Saint Steps In (18 page)

“I
can tell my men they didn’t see her,” said Wayvern.

“Besides
that,” Simon went on, “she ought to have a guard.
Just in case. I’ve got to go to New
York this afternoon, and I
can’t
promise to be back tonight.”

Jetterick grimaced.

“If I had a man to spare,” he said, “I could divide him
into
six pieces and need all of
them.”

“I
can take care of that,” said Wayvern.

They
all looked at each other. They seemed to have reached the end of what they
could do.

“I’m driving in to New York,” Schindler offered. “I can
give
you a lift, Simon.”

It was still a
while before they got away.

They
talked the case to pieces all the way to the city, but the Saint was guilty of
keeping most of his conclusions to himself
and only contributing enough to sound natural and
stay with
the conversation. He had
had enough analysing and theorising
to last him for a long time. And now he was even more
restless to get his hands on the dossiers that should be on their way to meet
him. Somewhere in them, he hoped, there would be a key
to at least one of the puzzles that was twisting
through his
brain. In spite of his
friendship for Ray Schindler, he was glad
when the ride was over and he could feel alone and
unham
pered again for whatever
came next.

He
was at the Roosevelt at four-thirty, and he was down to
the last drop of a studiously nursed
Martini when a thin gray
man
say down at his table and laid a bulky envelope between them. Typed on the
envelope was “Mr. Sebastian Tombs.”

“From Hamilton,” said the thin gray man dolefully.

“God bless him,” said the Saint.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting?”

“No,
I was early.” Simon signaled a waiter. “Have a drink.”

“Thank
you, no. I have ulcers.”

“One
dry Martini,” said the Saint, and turned back to the
thin gray man. “Did Hamilton give
you a message too?”

“The party you asked about is staying at the Savoy Plaza to
night.”

“Good.”

“If
you’ll excuse me,” said the thin gray man sadly, “I must
go and keep some other
appointments.”

He got up and went grayly and wispily away, a perfect
nonentity, perfectly enveloped in
protective coloring, whom
nobody
would ever notice or remember—and perfect for his
place in a machine of infinite complexity.

Simon weighed the package in his hand and teased the flap
with his thumb while he tasted his
second cocktail, but he de
cided
against opening it there. At that hour, the place was
getting too busy and noisy, filling tip with business
men intent
on restoring themselves
from the day’s cares of commerce, and he wanted to concentrate single-mindedly
on his reading.

He
finished his drink more quickly than the last, but still
with self-tantalising restraint, and
put the envelope in his
pocket and went out. His thoughts were working towards a quiet hotel
room, a bottle of Peter Dawson, a bowl of ice, a
pack of cigarettes, and a period of uninterrupted
research.
That may have been why he
suddenly realised that he had been
staring quite blankly at an open green convertible that
swerved in to the curb towards him
with a blonde blue-eyed
goddess waving to him from behind the wheel.

He walked over to the car quite slowly, almost as though
he were uncertain of the recognition;
but he was absolutely certain, and it was as if the pit of his stomach dropped
down
below his belt and climbed
up again.

“Hullo,
Andrea,” he said.

2

After the first chaotic instant he knew that this was only a
coincidental encounter. No one except
Hamilton and the thin
gray
courier could have told that he would be there at that
moment—he had even let Schindler decant him at the
Ritz-
Carlton and walked over.
But out of such coincidence grew the
gambler’s excitement of adventure. And there was no doubt
any more that Andrea Quennel was adventure, no matter how
dangerous.

Even if the only way she looked dangerous was the kind of
way that had never given the Saint
pause before.

She wore a soft creamy sweater that clung like suds to every
curve of her upper sculpture, and her
lips were full and invit
ing.

“Hullo,”
she said. “Surprised?”

“A
little,” he admitted mildly.

“We
flew up this morning. Daddy had some business to at
tend to in New York, so I was going to Westport.”

“What are you running on—bathtub gasoline?”

She laughed without a conscience, and pointed to the “T”
sticker on the windshield.

“All our cars belong to Quenco now, and that’s a defense
industry
…
I was going to see if I could track you down
in Stamford.”

“That
was nice.”

She made a little
face.

“Now you’re stuck with me anyway. Get in, and you can
buy me a drink somewhere.”

He
got in, and she let in the clutch and crept up to the light
on Madison.

“Where would you like to take me?” she asked.

He
had gone that far. He had picked up the dice, and now
he might as well ride his own roll to the limit.

He said: “The Savoy Plaza.”

He
was watching her, but she didn’t react with even a flicker
of withdrawal. She made the right turn
on Madison, and sent the convertible breezing north, weaving adroitly and com
placently through the traffic, and
keeping up a
spillway of trivial chatter about some congressman who had
been trying
to date the hostess on the
plane. The Saint was in practice by
that time for interjecting the right agreeable noises. By
the
time they reached the
Savoy Plaza he was cool and relaxed
again, completely relaxed now, with a curious kind of
patience
that hadn’t any immediate
logical connection.

