The Saint Abroad: The Art Collectors/ the Persistent Patriots (21 page)

His cat-and-mouse game was having part of its
intended
effect, even if it was not producing any information.
Mary
Bannerman’s eyes were bright with impatient anger.

“Why?” she demanded sharply.

“I think you know.”

“I do
not
know! I haven’t even
seen that—that two-faced
rat for years. So come to the point, won’t
you? Just hearing his
name makes me want to fumigate the
place.”

Simon leaned casually back against one of the
shelves of
records.

“If you’re so anxious to forget him, why
did you keep his
letters?”

Her angry face showed nothing new but a trace
of puzzle
ment.

“How did you know anything about it in
the first place …
and in the second place, what business is it
of yours
or
his?”

Simon’s lips wore a faint and he was sure
very irritating
smile.

“I think the Prime Minister was bound to
develop a certain
interest
in his old correspondence with you when he got a
letter from somebody threatening to show the whole lot to his
wife and the newspapers.”

“That’s a lie, or a bluff, or something…”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, because I still have
the letters.”

Simon gave her a slightly apologetic look as
he answered:
“That doesn’t prove the threat was a lie or a bluff,
I’m afraid.”

She glared.

“I’ll prove it, then. He can have them
back—right now!
Just a second …”

She whirled and went to one of the wall
shelves and
slammed a whole stack of records on to the sofa. She
hesitated a
moment, and then snatched down another armful
of discs. A white
envelope—small and unlike the one Liskard
had received—fell to the floor, but there
was no sign of any
secret nest of
billets
doux.

Mary Bannerman turned to face the Saint with
an entirely
transformed
expression.

“They’re gone,” she said.

“That did seem likely,” Simon
replied impassively.

He was leaning down to pick up the small
envelope from
the floor. It was heavy with metal. The girl took it from
his
hand and tossed it back on the shelf.

“Those are the keys to my wardrobes,” she said. “Do
you
believe me, or should I—”

“What about the letters?” Simon
interrupted.

The girl was no longer defiant and outraged,
but stunned and frightened.

“I know you’ll never believe me,”
she said, “but I don’t
have the slightest idea where they are. I put
them down be
hind
those records months ago when I first moved into this
apartment. I remember seeing them there a few weeks back.”

“I suppose any number of people could
have taken them.”

“But who’d want to? No one knew about
them. I’ve never
even
discussed Tom with other people, even when I realized
that he didn’t love me and had just been using me. He’s
terribly selfish and ambitious, but I wouldn’t do
a thing
like blackmail him. After all,
I was … very fond of him.”

Simon felt a growing sense of frustration. No
amount of
conversation with Mary Bannerman at the moment seemed
likely to
get him much nearer the truth.

“No theories, then?” he persisted.

“Wait a minute! Yes. I had a robbery here
three weeks
ago. They stole some jewelry and furs and cash. It never
occurred to me that they might have taken the letters.”

“Maybe they were after the letters, and
the rest was a blind. Did the thieves get caught?”

“No.”

“And you don’t know of anybody who could
have wanted
to get the letters?”

“Not a soul.”

“That covers the field of suspects
pretty thoroughly. What
are you doing for dinner tomorrow night?”

She was startled into truth.

“I
…
nothing,” she said flatly.

“I’ll pick you up at eight. Think this
business over be
tween now and then. Maybe you’ll come up with some
ideas.
If not, we’ll at least have fun.”

He turned to the door. She watched him step
into the hall, and even though he would not have bet a tin cufflink
on her
honesty, he felt a little sorry for her. She looked sadly
distressed
and preoccupied, just as a woman might be ex
pected to look when a
tormenting part of her past was
brought suddenly to the surface of her
thoughts.

“Mr Templar
…
I
know I’m labelled a sinner … God
knows
what Tom has told you about me. But it doesn’t follow
that I am a pushover for Saints.”

Simon smiled.

“Message received. We’ll worry about
these theological
questions as they come up.”

6

The next morning the Saint reported his
progress—or lack of
it—to Liskard by telephone.

“Is it true about the robbery?”
Liskard asked when Simon
had finished. “Do you think the letters were really
stolen?”

“I’ll have to check on it. I’ll say one
thing: either your
friend is a first-rate actress or she’s in the clear.
But which it
is I wouldn’t care to guess yet.”

