![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
titusnowl1. How The Saint Lost His Halo, And Roger Got The Mail
The Saint had enjoyed the company of many and various men under the title of Halo through the years. Their tenure lasted from as little as two days to as long as half a decade, yet the reasons for their resignations, with only two notable exceptions, all came in skirts.
One of the exceptions, Roger Conway, blew into Simon Templar's Brook Street flat one Tuesday afternoon. He was accompanied by a stack of mail which contained an example of the unexceptionals, in the form of a square pinkish envelope addressed in a spidery feminine copperplate. This envelope was on top of the stack when Mr. Conway deposited it onto the table at the Saint's elbow as he pushed into the kitchen, and was shuffled to the bottom when the stack was picked up for perusal.
"Hello, my Roger," said Simon, watching from the corner of his eye as that young gentleman made himself free of icebox and pantry; "please, feel right at home."
"I am," retorted Roger with a nod in the direction of the hall. "Second door's my bedroom, remember?"
"Ah, yes. You sleep in your room so rarely I'd almost forgotten," said Simon, without the slightest hint of innuendo in his voice.
Roger, a sandwich, and a beer deposited themselves in a nearby chair; the beer was waved briefly in the direction of the mail. "The usual mix of arrest warrants, death threats and love letters?"
Simon flipped through the stack, sending most of it spiralling into the grate. "Bill; bill; advertisement; lawyer; one for you, Roger; no return address." This last was held up to the light, scrutinized, and very carefully lain aside at a safe remove from the ashtray. When Roger reached out to touch it, he received a sharp rap on the knuckles; his complaint at this indignity was ignored, as the Saint was already applying the same careful scrutiny, mockingly, to the pinkish envelope.
When opened, it yielded a second pinkish envelope, which contained a sheet of tissue, which was wrapped around a card, which contained another sheet of tissue, which was wrapped around another card, which contained another envelope, which contained another card. By the end of this performance, Simon was whistling the snake-charmers' tune and Roger more than half expected him to pull a rabbit out next.
"Well, what do you know," Simon mused when all of the cards had been extracted and read. "Peter Quentin is finally getting married."
"Serves him right, the rotten bugger," said Roger, staring in shock at the pile of pinkish paper.
2. How Peter Quentin Was Embarrased, And Roger Thought He Bloody Well Should Be
Mr. Quentin himself blew in two days later and stood rather nervously in the parlour, alternating his gaze between the toes of his highly-polished shoes and the stack of pinkish papers the Saint had pinned to the mantelpiece with a Spanish stiletto.
"What ho, sonny boy?" asked Simon, when it became clear that Peter did not intend to be the first to speak.
"I guess I'm sort of a rotten pal," quoth he; "only coming around when I need help..."
"Not at all, old pineapple," the Saint reassured him magnanimously. "You're a rotten pal for plenty of other reasons, too."
"And it's a bit late to go looking for help," observed Roger Conway. "You're already engaged to her."
"Never give up hope, my Roger. We could spirit him away from the altar."
"It's not that," protested the harried bridegroom, flushing. "It's nothing to do with Kate. Well, only a little."
"You see," said Simon, who had known the future Mrs. Quentin in the days when she had been a near-fixture in the docks, "the only thing worse than marrying a reformed thief is marrying one who hasn't reformed yet, and the only thing worse than that is marrying one who has never been a thief at all."
Reassured by the disrespectful badinage that his abdication of the halo wasn't being held against him, Peter annexed Roger's beer as it rose to his lips for the first sip, then anchored himself in a chair and spoke over the unprintable protests.
"It's like this, Saint. Miss Allfield, well, she's used to the good things in life."
"And she's always felt that the good things in life should be free," drawled Simon, "which puts you in a sticky situation."
"Well, I've still got the money we made, but now I'm out of the business, I thought I should invest it or something -- you know, to put it to work for me."
"A sensible decision. How'd you screw it up?"
Peter squirmed, then laughed self-deprecatingly. "You can guess." He pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket and handed them over. Roger snatched one for his own perusal and whistled.
"You don't half go over, do you?"
The Saint was smiling seraphically. "Oh, Petey punkin, didn't you recognize the chap who sold you these? We've been trading shares in Peruvian oil wells back and forth for months -- they're like bad pennies."
"Only worth a bit less," added Roger.
"One last trade, shall we say? And no backsies."