She
berthed the car skillfully, and they went down into the
cocktail lounge. He ordered drinks.
She pulled off her gloves,
giving the room the elaborately casual once-over of a woman
who is quite well aware that every man
in it has already taken
a second look at her.

She said:
“How are your prot
é
g
é
s?”

“Fine.”

“Did you leave Madeline in Stamford?”

As if he had only just said it, the recollection of what he
had told her in Washington scorched
across his mind; and he cursed himself without moving a muscle of his face.
That was
the one loophole which he
had overlooked. Yet when he had
created
it, there had been no reason for not telling Andrea
Quennel that he was taking Madeline back. It had
seemed like
ingenious tactics, even. A
good deal had happened since
then
…

He
said, as unhesitatingly as he had told the same lie before, but with less
comfort in it: “I parked her with a friend in New York. I decided
afterwards that too many accidents could happen on a lonely country
estate.”

“What
about the Professor?”

“He’s
also been moved and hidden,” said the Saint, most truthfully.

She
looked at him steadily, simply listening to him, and her
face was as unresponsive as a magazine cover. It was
impossible to tell who was learning what or who was fooling who.

Their
drinks came, and they toasted each other pleasantly.
But the Saint had a queer fascinated feeling of
lifting a sword
instead
of a glass, in the salute before a duel.

“You haven’t found out any more yet?” she asked.

“Not
much.”

“When am I going to do something for you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re
terribly talkative.”

He was conscious of his own curtness, and he said: “How
long are you going to be at
Westport?”

“Maybe
not very long. We’ve got a place at Pinehurst, North
Carolina, and Daddy wants to spend some time there as
soon
as he can get away. He
wants me to go down and see that it’s
all opened up ready.” She turned the stem of her
glass. “It’s a
lovely
place—I wish you could see it.”

“I
wish I could.”

“The
gardens are gorgeous, and there’s an enormous swimming pool that’s more like a
lake, and stables and horses. The
riding’s wonderful. Do you like to ride?”

“Very
much.”

“We could have a lot of fun if you came down with me. Just
the two of us.”

“Probably.”

Her
eyes were big and docile, asking you to write your own
meaning in them.

“Why couldn’t you?”

“I’ve
got a job to do,” he said.

“Is
it that important?”

“Yes.”

“I know it must be
…
But is it going on for
ever?”

“I
hope not.”

“Mightn’t it be over quite soon?”

“Yes,” he said. “It might be over quite soon.”

“Very soon?”

He nodded with an infinitesimal smile that was more in
scrutable than complete expressionlessness.

“Yes,” he said, “it might be very soon indeed.”

“Then
you must have been finding out things! Do you really know who all your villains
are—what it’s all about, and who’s
doing everything, and so on? I mean did you find your Axis
agents or whoever they are?”

He
lighted a cigarette and looked at her quite lazily.
“I’ve been rather slow up to now—I don’t know
what’s been the matter with me,” he confessed. “But I think I’m just
coming out of the fog. You have these dull spells in detecting. It
isn’t all done by inspiration and
rushing about, firing guns and
leaping through
windows. Sometimes a very plodding investi
gation
of people’s pasts, and present brings out much more
interesting things. I think mine are going to be
very interest
ing.”

Her gaze went over his face for a little while; and her mouth
looked soft in an absentminded way, or
perhaps it was always like that.

She
lighted a cigarette herself, and there was a silence that
might have held nothing at all.

“Daddy’s
coming up to Westport tonight,” she said.

“Oh, is he?” Every one of the Saint’s inflections and expres
sions was urbane and easy; only the
soaring away of his mind had left nothing but a shell of the forms and phrases.

“Why don’t you drive up with me and have dinner, and you
can meet him when he gets there? We can
find you a bed, too.”

“I’d
love to. But I’ve got my job.”

“Can’t she take care of herself at all?”

“Not
at the moment.”

“Are you—more than professionally interested?”

He caught the flash in her words, but he didn’t let it bring
a spark back from him.

“I’m
sorry,” he smiled. “I just couldn’t go to Westport to
night.”

She
said: “Daddy’s very interested in you. I broke down and
told him about our talk last night. He
thinks you’re a pretty
sensational
person, and he’s very anxious to meet you. He said
he wanted to tell you something that he thinks you
ought to
know.”

The
Saint was aware of a fleeting touch of impalpable fin
gers on his spine.

“What was it about?”

“He didn’t say. But he wanted me to be very sure and tell
you. And he doesn’t make much fuss
about anything unless it’s
important.”

“Then we’ll certainly have to get together on it.”

“What
about tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“If you find you can get away,” she said, “you’ve only
got to
call us. We don’t dine till
eight, and any time up till then …
Will you do that?”