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.Finde them if thifletre come to thee and Godes blefsynge, John.None of the members of Mr.Winlass's staff, some of whom had been with himthrough ten years of his hard-headed and dignified career, could remember anyprevious occasion when he had erupted from his office with so much violence.The big limousine which wafted him to Turk's Lane could not travel fast enoughfor him: he shuffled from one side of the seat to the other, craning forwardto look for impossible gaps in the traffic, and emitting short nasal wuffs ofalmost canine impatience.Dave Roberts was not in the little shop when Mr.Winlass walked in.Afreckle-faced pug-nosed young man wearing the same apron came forward."I want to see Mr.Roberts," said Winlass, trembling with excitement, which hewas trying not to show.The freckle-faced youth shook his head."You can't see Mr.Roberts," he said."He ain't here.""Where can I find him?" barked Winlass."You can't find him," said the youth phlegmatically."He don't want to befound.Want your shoes mended, sir?""No.I do not want my shoes mended!" roared Winlass, dancing in hisimpatience."I want to see Mr.Roberts.Why can't I find him? Why don't hewant to be found? Who the hell are you, anyhow?""I do be Mr.Roberts's second cousin, sir," said Peter Quentin, whose idea ofdialects was hazy but convincing."I do have bought Mr.Roberts's shop, andI'm here now, and Mr.Roberts ain't coming back, sir, that's who I be."Mr.Winlass wrenched his features into a jovial beam."Oh, you're Mr.Roberts's cousin, are you?" he said, with gigantic affability."How splendid! And you've bought his beautiful shop.Well, well.Have a cigar,my dear sir, have a cigar."The young man took the weed, bit off the wrong end, and stuck it into hismouth with the band on a series of mo-tions which caused Mr.Winlass toshudder to his core.But no one could have deduced that shudder from the smilewith which he struck and tendered a match."Thank 'ee, sir," said Peter Quentin, "Now, sir, can I mend thy shoes?"He admitted afterwards to the Saint that the strain of maintaining what hefondly believed to be a suitable patois was making him a trifle light-headed;but Mr.Vernon Winlass was far too preoccupied to notice his abberations."No, my dear sir," said Mr.Winlass, "my shoes don't want mending.But Ishould like to buy your lovely house."The young man shook his head."I ain't a-wanting to sell 'er, sir."Page 37ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html"Not for a thousand pounds?" said Mr.Winlass calcu-latingly."Not for a thousand pounds, sir.""Not even," said Mr.Winlass pleadingly, "for two thou-sand?""No, sir.""Not even," suggested Mr.Winlass, with an effort which caused him acute pain,"if I offered you three thousand?"The young man's head continued to shake."I do only just have bought 'er, sir.I must do my work somewhere.I wouldn'twant to sell my house, not if you of-fered me four thousand for 'er, that Iwouldn't.""Five thousand," wailed Mr.Winlass, in dogged anguish.The bidding rose to seven thousand five hundred before Peter Quentin relievedMr.Winlass of further torture and himself of further lingual acrobatics.Thecheque was made out and signed on the spot, and in return Peter attached hissignature to a more complicated document which Mr.Win-lass had ready toproduce from his breast pocket; for Mr.Vernon Winlass believed in GettingThings Done."That's splendid," he boomed, when the formalities had been completed."Nowthen, my dear sir, how soon can you move out?""In ten minutes," said Peter Quentin promptly, and he was as good as his word.He met the Saint in a neighbouring hostelry and exhibited his trophy.SimonTemplar took one look at it, and lifted his tankard."So perish all the ungodly," he murmured."Let us get round to the bank beforethey close.It was three days later when he drove down to Hampshire with Patricia Holm tosupervise the installation of Uncle Dave Roberts in the cottage which had beenprepared for him.It stood in the street of a village that had only onestreet, a street that was almost an exact replica of Turk's Lane set down in avalley between rolling hills.It had the same oak-beamed cottages, the samewrought-iron lamps over the lintels to light the doors by night, the same rowsof tiny shops clustering face to face with their wares spread out in unglazedwindows; and the thundering main road traffic went past five miles away andnever knew that there was a village there."I think you'll be happy here, Uncle Dave," he said; and he did not need ananswer in words to complete his reward.It was a jubilant return journey for him; and they were in Guildford before herecollected that he had backed a very fast outsider at Newmarket.When hebought a paper he saw that that also had come home, and they had to stop atthe Lion for celebrations."There are good moments in this life of sin, Pat," he re-marked, as he startedup the car again; and then he saw the expression on her face, and stared ather in concern."What's the matter, old darling has that last Martini gone toyour head?"Patricia swallowed.She had been glancing through the other pages of theEvening News while he tinkered with the ignition; and now she folded the sheetdown and handed it to him [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]