13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

If there was one thing on earth which he could track down it was money. The affinity of the pigeon for its roost, the camel for the water-hole, the pig for the truffle, were as noth­ing to the affinity of Mr. Immelbern for dough. He was in tune with it. Its subtle emanations floated through the ether and impinged on psychic aerials in his system which operated on a super-heterodyne circuit. And while he looked at the young man who seemed to know Lieut.-Colonel Uppingdon that circuit was oscillating over all its valves. He summarised his conclusions with an explicit economy of verbiage which La Bruyère could not have pruned by a single syllable.

"He's rich," said Mr. Immelbern.

"I wish I could remember where I met him," said the Colo­nel, frowning over his own train of thought. "I hate to forget a face."

"You doddering old fool!" snarled Mr. Immelbern, smiling at him affectionately. "What do I care about your memory? The point is that he's rich, and he seemed to recognise you. Well, that saves a lot of trouble, doesn't it?"

The Colonel turned towards him and blinked.

"What do you mean?"

"Will you never wake up?" moaned Mr. Immelbern, ex­tending his cigarette-case with every appearance of affability. "Here you've been sitting whining and moping for half an hour because we don't get a chance to make a click, and when a chance does come along you can't see it. What do I care where you met the man? What do I care if you never met him? He nodded to you, and he's sitting two yards away— and you ask me what I mean!"

The Colonel frowned at him for a moment. He was, as we have explained, a born conservative. He never allowed him­self to be carried away. He deliberated. He calculated. He explored. He would, but for the ever-present stimulus of Mr. Immelbern, have done as little as any other conservative.

But gradually the frown faded, and a dignified smile took its place.

"There may be something in what you say, Sid," he con­ceded.

"Go on," ordered Mr. Immelbern crudely. "Hop it. And try to wake your ideas up a bit. If somebody threw a purse into your lap, you'd be asking me what it was."

Lieut.-Colonel Uppingdon gave him an aristocratically with­ering look, and rose sedately from the table. He went over to where the young man sat and coughed discreetly.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, and the young man looked up from his idle study of the afternoon's runners at Sandown Park. "You must have thought me a trifle rude just now."

"Not at all," said the young man amiably. "I thought you were busy and didn't want to be bothered. How are things these days, George?"

The Colonel suppressed a start. The use of his Christian name implied an intimacy that was almost alarming, but the young man's pleasant features still struck no responsive chord in his memory.

"To tell you the truth," he said, "I'm afraid my eyes are not as good as they were. I didn't recognise you until you had gone by. Dear me! How long is it since I saw you last?"

The young man thought for a moment.

"Was it at Biarritz in 1929?"

"Of course!" exclaimed Uppingdon delightedly—he had never been to Biarritz in his life. "By Gad, how the times does fly! I never thought I should have to ask when I last saw you, my dear——"

He broke off short, and an expression of shocked dismay overspread his face.

"Good Gad!" he blurted. "You'll begin to think there's something the matter with me. Have you ever had a lapse of memory like that? I had your name on the tip of my tongue —I was just going to say it—and it slipped off! Wait—don't help me—didn't it begin with H?"

"I'm afraid not," said the young man pleasantly.

"Not either of your names?" pursued the Colonel hopefully.

"No."

"Then it must have been J."

"No."

"I mean T."

The young man nodded. Uppingdon took heart.

"Let me see. Tom—Thomson—Travers—Terrington——"

The other smiled.

"I'd better save you the trouble. Templar's the name— Simon Templar."

Uppingdon put a hand to his head.

"I knew it!" He was certain that he had never met anyone named Simon Templar. "How stupid of me! My dear chap, I hardly know how to apologise. Damned bad form, not even being able to remember a fellow's name. Look here, you must give me a chance to put it right. What about joining us for a drink? Or are you waiting for somebody?"

Simon Templar shook his head.

"No—I just dropped in."

"Splendid!" said the Colonel. "Splendid! Perfectly splen­did !" He seized the young man's arm and led him across to where Mr. Immelbern waited. "By Gad, what a perfectly splen­did coincidence. Simon, you must meet Mr. Immelbern. Sid­ney, this is an old friend of mine, Mr. Templar. By Gad!"

Simon found himself ushered into the best chair, his drink paid for, his health proposed and drunk with every symptom of cordiality.

"By Gad!" said the Colonel, mopping his brow and beam­ing.

"Quite a coincidence, Mr. Templar," remarked Immelbern, absorbing the word into his vocabulary.