Mr Thearnley was a large man put together of ellipsoid shapes, with a florid complexion, very bright baggy eyes, sparse sandy hair, and a mustache of such luxuriant dimensions that it would have provided a more than adequate graft to replace what was lacking from the top of his head. The upper part of him was very correctly dressed in a black alpaca coat, white shirt with starched collar, and dark pin-striped tie; but when he rose from behind his desk to shake hands he revealed that, in conformity with local custom, his lower section was clad only in knee-length shorts and long socks. The effect was inevitably reminiscent of the time-honored farce routine in which the comedian bursts into public view fully dressed except for having forgotten to put on his trousers, but Mr Thearnley was just as unaware of anything hilarious about it.
“Well, Mr Templar,” he said affably, “what can I do for you?”
“Answer some silly questions,” said the Saint, and sat down. “I’m sure you haven’t a lot of time to waste, so I’ll fire them as fast as I can, and I hope you won’t think I’m too blunt… One: do you know another attorney in this town by the name of — ?”
He gave the name of the attorney to whom the solicitors for Mr Ivalot’s concubine had referred their case, which he had found out from Lona Dayne on the way over from Darrell’s Island.
“Only for about thirty years,” Mr Thearnley said with a smile.
“Would you vouch for him without any qualification?”
“Now I’m beginning to think you were serious about asking silly questions.”
“I’ll be more specific. If he were asked to serve papers on somebody in Bermuda who accidentally happened to be a friend of his, would anything induce him to report that he couldn’t find any trace of this defendant?”
Mr Thearnley’s eyes had visibly congealed.
“If the person concerned were a friend of his, he would simply decline the case and give his reason. He would not tell a lie. He is the most ethical man I have the good fortune to know.”
“I’m sorry,” said the Saint. “I don’t know him, and I had to ask that to confirm that a certain person is definitely untraceable here by any ordinary means… Let me try something less delicate: how would anyone here go about getting a passport?”
“A British subject?”
“Yes, of course.”
“He fills out an application, and submits it with a couple of photographs—”
“And a birth certificate?”
“No, that isn’t required. But the form has to be attested by someone who’s known him for a certain number of years. Not just anyone; it has to be someone with a recognized professional standing. A bank manager, a doctor, or a minister, are the usual ones. Or a lawyer.”
Simon lighted a cigarette. It was an effort to subdue a flood tide of excitement that rose higher as one point after another of the framework that he had put together in his mind was tested and the whole structure still remained solid.
“The last one may be the hardest,” he said. “There’s a Canadian by the name of Stanley Parker, who owns a house on a small island, way out towards the other end of Southampton. Do you happen to know anyone who knows him?”
“This is quite a small place,” Thearnley said. “As a matter of fact, I know a little about him myself.”
“How old would you say he was?”
“That’s hard to guess. He’s certainly quite senile.”
The Saint raised his eyebrows.
“As bad as that?”
“Well, he gives that impression. It may be partly because he’s had a stroke and can’t even speak. As it happens, the agent who made the sale is a client of mine. I don’t know how Parker heard about it, but he wrote from Canada and said he’d take it and he’d be here with the cash as soon as the deed could be drawn up. The asking price was a bit steep, as usual, because people always expect to do some bargaining, but Parker didn’t haggle at all.”
“How long ago was this?”
“About six years ago. I prepared the conveyance myself, and that’s how I met him, when he came in to sign it. He just grunted and nodded to whatever was said to him, didn’t even read the papers, and scratched his name on the dotted line. Then he handed over a huge envelope full of twenty-dollar bills and waited for us to count them. The agent and myself had to count almost two thousand each. We gave him a receipt, and the keys, and he grunted again and tottered out. My friend’s conscience gave him a bit of trouble after he’d seen the man, because he hadn’t really expected to get the full price, and he wondered if he could be accused of taking advantage of imbecile. I had to tell him that we had no evidence that Parker was non compos mentis, and that a man who carried about twenty thousand pounds in an old envelope might be so rich that he just couldn’t be bothered to argue about the price of anything.”
“Have you ever seen him since?”
“I ran into him once in my dentist’s waiting-room when I was coming out, and once at the airport when I was meeting a plane, I think he must have played hermit out on his island most of the time.”
The Saint stood up.
“I’m very much obliged to you,” he said. “I may be leaving here rather soon, so would you be shocked if I offered to pay cash for this consultation?”
“Tell Dick I’ll stick it on his next bill.” The lawyer also rose, again oblivious of what his naked knees did to his dignity. He seemed to be wavering between two tormenting inward doubts, one as to whether he might have indiscreetly answered too much, the other as to how discreetly he could indulge some curiosity of his own. He said, taking a plunge, “Or we’ll call it all square if you’ll tell me what this is all about.”
“If everything works out, and I’m still here tomorrow, I’ll come back and tell you — that’s a promise.”
“You know,” Thearnley went on, “from the trend of some of your inquiries, I’m rather surprised at one question you haven’t asked.”
“What was that?”
“About Mr Parker’s background.”
“What was it?”
“My friend the estate agent tried to find out something about him, naturally, but all he could find out was that Mr Parker had once been a lawyer, too.”
“These woods seem to be full of them,” said the Saint gravely, and made an exit before Mr Thearnley could decide how to respond to that.
Lona Dayne was dispiritedly trying on shoes when Simon tracked her down in the store, and he had never seen a woman so relieved to be rescued from a bewildered salesman.
“I can’t get used to being dragged around like a doll,” she said edgily, as he marched her back towards the boat. “Where are you taking me now?”
“Back to the island. But I have to make a slight detour, by way of Cambridge Beaches, which is the place where I was staying before I met you.”
Even at that moment, he couldn’t help being amused by the suddenness with which her pique became crestfallen.
“I forgot,” she said in an empty voice. “You’ve got to pack, haven’t you.”
“I want to pick up a gun,” said the Saint. “We’re going to meet Jolly Roger.”
4
Lona Dayne maintained a taut and stubborn silence all the way out to the secluded cottage colony at Mangrove Bay, waited in the boat while he went ashore, and succeeded in prolonging that superhuman self-discipline until they had passed under Watford Bridge again on the way back.
Then at last she said resentfully, “Why do you have to be so mysterious? I think you’re deliberately trying to force me into the part of a stupid ingénue.”
“Darling,” he said, “haven’t you ever read any whodunits? Don’t you know that the detective always acts very mysterious and keeps the big surprise up his sleeve till the last few pages?”