Leslie Charteris - The Brighter Buccaneer

The Saint sighed.

"And that," he said, "is approximately what the cave woman thought of first when her battle-scarred Man dragged home a vanquished leopard. My darling, when will you realize that we are first and foremost a business organization?"

But at that moment he had no clear idea of the profitable purposes to which his purchase might be put. The Saint had an instinct and a collecting passion for facts and gadgets that "might come in useful," but at the times when he acquired them he could rarely have told you what use they were ever likely to be.

He corked the bottle and put it away in his pocket. The train they were waiting for was signalled, and the rumble of its approach could be felt underfoot. Down in the blackness of the tunnel its lights swept round a bend and drove towards the platform; and it was quite by chance that the Saint's wandering glance flickered over the shabbily-dressed elderly man who waited a yard away on his left, and fixed on him with a sudden razor-edged intentness that was more intuitive than logical. Or perhaps the elderly man's agitation was too transparent to be ordinary, his eyes too strained and haggard to be reassuring… Simon didn't know.

The leading draught of the train fanned on his face, and then the elderly man clenched his fists and jumped. A woman screamed.

"You blithering idiot!" snapped the Saint, and jumped also.

His feet touched down neatly inside the track. By some brilliant fluke the shabby man's blind leap had missed the live rail, and he was simply cowering where he had landed with one arm covering his eyes. The train was hardly more than a yard away when the Saint picked him up and heaved him back on to the platform, flinging himself off the line in the opposite direction as he did so. The train whisked so close to him that it brushed his sleeve, and squeaked to a standstill with hissing brakes.

The Saint slid back the nearest door on his side, swung himself up from the track, and stepped through the coach to the platform. A small crowd had gathered around the object of his somewhat sensational rescue, and Simon shouldered a path through them unceremoniously. He knew that one of the many sublimely intelligent laws of England ordains that any person who attempts to take his own life shall, if he survives, be prosecuted and at the discretion of the Law imprisoned, in order that he may be helped to see that life is, after all, a very jolly business and thoroughly worth living; and such a flagrant case as the one that Simon had just witnessed seemed to call for some distinctly prompt initiative.

"How d'you feel, chum?" asked the Saint, dropping on one knee beside the man.

"I saw him do it," babbled a fat woman smugly. "With me own eyes I saw it. Jumped in front of the train as deliberate as you please. I saw him."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken, madam," said the Saint quietly. "This gentleman is a friend of mine. He's subject to rather bad fits, and one of them must have taken him just as the train was coming in. He was standing rather close to the edge of the platform, and he simply fell over."

"A very plucky effort of yours, sir, getting him out of the way," opined a white-whiskered military type. "Very plucky, by Gad!"

Simon Templar, however, was not looking for bouquets. The shabby man was sitting motionlessly with his head in his hands: the desperation that had driven him into that spasmodic leap had left him, and he was trembling silently in a helpless reaction. Simon slipped an arm around him and lifted him to his feet; and as he did so the guard broke through the crowd.

"I shall 'ave to make a report of this business, sir," he said.

"Lord — I'm not going to be anybody's hero!" said the Saint. "My name's Abraham Lincoln, and this is my uncle, Mr. Christopher Columbus. You can take it or leave it."

"But if the gentleman's going to make any claim against the company I shall 'ave to make a report, sir," pleaded the guard plaintively.

"There'll be no complaints except for wasting time, Ebenezer," said the Saint. "Let's go."

He helped his unresisting salvage into a compartment, and the crowd broke up. The District Railway resumed its day's work; and Simon Templar lighted a cigarette and glanced whimsically at Patricia.

"What d'you think we've picked up this time, old dear?" he murmured.

The girl's hand touched his arm, and she smiled.

"When you went after him I was wondering what I'd lost," she said.

The Saint's quick smile answered her; and he returned to a scrutiny of his acquisition. The shabby man was recovering himself slowly, and Simon thought it best to leave him to himself for a while. By the time they had reached Mark Lane Station he seemed to have become comparatively normal, and Simon stood up and jerked a thumb.

"C'mon, uncle. This is as far as I go."

The shabby man shook his head weakly.

"Really, I don't —"

"Step out," said the Saint.

The man obeyed listlessly; and Simon took his arm and piloted him towards the exit. They turned into a convenient cafe and found a deserted corner.

"I took a bit of trouble to pull you out of a mess, uncle, and the story of your life is the least you can give me in return."

"Are you a reporter?" asked the other wearily.

"I have a conscience," said the Saint. "What's your name, and what do you do?"

"Inwood. I'm a chemist and — a sort of inventor." The shabby man gazed apathetically at the cup of coffee which had been set before him. "I ought to thank you for saving my life, I suppose, but —"

"Take it as a gift," said the Saint breezily. "I was only thinking of our rails. I've got a few shares in the company, and your method of suicide makes such a mess. Now tell me why you did it."

Inwood looked up.

"Are you going to offer me charity?"

"I never do that. My charity begins at home, and stays on with Mother like a good girl."

"I suppose you've got some sort of right to an answer," said Inwood tiredly. "I'm a failure, that's all."

"And aren't we all?" said the Saint. "What did you fail at, uncle?"

"Inventing. I gave up a good job ten years ago to try and make a fortune on my own, and I've been living from hand to mouth ever since. My wife had a small income of her own, and I lived on that. I did one or two small things, but I didn't make much out of them. I suppose I'm not such a genius as I thought I was, but I believed in myself then. A month or so ago, when we were right at the end of our tether, I did make a little discovery."

The shabby man took from his pocket a small brass tube like a girl's lipstick case, and tossed it across the table. Simon removed the cap, and saw something like a crayon — it was white outside, with a pink core.

"Write something — with your pen, I mean," said Inwood.

Simon took out his fountain-pen and scribbled a couple of words on the back of the menu. Inwood blew on it till it dried, and handed it back.

"Now rub it over with that crayon."

Simon did so, and the writing disappeared. It vanished quite smoothly and easily, at a couple of touches, without any hard rubbing, and the paper was left without a trace of discoloration or roughness.

"Just a useful thing for banks and offices," said Inwood.

"There's nothing else like it. An ink eraser tears up the paper. You can buy a chemical bleacher, and several firms use it, but that's liquid — two re-agents in separate bottles, and you have to put on drops of first one and then the other. That thing of mine is twice as simple and three times quicker."

Simon nodded.

"You're not likely to make a million out of it, but it ought to have quite a reasonable sale."

"I know that," said Inwood bitterly. "I didn't want a million. I'd have been glad to get a thousand. I've told you — I'm not such a genius as I thought I was. But a thousand pounds would have put us on our feet again — given me a chance to open a little shop or find a steady job or something. But I'm not going to get a penny out of it. It isn't my property — and I invented it!.. We've been living on capital as well as income. This would have put us straight. It had to be protected."