weak smile.

“When you really do find the wallet —”

“Who loses by it?” asked Benny, with gently persuasive rhetoric. “The Bank of England, eventually. I never learnt any economics, but I suppose they’ll have to meet the bill. But are they going to be any the worse off for the few thousands you’ll take out of them? Why, it won’t mean any more to them than a penny does to you now. Think it over.”

“I will,” said Mr. Tombs, with a last lingering stare at the littered table.

“There’s just one other thing,” said Benny. “Not a word of what I’ve told you to any living soul-not even to your wife. I’m trusting you to treat it as confidentially as you’d treat anything in your insurance business. You can see why, can’t you? A story like I’ve told you would spread like wildfire, and once it got to the Bank of England there’d be no more money in it. They’d change the design of their notes and call in all the old ones as quick as I can say it.”

“I understand, Mr. Lucek,” said Mr. Tombs.

He understood perfectly-so well that the rapturous tale he told to Patricia Holm when he returned was almost incoherent. He told her while he was removing his make-up and changing back into his ordinary clothes; and when he had finished he was as immaculate and debonair as she had ever seen him. And finally he smoothed out the notes that Benny had given him at parting, and stowed them carefully in his wallet. He looked at his watch.

“Let’s go and see a show, darling,” he said, “and then we’ll buy a pailful of caviare between us and swill it down with a gallon of Bollinger. Brother Benjamin will pay!”

“But are you sure these notes are perfect?” she asked; and the Saint laughed.

“My sweetheart, every one of those notes was printed by the Bank of England itself. The green goods game is nothing like that; though I’ve often wondered why it hasn’t been worked before in this-Gott in Himmel!”

Simon Templar suddenly leapt into the air with a yell; and the startled girl stared at him.

“What in the name of —”

“Just an idea,” explained the Saint. “They sometimes take me in the seat of the pants like that. This is rather a beauty.”

He swept her off boisterously to the promised celebrations without telling her what the idea was that had made him spring like a young ram with loud foreign oaths; but at seven o’clock punctually he found time to telephone the Park Lane Hotel.

“I’m going to do what the man in the taxi would do, Mr. Lucek,” he said.

“Well, Mr. Tombs, that’s splendid news,” responded Benny.“I’ll expect you at one. By the way, how much will you be taking?”

“I’m afraid I can only manage to-um-raise three hundred pounds. That will buy fifteen hundred pounds’ worth, won’t it?”

“I’ll make it two thousand pounds’ worth to you, Mr. Tombs,” said Benny generously. “I’ll have it all ready for you when you come.”

Mr. Tombs presented himself at five minutes to one, and although he wore the same suit of clothes as he had worn the previous day, there was a festive air about him to which a brand-new pair of white kid gloves and a carnation in his button-hole colourfully contributed.

“I handed in my resignation at the office this morning,” he said. “And I hope I never see the place again.”

Benny was congratulatory but apologetic.

“I’m afraid we shall have to postpone our lunch,” he said. “I’ve been investigating a lady who also answered my advertisement-a poor old widow living up in Derbyshire. Her husband deserted her twenty years ago; and her only son, who’s been keeping her ever since, was killed in a motor accident yesterday. It seems as if she needs a fairy godfather quickly, and I’m going to dash up to Derbyshire and see what I can do.”

Mr. Tombs suppressed a perfunctory tear, and accompanied Benny to his suite. A couple of well-worn suit-cases and a wardrobe trunk the size of a suburban villa, all ready stacked up and labelled, confirmed Benny’s avowed intentions. Only one of the parcels of currency was visible, pushed untidily to one end of the table.

“Did you bring the money, Mr. Tombs?”

Mr. Tombs took out his battered wallet and drew forth a sheaf of crisp new fivers with slightly unsteady hands. Benny took them, glanced over them casually, and dropped them on to the table with the carelessness befitting a millionaire. He waved Mr. Tombs into an armchair with his back to the window, and himself sat down in a chair drawn up to the opposite side of the table.