The Saint in the Sun by Leslie Charteris

hour at which the morning mail could be safely assumed to have been delivered and opened.
    The one subscriber of the five earmarked for the first refunds who was also marked with an X on Mr Gull’s private list had an address in North London and a telephone number in the directory.
    “This is the Sportsman’s Guide,” said the Saint, to the cantankerous elderly voice that answered. “We understand that you were a client of one of our advertisers, Mr Tom Gull.”
    “That is correct.”
    “Mr Gull tells us that he is going out of business and is refunding all investments. Has he notified you of that?”
    “I received a letter to that effect this morning, enclosing my money.”
    Simon took a deep breath.
    “Until then, did you receive your dividends regularly?”
    “I did. It was a most satisfactory service. In fact, I think it’s most inconsiderate of him to discontinue it so arbitrarily. But there you are. Nothing seems to have any stability these days.”
    “That’s what comes of keeping horses in them,” said the Saint sympathetically, and hung up.
    Another of the five was also in the London directory, but the number did not answer.
    The other three addresses were in Beaconsfield, Windsor, and Staines. It took some time to find out and connect with the next number through the hotel switchboard-he had taken a room at Skindle’s to remain closer to the subject of his investigation- but when he introduced himself with the same formula, the response was startlingly different.
    “I never heard of him.”
    “You are Mr Eric Botolphome?”
    “In a manner of speaking, yes.”
    “But you haven’t had any dealings with Mr Gull.”
    “I have not. And I never heard of your publication, either.”
    “I’m sorry, Mr Botolphome,” said the Saint slowly. “We must have been misinformed.”
    “The name,” said his respondent plaintively, “is pronounced ‘Boffam’.”
    “Congratulations,” Simon said, and carefully cradled the handset again.
    Scanning his lists, he realized that the process of having telephone numbers in a wide range of different towns researched and requested through the hotel switchboard and assorted exchanges would put a strain on the hotel operator and the lines at her disposal which would test her patience as much as his own. On the other hand, Windsor and Staines could both be reached in a single twelve-mile drive which might not take any more time and which would give a physical vent to his impatience- besides satisfying a foaming curiosity about the types who might or might not make up Mr Gull’s strange inventory of contributors.
    He threw on a coat and ran downstairs and began driving.
    The address in Windsor turned out to be a weathered brick villa on Vansittart Road built on stark Edwardian lines that harmonized excellently with the complexion and corseted contours of the beldam who finally opened the door.
    “Tom Gull?” she croaked. “What does he do?”
    “He runs a kind of betting service.”
    She cupped a hand to her ear.
    “Eh?”
    “A kind of betting service.”
    “I don’t need a vet. Haven’t had any animals around since my last cat died.”
    “No, betting,” Simon said, with increased projection. “You invest money with him, and he backs horses with it and sends you the profits.”
    “Young man,” said the matriarch crustily, “if I had my way, I’d see all the bookmakers hanged, like they used to hang people for sheep-stealing. All this betting and bingo, it’s no wonder we can’t stop the Russians occupying the moon. And people like you, trying to get customers for them, you’re no better than they are.”
    She slammed the door in his face.
    The nominee in Staines, a few miles further on, proved to be the proprietor of a small grocery store on the road out towards Laleham. In a more genial way, he was no less definite.
    “Who, me? Not bloody likely. The Guide’s all right, but some o’ those advertisements make me laugh. I like to have a little bet