The Saint Abroad: The Art Collectors/ the Persistent Patriots (20 page)

“May I see one?”

The Saint had no prurient interest nor any
great curiosity
about the intimate details of Thomas Liskard’s love life,
which were
undoubtedly very much like the intimate details
of everyone else’s
love life. But he had learned to be skeptical enough about guilty-conscience
reactions to want to make his
own impartial estimate of how much dynamite
there really
was in that white envelope.

Liskard hesitated, and then without saying
anything opened
the envelope and handed over one of the sheets of paper
which it
contained. Simon read it quickly and was satisfied
that the Prime
Minister had not exaggerated.

“I see what you mean,” he said
simply.

He handed it back.

“Pretty ridiculous, isn’t it?”
Liskard said uncomfortably.

“Pretty certain to ruin your political
career if it gets out,”
the Saint said. “That kind of thing may
go a long way
with the ladies, but it doesn’t go over very big with the
voting
public.”

“You may think this is just
high-sounding talk,” Liskard
responded with desperate earnestness,
“but now it isn’t my
own career in politics that I’m worried
about. If these ne
gotiations should fall through, it could lead to chaos
in my country.”

“I agree,” said the Saint.
“And there’s not much time. Let’s
see if Mary Bannerman
is in the phone book.”

5

Mary Bannerman’s Chelsea address said a good
deal for her
successful rise from secretary to model. The Saint drove
di
rectly to her
apartment building from Prime Minister Lis
kard’s
dinner party. Back in Hampstead the diplomatic set
was still going strong on a fuel mixture of
champagne and
hot air, but Simon had
decided to try to see Liskard’s
ex-girlfriend
that same night—and with a preliminary phone
call which could have helped her to evade his visit.

It was 10.30, and Chatterton Close—the half-block cul-de-
sac in which Mary Bannerman lived—was quiet at that
hour. Some very large, shiny, expensive cars and some very small, shiny,
expensive cars were parked along either side of
the street. The only sound was the click of the high heels
of a pair of fur-wrapped girls hurrying along the
sidewalk.
Simon went into the
three-storeyed white building marked
“109”
and climbed carpeted stairs to the second floor. Like
the halls of all very fine apartment buildings,
its halls were
silent and smelled of wax and lemon furniture polish,
without the slightest taint of pork fat or cabbage. Simon was pleased with
that. He had a distinct preference for evildoers (if Mary
Bannerman should indeed turn out to be an evildoer)
who
lived in sanitary surroundings.

The brass nameplate beside one of the doors read
BANNERMAN
. Simon was about to ring the bell when he
heard voices
filtering from the other side
of the door. Obviously, con
sidering
the quiet of the rest of the building, the dialogue
had to be taking place at an impressive level of
volume
for him to be able to hear it
at all. The first voice was a
woman’s.

“Get away from here, you filthy
swine!”

“Give them to me or I’ll wring your
selfish little neck!”

“Just try it!”

“I will!”

On the next line the woman’s voice rose to a
screech of operatic proportions.

“Put away that gun, you fool!”

Simon was a great believer in the time honored
equation
of homes—or even apartments—with medieval castles, and
concomitant
rights of privacy, but he was an even stronger
believer in the
rights of women not to be menaced with
weapons unless he was
satisfied that they deserved such
treatment. He turned the handle of the unlocked door and
threw it open, knowing that would be enough by
itself to stall
any murder which might
be about to take place.

The sudden opening of the door brought an
even louder
screech from the female voice than had the threat of the
gun, and
Simon found himself looking at a scene quite dif
ferent from what he
had expected.

The aggressive male was in a chair with a piece of paper
in his hands. He looked brawny enough to do plenty
of
damage even without a gun, but he
was much more startled than threatening. The woman was on her feet and had
thrown
herself back against the
nearest wall in fright. She was young, redheaded, and gorgeous. The evidence
that she was gorgeous
was especially
plentiful, since she was wearing a gauzy white
negligee that might have been woven of spider webs and
spun
sugar, but obviously wasn’t since it was standing up
under a considerable strain as its wearer twisted her body to
stare at the Saint.

“Madame Tussaud’s?” he inquired apologetically.

The young man who had been seated jumped to his feet.
He wore expensive trousers and a gray cashmere
turtle-neck
sweater.

“Who the hell are you?” he
demanded.

“Apparently somebody who’s in the
process of making an
ass of himself,” Simon admitted.
“Maybe I should go out
and come in again.”

“Maybe you should just go out,
period!” said the girl
inhospitably.

“Who is this?” the man asked her.

“How should I know?” she snapped.
“Do something—
don’t just stand there.”

Simon held his ground at the threshold and raised both
hands in an appeal for understanding.

“I was about to knock,” he
explained, “when I heard what
seemed to be very peculiar things
happening in here.” He
looked at the man. “Were you or were you
not about to shoot
this
beautiful young lady?”

The beautiful young lady burst out laughing.

“You heard us rehearsing?” she cried. “Oh, that’s
super,
isn’t it, Jeff?”

