Investors were accordingly implored, in their own interests, to gather together at least ₤30 and purchase with it a Brazilian Timber Bond — which could be arranged, if necessary, by installments. On buying this bond, they would become the virtual owners of an acre of ground in this territory, and the seeds of trees would be planted in it without further charge. It was asserted that twenty-five trees could easily grow on this acre, which when cut down at maturity would provide 100 cords of wood. Taking the price of wood at ₤3 a cord, it was therefore obvious that in about 10 years' time this acre would be worth ₤300 — "truly," said the prospectus, "a golden return on such a modest investment." The theme was developed at great length with no little literary skill, even going so far as to suggest that on the figures quoted, the investor who bought one ₤30 bond every year for 10 years would in the 11th year commence to draw an annuity of ₤300 per annum for ever, since as soon as the trees had been felled in the first acre it could be planted out again.
"Well, have you bought your Brazilian Timber Bond?" asked Monty Hayward a day or two later.
Simon grinned and looked out of the window — he was down at the country house in Surrey which he had recently bought for a week-end retreat.
"I've got two acres here," he murmured. "We might look around for somebody to give us sixty quid to plant some more trees in it."
"The really brilliant part of it," said Monty, filling his pipe, "is that this bloke proposes to pay out all the profit in a lump in ten years' time; but until then he doesn't undertake to pay anything. So if he's been working this stunt for four years now, as it says in the book, he's still got another five years clear to go on selling his bonds before any of the bondholders has a right to come round and say: 'Oi, what about my three hundred quid?' Unless some nosey parker makes a special trip into the middle of Brazil and comes back and says there aren't any pine trees growing in those parts, or he's seen the concession and it's just a large swamp with a few blades of grass and a lot of mosquitoes buzzing about, I don't see how he can help getting away with a fortune if he finds enough mugs."
The Saint lighted a cigarette.
"There's nothing to stop him taking it in," he remarked gently, "but he's still got to get away with it."
Mr. Sumner Journ would have seen nothing novel in the qualification. Since the first day when he began those practical surveys of the sucker birth-rate, the problem of finally getting away with it, accompanied by his moustache and his plunder, had never been entirely absent from his thoughts, although he had taken considerable pains to steer a course which would keep him outside the reach of the Law. But the collapse of South American Mineralogical Investments, Ltd., had brought him within unpleasantly close range of danger, and about the ultimate fate of Brazilian Timber Bonds he had no illusions.
Simon Templar would have found nothing psychologically contradictory in the fact that a man who, cultivating the world's most original moustache with microscopic perfection of detail, had overlooked the fundamental point that a moustache should be visible, should, when creating a Timber Company, have overlooked the prime essential that the one thing which a Timber Company must possess, its sine qua non, so to speak, is timber. Mr. Journ had compiled his inducements with unlimited care from encyclopedias and the information supplied by genuine timber-producing firms, calculating the investors' potential profits according to a mathematical system of his own; the only thing he had omitted to do was to provide himself with the requisite land for afforestation. He had selected his site from an atlas, and had immediately forgotten all the other necessary steps towards securing a title to it.
In the circumstances, it was only natural that Mr. Sumner Journ, telling tall stories about timber, should remember that the day was coming when he himself would have to set out, metaphorically at least, in the direction of the tall timber which is the fugitive's traditional refuge; but he reckoned that the profit would be worth it.
The only point on which he was a trifle hazy, as other such schemers have been before him, was the precise moment at which the getaway ought to be made; and it was with a sudden sinking of heart that he heard the name of the man who called to see him at his office on a certain afternoon.
"Inspector Tombs?" he said with a rather pallid heartiness. "I think I have met you somewhere before."
"I'm the C. I. D. Inspector in this division," said the visitor blandly.
Mr. Journ nodded. He knew now where he had seen his caller before — it was the man who had been talking to Chief Inspector Teal in Swallow Street when he went by a few days ago, and who had stared at him so intently.
Mr. Journ opened a drawer and took out a box of cigars with unsteady hands.
"What can I do for you, Inspector?" he asked.
Somewhat to his surprise, Inspector Tombs willingly helped himself to a handful, and sat down in an armchair.
"You can give me money," said Inspector Tombs brazenly; and the wild leaping of Sumner Journ's heart died down to a painful throbbing.
"For one of your charities, perhaps? Well, I have never been miserly—"
The Saint shook his head.
"For me," he said flatly. "The Yard has asked us to keep an eye on you, and I think you need a friend in this manor. Chuck the bluffing, Journ — I'm here for business."
Sumner Journ was silent for a moment; but he was not thinking of resuming the bluff. That wouldn't help. He had to thank his stars that his first police visitor was a man who so clearly and straightforwardly understood the value of hard cash.
"How much do you want?" he asked.
"Two hundred pounds," was the calm reply.
Mr. Journ put up a hand and twirled one of the tiny horns of his wee moustache with the tip of his finger and thumb. His hard brown eyes studied Inspector Tombs unwinkingly.
"That's a lot of money," he said with an effort.
"What I can tell you is worth it," Simon told him grimly.
Mr. Journ hesitated for a short time longer, and then he took out a cheque-book and dipped his pen in the inkwell.
"Make it out to Bearer," said the Saint, who in spite of his morbid affection for the cognomen of "Tombs" had not yet thought it worth while opening a bank account in that name.
Journ completed the cheque, blotted it, and passed it across the desk. In his mind he was wondering if it was the fee for Destiny's warning: if Scotland Yard had asked the local division to "keep an eye on him," it was a sufficient hint that his activities had not passed unnoticed, and a suggestion that further inquiries might be expected to follow. He had not thought that it would happen so soon; but since it had happened, he felt a leaden heaviness at the pit of his stomach and a restless anxiety that arose from something more than a mere natural resentment at being forced to pay petty blackmail to a dishonest detective. And yet, so great was his seasoning of confidence that even then he was not anticipating any urgent danger.
"Well, what can you tell me?" he said.
Simon put the cheque away.