3. How Roger Ran Off At The Mouth, And Made A Sale
The following afternoon an amiable-looking blond youth in a too-fashionable check suit was lounging against a bar in Brighton. He had had a bit too much too drink, and was discoursing at volume upon the rotten trick he'd been turned by a mate of his who was a stockbroker.
"Now maybe they'd be worth tuppence on the open market for havin' rather fetchin' pictures on, if you like allegorical etchin's of ladies wearin' bedsheets, but that's bein' tuppin' optimistic! I told him, 'Harry,' I says, 'you've sold me the bunk!' He says he ain't responsible for the failin's of the market, and I says he's cracked. Who wants the bloody things? I don't even want to look at 'em anymore. You can 'ave 'em gratis free of charge. Give 'em to the kiddies for a colourin'-book."
The fellow he was importuning made a rather perfunctory attempt to talk him out of this gesture, but was waved into silence by a sloshing pint.
"No, no, they ain't no good to me. Gives me the indigestion just seein' 'em. Come on with me an' I'll fork 'em over right now, I won't hear no for an answer, mate."
The pair made a somewhat wobbly retreat to a hotel across the street, where the amiable-looking young man urged his visitor to have a seat in the parlour while he got the stock certificates out of the safe-deposit box in his closet.
Left thus unattended, the visitor commenced to look about. The suite had the slightly rumpled feel that even the most assiduously-serviced hotel rooms develop when lived in by the sort of young men who wear flash suits and get drunk before tea. It was littered with the usual jetsom, further indicating a resident better blessed with cash than sense. A very fine silver cigarette-case lay as if forgotten half-beneath a stack of magazines. The visitor was about to pick it up for a closer look when the telephone rang.
"You mind answerin' that? I 'spect it's the maid," cried the suit's tenant from the closet. His words were accompanied by a series of slightly ominous thumps, as if the wardrobe were disassembling itself around him. "Tell her we don't want her today."
Hesitantly, the visitor reached for the handset.
"Roger!" roared a voice over the line, instantly. "It's Harry! Don't you dare get rid of those shares! That story about the bust was all breadcrumbs and bream-bait - the wells just blew in, and how! Sit on them overnight and when the news hits the market tomorrow you're a made man! Oh, hell, I've got to go - see you down the pub, what?"
The line went dead before the visitor could fit a word in edgewise.
He returned the 'phone to its cradle with a queer gleam in his eye, just as the amiable-looking young man returned. The visitor hurriedly glanced at his pocketwatch in order to buy time to school his expression.
"Oh, damn," said the young man, "am I keepin' you? Here's them rotten certs - hope you burn 'em, bloody old things. Now don't let me make you late, what?"
The visitor felt a fit of cleverness coming over him. "Oh, I really couldn't take them for nothing," he said. "What's the face value on these, a thousand pounds? I'll take them at half price."
"I told you they're worth their printin' and not a penny more," said the young man, pouring himself a drink from a sideboard. He offered one to the visitor.
"It wouldn't feel proper to just take them," said he, pulling out a notebook and drawing up a bill of sale even as he spoke. He waved the drink away; the young man drank it himself. "Look, I"ll even note the face value and that I'm giving you half right here, so it's all clean and aboveboard and no one can feel cheated."
The young man wavered, literally, then gave in. "Oh, all right, but I feel like a bloody old thief."
A few minutes later, the visitor departed, less £500 but feeling rich as Croesus.
4. How A Crook Was Disappointed, And So Was Peter Quentin
Croesus met his partner two hours later, crowed his tale of triumph, and exhibited his catch. His partner glared at him.
"You idiot! Those are the fakes we were running last year, don't you recognize them? It was the Saint again!"
He examined the bill of sale once more, and this time spotted the tell-tale stick figure writ small in the corner. "But," he said, "but this one was blond."
"He has," his partner said witheringly, "a gang."
"Oh, hell," groaned Croesus. "He stole my watch again, too."
The amiable young man met his partner at about the same time, and solemnly handed over the cash before breaking into a grin. "That never gets old," he said.
"One of these days, my Roger, both of them will learn to recognize both of us -- but let us gather our rosebuds while we may, or something..."
In celebration of his wedding, Peter Quentin received a return of the £500 he'd dropped on phony stocks, and the ugliest vase Simon Templar could find in the whole of the City of London. It was red, with pink roses painted on it in extremely blobby slip, and - quoth Roger Conway - it served him right.
