Saint Intervenes by Leslie Charteris

wanted.”
    Monty
chuckled good-humouredly.
    “That’s
about it. The details don’t really matter, but the fact is that about
three weeks later I’d bought above five thousand quids’ worth
of shares.”
    “What
was the catch?” Simon asked; and Monty shrugged.
    “Well,
the catch was simply that this helicopter wasn’t his invention at all. He
had really built it himself, apparently, but it was copied line
for line from one of the existing makes. There wasn’t a thing in it that
he’d invented. There fore the design wasn’t his, and he hadn’t any right at all to manufacture it. So the company couldn’t function.
Of course, he didn’t put it exactly
like that. He told me that he’d
‘discovered’ that his designs ‘overlapped’ the existing patents—he swore
that it was absolutely a coincidence, and nearly
wept all over my office because his heart was broken because he’d found out that all his research work
had already been done before. I told him I didn’t believe a word of it, but
that wasn’t any help towards getting my money back. I hadn’t any evidence against him that I could have brought into a court of law. Of course he’d told
me that his design was patented and
protected in every way, but he hadn’t
put any of that in writing, and when he came and told me the whole thing was smashed he denied it. He said he’d
told me he was getting the design patented. I did see a solicitor about it afterwards, but he told me I hadn’t a chance of proving a deliberate fraud. Newdick would probably
have been ticked off in court for
taking money without reasonable precautions,
but that wouldn’t have brought any of it back.”
    “It
was a private company, I suppose,” said the Saint.
    Monty
nodded.
    “If it
had been a public one, with shares on the open market, it would have
been a different matter,” he said.
    “What
happened to the money?”
    “Newdick
had spent it—or he said he had. He told me he’d paid off all
the old debts that had run up while he was experimenting, and
spent the rest on some manufacturing plant and machinery for the company. He
did give me about six or seven hundred back, and told me he’d work like
hell to produce another invention that would really be original so he
could pay me back the rest, but that was the last I heard of him. He’s
probably caught several other mugs with the same game since then.” Monty
grinned philosophically, looked at the clock,
and got up. “Well, I must be getting along. I’ll look in and see you on Saturday—if you haven’t been arrested and shoved in clink before
then.”
    He departed after another
bottle of beer had been lowered; and when he
had gone Patricia Holm viewed the Saint doubtfully. She had not missed the quiet attention with which he had followed Monty Hayward’s narrative;
and she had known Simon Templar a
long time. The Saint had a fresh
cigarette slanting from the corner of his mouth, his hands were in his pockets, and he was smiling at
her with a seraphic innocence which was belied by every facet of the twinkling tang of mockery in his blue eyes.
    “You
know what I told you,” she said.
    He laughed.
    “About
getting into trouble? My darling, when will you stop thinking these
wicked thoughts? I’m taking your advice to heart. Maybe there
is something to be said for going into business. I think I
should look rather fetching in a silk hat and a pair of white
spats with pearl buttons; and you’ve no idea how I could liven
up a directors’ meeting if I set my mind to it.”
    Patricia
was not convinced.
    She was
even less convinced when the Saint went out the next morning. From his
extensive wardrobe he had selected one of his most elegant suits, a
creation in light-hued saxony of the softest and most expensive weave—a garment
which could by no possible chance have been worn by a man who had to
devote his day to honest toil. His tie was dashing, his silk socks
would have made a Communist’s righteous indig nation