Jeff showed considerably less good humor than
the girl.

“Very funny,” he said without smiling. “And what
were
you doing listening at the door?”

Simon chose to ignore the provocative slant
of the ques
tion and spoke directly to the girl.

“I was about to knock,” he said
easily. “My assumptions
don’t seem to be in very good working order
this evening,
but I assume you are Mary Bannerman.”

“I am,” she said. “And I assume you are Sir Galahad
…
or at least Don Quixote.”

The Saint sidestepped the implied question.

“And I assume you two are rehearsing a
play.”

“Were”
said the man
pointedly. “You’d …”

Mary Bannerman interrupted, coming from the
opposite
wall to interpose herself between Simon and her original
guest.
She showed absolutely no self-consciousness over her
distractingly
revealing costume.

“Not a play,” she said. “A
television commercial
…
for
Sweetomints.”

“Sweetomints?” said the Saint, as
if doubtfully repeating an
improper word.

Mary Bannerman pouted her lips and looked
with melting
green eyes into a non-existent camera.

“Don’t try taking candy from
this
baby.
Buy your own
Sweetomints.”

“Never mind,” said the man called
Jeff.

But Mary Bannerman ignored him.

“Right after he pulls the gun, I grab
him and throw him
over my head, and the whole bit ends with my sucking a
Sweetomint.
Of course I don’t really throw him over my
head, but it looks
that way, and of course it’s not Jeff, it’s
some actor. Jeff’s the
director.”

“I see.”

“Well, I
don’t
see,” Jeff
said impatiently to the girl. “Why
are you standing
around jabbering to this character when he
won’t even tell you
who he is?”

“Because this is my apartment,”
she came back huffily.
“And——”

“And maybe her taste in men is
improving,” said the
Saint.

There was every sign of an imminent
explosion, but Mary
Bannerman stopped it.

“Wait a minute, Jeff.” She looked
at Simon seriously. “If
you did come to see me, you’d better tell me
who you are and
why
you’re here.”

“My name is Simon Templar,” he said,
“and my reason for coming to see you is confidential.”

He glanced meaningfully at the other man.

“Good heavens,” Mary Bannerman
said with a sophisti
cated lack of vehemence. “Simon
Templar… the Saint. Are
you kidding?”

Simon shook his head.

“Don’t you see the halo?” he asked.

“No, but now that you mention it, the
face is familiar.”

“Saint?” the director asked
blankly.

“You colonials,” Mary Bannerman
said to him. “You’re
really out of it. Haven’t you ever heard of
Simon Templar?”

“No.”

“Fair enough,” said the Saint.
“I’ve never heard of you,
either.”

“This is Jeff Peterson,” the girl
said.

There was no handshake, and Simon decided to
get down
to business.

“May I speak to you alone, Miss
Bannerman? It is im
portant.”

Mary Bannerman looked hesitantly at Peterson.

“Well, Jeff is…” she began,
but Peterson interrupted her.

“If you’re going to talk to him you
might as well get it over
with,” he said, glancing at his watch.
“I’ve got to get an early
start in the morning.”

“Fine,” said the Saint. “Good
night.”

He had taken as instant a dislike to Peterson as Peterson
had clearly taken to him, and he had very little
desire to hide
it. It was one of those
moods that seemed best given free
rein,
especially since Mary Bannerman appeared to be com
pletely enjoying the
conflict.

“I’ll see you, darling,” she said
to Peterson.

“Right,” snapped the other.
“Good night.”

She closed the door behind him and turned to
the Saint.

“Won’t you have a seat, Mr
Templar?” she asked. “Drink?”

“Neither, thank you,” he answered.
“I’ve come here a little
late for a social call—as pleasant as that
would be.”

He preferred to stay on his feet for more
reasons than one.
If Mary Bannerman was in on the blackmail plot against
Liskard,
Simon wanted to be as mobile as possible in case of a
sudden outbreak of
hostilities. Standing, he could also get a
more completely
panoramic view of the room and the ad
joining kitchen and sleeping
sections—the latter of which
consisted of an alcove separated from the
main room by half-
drawn
gold curtains. On a rumpled double bed sat a teddy
bear large enough to have frightened off a moderately muscled
lion. The rest of the furniture was new and
expensive. Most
of the walnut shelf
space was devoted to pop records, and the only reading matter seemed to be
magazines with pictures of
Mary
Bannerman on the covers.

“I must say my heart’s going pitapat,” she said,
perching
on the edge of a chair. “If
this isn’t a social call, what is it?”

“I’ve just come from Thomas
Liskard.”

Mary Bannerman’s face—which until then had
worn a
provocative smile that apparently was the big gun in her
public
relations arsenal—went blank for an instant, and then
hardened into a
scowl. She stood up abruptly.

“No friend of Tom Liskard’s is a friend
of mine.”

“We’re not friends, exactly,” Simon
said without the slight
est ripple in his own calm.

“He sent you here?”

Simon was deliberately holding back to see
if she would
betray anything.

“In a way,” he said noncommittally.