The Saint had enjoyed the company of many and various men under the title of Halo through the years. Their tenure lasted from as little as two days to as long as half a decade, yet the reasons for their resignations, with only two notable exceptions, all came in skirts.
One of the exceptions, Roger Conway, blew into Simon Templar's Brook Street flat one Tuesday afternoon. He was accompanied by a stack of mail which contained an example of the unexceptionals, in the form of a square pinkish envelope addressed in a spidery feminine copperplate. This envelope was on top of the stack when Mr. Conway deposited it onto the table at the Saint's elbow as he pushed into the kitchen, and was shuffled to the bottom when the stack was picked up for perusal.
"Hello, my Roger," said Simon, watching from the corner of his eye as that young gentleman made himself free of icebox and pantry; "please, feel right at home."
"I am," retorted Roger with a nod in the direction of the hall. "Second door's my bedroom, remember?"
"Ah, yes. You sleep in your room so rarely I'd almost forgotten," said Simon, without the slightest hint of innuendo in his voice.
Roger, a sandwich, and a beer deposited themselves in a nearby chair; the beer was waved briefly in the direction of the mail. "The usual mix of arrest warrants, death threats and love letters?"
Simon flipped through the stack, sending most of it spiralling into the grate. "Bill; bill; advertisement; lawyer; one for you, Roger; no return address." This last was held up to the light, scrutinized, and very carefully lain aside at a safe remove from the ashtray. When Roger reached out to touch it, he received a sharp rap on the knuckles; his complaint at this indignity was ignored, as the Saint was already applying the same careful scrutiny, mockingly, to the pinkish envelope.
When opened, it yielded a second pinkish envelope, which contained a sheet of tissue, which was wrapped around a card, which contained another sheet of tissue, which was wrapped around another card, which contained another envelope, which contained another card. By the end of this performance, Simon was whistling the snake-charmers' tune and Roger more than half expected him to pull a rabbit out next.
"Well, what do you know," Simon mused when all of the cards had been extracted and read. "Peter Quentin is finally getting married."
"Serves him right, the rotten bugger," said Roger, staring in shock at the pile of pinkish paper.
2. How Peter Quentin Was Embarrased, And Roger Thought He Bloody Well Should Be
Mr. Quentin himself blew in two days later and stood rather nervously in the parlour, alternating his gaze between the toes of his highly-polished shoes and the stack of pinkish papers the Saint had pinned to the mantelpiece with a Spanish stiletto.
"What ho, sonny boy?" asked Simon, when it became clear that Peter did not intend to be the first to speak.
"I guess I'm sort of a rotten pal," quoth he; "only coming around when I need help..."
"Not at all, old pineapple," the Saint reassured him magnanimously. "You're a rotten pal for plenty of other reasons, too."
"And it's a bit late to go looking for help," observed Roger Conway. "You're already engaged to her."
"Never give up hope, my Roger. We could spirit him away from the altar."
"It's not that," protested the harried bridegroom, flushing. "It's nothing to do with Kate. Well, only a little."
"You see," said Simon, who had known the future Mrs. Quentin in the days when she had been a near-fixture in the docks, "the only thing worse than marrying a reformed thief is marrying one who hasn't reformed yet, and the only thing worse than that is marrying one who has never been a thief at all."
Reassured by the disrespectful badinage that his abdication of the halo wasn't being held against him, Peter annexed Roger's beer as it rose to his lips for the first sip, then anchored himself in a chair and spoke over the unprintable protests.
"It's like this, Saint. Miss Allfield, well, she's used to the good things in life."
"And she's always felt that the good things in life should be free," drawled Simon, "which puts you in a sticky situation."
"Well, I've still got the money we made, but now I'm out of the business, I thought I should invest it or something -- you know, to put it to work for me."
"A sensible decision. How'd you screw it up?"
Peter squirmed, then laughed self-deprecatingly. "You can guess." He pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket and handed them over. Roger snatched one for his own perusal and whistled.
"You don't half go over, do you?"
The Saint was smiling seraphically. "Oh, Petey punkin, didn't you recognize the chap who sold you these? We've been trading shares in Peruvian oil wells back and forth for months -- they're like bad pennies."
"Only worth a bit less," added Roger.
"One last trade, shall we say? And no backsies."
