The Saint Abroad: The Art Collectors/ the Persistent Patriots (19 page)

“It was quite an adventure,” she
said. “You came down to Africa to see the wild animals, but I was quite
surprised to discover that you have more right here than we ever dreamed
of
having.”

“Not more,” Simon said. “Just
more in evidence.”

He moved on to Thomas Liskard, who had just
been
vacated by a very large gentlemen with a white walrus mus
tache.

“Very happy to see you,” he said,
shaking Simon’s hand
warmly.

His smile was much more spontaneous and
convincing than
his wife’s had been, but there was a strain in his eyes
which
betrayed his worry.

“I hope things are going well for
you,” the Saint said.

“Well enough. We don’t really get down
to business until
tomorrow.”

Liskard was obviously preoccupied with his
duties as host
and greeter, so Simon started to move away after a few
more
words. He was surprised when Liskard stopped him with a
touch on
his arm and leaned forward to speak to him con
fidentially.

“I must talk to you alone,” he said.
“Please don’t leave
after dinner before we can get
together.”

“Certainly.”

The Saint felt that peculiar thrill which
often ran through
his
nerves when he sensed that he was on to something out
of the ordinary. Maybe he would have a chance to give Prime
Minister Liskard more than moral support after
all. The
social chitchat and the
prolonged not very good dinner be
came
no more than a journey he had to endure until he could
speak with Liskard in private.

At last the thirty guests had been
sufficiently regaled with
toasts, filets, and crisp conversation to
warrant their exodus from the dining room back to the reception room for after-
dinner
drinks. It was at that point that Liskard caught Simon’s eye and moved toward
a hallway in the opposite
direction from the movement of the crowd.
The Saint fol
lowed. A moment later he found himself in an oak-paneled
study—a lush but impersonal setting of leather chairs, a mas
sive desk
and heavy tables, shelves of books arranged in
untouched
perfection, and several paintings of Nagawiland’s
countryside and industrial plants.

Liskard locked the door behind Simon and
thanked him
for coming. The public smile had vanished from his face,
which looked much older than it had the day before. He
said
nothing as he poured brandy from a decanter into a
pair of snifters. The
Saint took the wing-backed chair which the Prime Minister indicated. He warmed
the brandy in its crystal sphere with his hands as he waited. Liskard unlocked
a drawer
of the desk with a key taken from his pocket and
drew out a fat white
envelope.

The Saint inhaled the scent of the cognac
deeply and
released his breath with profound satisfaction. It was a
satis
faction produced by more than the aroma of Delamain. It
was a
combination of contained excitement and pleasure at
the knowledge that his
destiny was running on schedule.
The white envelope was going to confirm his
earlier thoughts
about the calumnies which would be directed at Liskard.
The lions
would stay frozen on their pedestals in Trafalgar
Square.

“This came in the mail today,”
Liskard said.

He did not offer the envelope to Simon, but
slapped it
down on top of the desk with the air of a man dealing
a possible
fourth ace to a gambling opponent. Simon nodded
and let some brandy
touch his tongue. Liskard clasped his
hands behind his back and paced to the
outer wall. He
drew back one of the heavy drawn curtains slightly and
looked out
toward the front gate. The chants of the mob
there came faintly
into the room and faded again as he let
the curtain fall back
into place.

“Those are photostats of letters I wrote
to a woman—a
girl—here three years ago. Whoever sent them says he’ll
show
them to my wife and to the press in two days from now.”

Simon put down his glass.

“That’s clear enough and to the point.
What’s the price?”

Liskard paced back to the desk and sat down
heavily in
the swivel chair behind it.

“That’s the most peculiar part. There’s
no mention of
money specifically. Look.”

Liskard leaned forward and opened the white
envelope.
He handed the Saint a small square of note paper whose
typed
message Simon studied carefully.

“Liskard:

You
have 48 hours to think about these literary efforts
of yours. Then I shall turn half of the originals over
to your wife and half over to the newspapers …
the
ones which go in for big black
headlines. You may be
wondering what you can do to stop this from happen
ing. Keep wondering.”

Simon put the paper back on the desk.

“That’s a peculiar form of blackmail.
It’s very possible
you’ll hear more from this character before the time is
up.
Could he have some special interest in wanting you to
squirm?”

“A lot of people would like to see me
squirm in a vat
of hot oil or worse.”

Liskard seemed to be holding something back.
Rather than question the Prime Minister directly, however, Simon first
mentioned another angle.

“If this is being done by political
enemies—which are the
most likely sort of enemies for a man in your
position to
have, I should think—then why didn’t they just turn the letters
over to the press right away without warning you?
Or if they want some
political concession out of you, like
quitting the conference here, why
didn’t they hit you with
that demand when they hit you with these
photostats? It
seems stupid to give you a chance to prepare some kind of
counterattack.”