3. How Roger Ran Off At The Mouth, And Made A Sale
The following afternoon an amiable-looking blond youth in a too-fashionable check suit was lounging against a bar in Brighton. He had had a bit too much too drink, and was discoursing at volume upon the rotten trick he'd been turned by a mate of his who was a stockbroker.
"Now maybe they'd be worth tuppence on the open market for havin' rather fetchin' pictures on, if you like allegorical etchin's of ladies wearin' bedsheets, but that's bein' tuppin' optimistic! I told him, 'Harry,' I says, 'you've sold me the bunk!' He says he ain't responsible for the failin's of the market, and I says he's cracked. Who wants the bloody things? I don't even want to look at 'em anymore. You can 'ave 'em gratis free of charge. Give 'em to the kiddies for a colourin'-book."
The fellow he was importuning made a rather perfunctory attempt to talk him out of this gesture, but was waved into silence by a sloshing pint.
"No, no, they ain't no good to me. Gives me the indigestion just seein' 'em. Come on with me an' I'll fork 'em over right now, I won't hear no for an answer, mate."
The pair made a somewhat wobbly retreat to a hotel across the street, where the amiable-looking young man urged his visitor to have a seat in the parlour while he got the stock certificates out of the safe-deposit box in his closet.
Left thus unattended, the visitor commenced to look about. The suite had the slightly rumpled feel that even the most assiduously-serviced hotel rooms develop when lived in by the sort of young men who wear flash suits and get drunk before tea. It was littered with the usual jetsom, further indicating a resident better blessed with cash than sense. A very fine silver cigarette-case lay as if forgotten half-beneath a stack of magazines. The visitor was about to pick it up for a closer look when the telephone rang.
"You mind answerin' that? I 'spect it's the maid," cried the suit's tenant from the closet. His words were accompanied by a series of slightly ominous thumps, as if the wardrobe were disassembling itself around him. "Tell her we don't want her today."
Hesitantly, the visitor reached for the handset.
"Roger!" roared a voice over the line, instantly. "It's Harry! Don't you dare get rid of those shares! That story about the bust was all breadcrumbs and bream-bait - the wells just blew in, and how! Sit on them overnight and when the news hits the market tomorrow you're a made man! Oh, hell, I've got to go - see you down the pub, what?"
The line went dead before the visitor could fit a word in edgewise.
He returned the 'phone to its cradle with a queer gleam in his eye, just as the amiable-looking young man returned. The visitor hurriedly glanced at his pocketwatch in order to buy time to school his expression.
"Oh, damn," said the young man, "am I keepin' you? Here's them rotten certs - hope you burn 'em, bloody old things. Now don't let me make you late, what?"
The visitor felt a fit of cleverness coming over him. "Oh, I really couldn't take them for nothing," he said. "What's the face value on these, a thousand pounds? I'll take them at half price."
"I told you they're worth their printin' and not a penny more," said the young man, pouring himself a drink from a sideboard. He offered one to the visitor.
"It wouldn't feel proper to just take them," said he, pulling out a notebook and drawing up a bill of sale even as he spoke. He waved the drink away; the young man drank it himself. "Look, I"ll even note the face value and that I'm giving you half right here, so it's all clean and aboveboard and no one can feel cheated."
The young man wavered, literally, then gave in. "Oh, all right, but I feel like a bloody old thief."
A few minutes later, the visitor departed, less £500 but feeling rich as Croesus.
4. How A Crook Was Disappointed, And So Was Peter Quentin
Croesus met his partner two hours later, crowed his tale of triumph, and exhibited his catch. His partner glared at him.
"You idiot! Those are the fakes we were running last year, don't you recognize them? It was the Saint again!"
He examined the bill of sale once more, and this time spotted the tell-tale stick figure writ small in the corner. "But," he said, "but this one was blond."
"He has," his partner said witheringly, "a gang."
"Oh, hell," groaned Croesus. "He stole my watch again, too."
The amiable young man met his partner at about the same time, and solemnly handed over the cash before breaking into a grin. "That never gets old," he said.
"One of these days, my Roger, both of them will learn to recognize both of us -- but let us gather our rosebuds while we may, or something..."
In celebration of his wedding, Peter Quentin received a return of the £500 he'd dropped on phony stocks, and the ugliest vase Simon Templar could find in the whole of the City of London. It was red, with pink roses painted on it in extremely blobby slip, and - quoth Roger Conway - it served him right.