“It does,” agreed Liskard.

Again, he seemed reluctant to say what was on his mind,
so Simon continued with the obvious conclusion.

“Whatever the ultimate point of this
turns out to be, it
seems right now that the motive is to make you suffer.
That hints
at a personal vendetta, and it may mean that
whoever sent these to
you has no real intention of showing
them to anybody else. He just wants to
give you a couple
of sleepless nights.”

“I’d like to think it was that
easy,” Liskard said.

He had slumped his big body far down in his
chair and was
staring at the oriental carpet with brooding eyes.

“I assume you didn’t ask me in here just
so you could
share the glad tidings with me,” the Saint said.

Liskard looked up at him.

“No. Of course not. I’m being
presumptuous enough to ask
for your help. By reputation, you
particularly dislike black
mail. It’s the sort of thing you may be
willing to fight against
—and I’m willing to pay you enough to make
it quite worth
your while.”

“So far so good,” said the Saint.
“But I can’t be much
help if you don’t let me know your own
theories. Do you have
any idea who might be doing this to
you?”

Liskard sighed.

“Not really, but obviously my first
thought is the girl I wrote them to. And naturally I’m not anxious to accuse
somebody I
…
once thought so much of.”

“If you want me to help, we can’t be
too delicate. What’s
her name and what’s the whole story about
her?”

“Her name is Mary Bannerman,”
Liskard replied after a
moment’s pause. “I met her here in London
when I was
up with the High Commission for several months. As I
said,
that was three years ago. She was a secretary trying to
break
into modeling. We had an affair that went on during
most of the time I was
here.”

“Was your wife in London?”

“No. She stayed at home.”

Simon took up his brandy glass again and got to his feet
for a stroll around the room.

“And you wrote the letters while you
were here? The Com
mission traveled all around Britain, as I recall.”

“Right. She was in London, and during
those times I was
away I wrote the letters … except for a few I sent
her
in England after the Commission went back to Nagawiland.”

“Absence didn’t make the heart grow
fonder, I gather.”

Liskard shook his head.

“It wasn’t that.”

“Was it just a physical thing that didn’t
affect either of
you very deeply?”

“I’m afraid it wasn’t that either. I
told her I loved her
…
as she told me. I told
her I’d leave my wife and marry
her
…”

“You told her all this in
writing?” Simon asked, indicating
the envelope.

Liskard looked sheepishly miserable.

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t really mean it?”

“I meant it at the time. That’s what makes me feel guilty. I
had every intention of doing just as I’d said, and then …”

“Then what?” Simon asked when the
rest of the statement
failed to materialize.

Liskard looked up with a gesture of
self-disgust.

“Templar, there are some things a man is
almost too
ashamed of to talk about. I went back to Nagawiland. Sud
denly, I
was in line for Prime Minister. A divorce would
have ruined my
chances, especially since my wife’s family
is very big in our
politics down there. So
…
I didn’t leave
Anne. I
dropped Mary. And I became Prime Minister.”

“How did Mary Bannerman take that?”
Simon asked.

“Badly, but you can’t blame her,
especially since she was
very young.”

“How young?”

“Twenty-three then.”

“And married by now?”

“I honestly don’t know anything about
her, except that
she
did become a model. I’ve seen her picture in magazine advertisements.”

Simon studied the expression on Liskard’s
rugged face.

“Apparently you still have some feeling
for her, if you
don’t mind my saying so. If she is behind this, you’re
going
to have to think of her as an enemy, and not as a poor
seduced
child you feel terribly guilty about.”

Liskard’s eyes flashed with momentary anger.
Then reason
took the upper hand again and he spoke with controlled
emotion.

“I’d rather you hadn’t said that, but… you do have a
point. Of course my reason for not telling the police—or
anybody
else except you—about this isn’t just because of the
danger of the news
leaking out. It’s also because I feel Mary’s
partially justified
in doing this, if she is doing it, and I don’t
want to hurt her. I’m
hoping that you can—if you will-
find out what she wants and somehow stop this
whole busi
ness before anybody gets hurt.”

“That’s a little like telling me to go out and stop a
charging
rhino tenderly. If she’s really out
for revenge, what exactly
do
you expect me to do?”

“I’m sure you’re better at things like
that than I am,”
Liskard replied. “But my first thought of
course is that we
should find out what we can about Mary and what she’s
done with
my letters … You might think of a way to get them back.”

Simon compressed his lips thoughtfully.

“Are they really very
compromising?”

“Compromising?” Liskard echoed. For
the first time since they had entered the room his usual sense of humor showed
signs of
breaking through his gloom. “They’re lurid. They make Casanova sound like
a Salvation Army sergeant.”