“What about this man with her?”
Liskard asked. “Who
was that?”

“His name was Jeff Peterson,” Simon
answered. “Does
that ring a bell?”

Liskard hesitated, then became suddenly excited.

“Yes. Very likely. Is he from
Nagawiland?”

“Mary Bannerman did refer to him as a
colonial.”
      

“Then he must be the one. He’s a sort of
black sheep of a
good family back there.”

“You know him?” Simon asked.

“No. But I know his father. I sacked him
from my cabinet
six
months ago.”

Simon seemed to feel horizons expanding around
him.

“That’s a fascinating bit of news, to
say the least. Why
did you toss him out?”

“I’m allergic to alcoholics.” His
voice became momentarily
acid. “I seem to attract them.”

“And Jeff Peterson seems to attract Mary
Bannerman.”

Liskard was silent for an abnormally long
time.

“How
…
is
she?” he asked.

“She seems well enough.”

“What is her attitude toward me?”

Simon, as much as he respected Liskard’s
political position,
felt no particular sympathy for his self-inflicted romantic
complications.

“I get the impression that she hates
your guts and would
gladly put a knife between your ribs if you came within
range.”

Liskard grunted.

“She’s not the only one,” he said
half-humorously. “I
think I’m the most popular man to hit England
since the
Luftwaffe.”

“That’s because you’re a political realist,” the Saint
told
him. “The world hates political
realists. Everybody loves a
liar if
they love his lies. So buck up; the same fringe adores
you, and you can always say you went down telling
the
truth.”

“An optimistic thought.”

“Well, you’re not going down,”
Simon said. “Not if I can
do anything about it. Time’s short, though. I’ll be in
touch.”

Not long after talking to the Prime
Minister, who that
afternoon would begin his negotiations with the British
government, Simon drove over to Chelsea and checked on
Mary Bannerman’s
theft story with the police there. Her tale
was confirmed. The
robbery had taken place one night about
three weeks before,
and several thousand pounds’ worth of
female frippery—mostly heavy metals
and animal pelts—had
been carted off to parts unknown. Not
surprisingly, the police
had made no progress toward apprehending the
thieves.

The Saint had affairs of his own to attend to
during the
rest of the day which have nothing to do with this story.
He
got back to Upper Berkeley Mews at about four, as the cold
winter
evening already was descending on wet misty streets.
With fond
recollections of the sunny expanses of Africa, he
settled down at a
desk overlooking the mews to catch up on
some bills which had
accumulated while he was away.

Not long afterward he noticed, there below,
plowing slowly
along through the murk, a small gaily decorated van with
pictures
of ice cream cones and the words
Mister Snowball
inscribed
on its side panels. Odd as it was, Simon devoted very little thought to that
specimen of unseasonal traffic on
his almost untraveled backwater until
it passed again a
quarter
of an hour later going in the opposite direction. By
the time it had come back again, and again, and then once
more while he was dressing for dinner, he had
developed a fairly complete theory as to its origin and contents. Its orbit
was so regular that he decided to intercept it on
its next
passage.

He was about to step out his front door when
his telephone
rang.
The Mister Snowball van crept by right on schedule,
but Simon was forced to watch it from a window.

“Mr Templar,” a man’s muffled
voice said through the
earpiece of the phone. “I understand that
Mr Liskard is
anxious
to recover certain letters.”

“And where did you pick up that
idea?” Simon asked
coolly.

The caller was momentarily stymied.

“He’ll need those letters if he doesn’t want to be in very
bad trouble. Go to Belfort Close. Park your car
at the circle
at the end. There is a
gate into a small churchyard. You’ll
be
met there.”

“Sounds delightful,” said the
Saint. “Who brings the May
pole?”

“If Liskard wants the letters, you’d
better be there …
in an hour.”

“Wouldn’t it be simpler if you just
dropped them by his
headquarters? He might give you a reward.”

“We’ll discuss rewards when we see
you.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me to whom I
have the
pleasure of speaking?”

“Be at Belfort Close in an hour.”

If a click can be dramatic, the click at the
other end of
the
line had a certain well-timed theatrical abruptness to it.

Simon hung up and went to a mirror and
straightened his
tie as he thought over the situation.

The amateurishness of his opponents was laughable. But
it was also dangerous. The Saint was one of the
most adapt
able of men, but he was
accustomed to fighting a sword with
a
sword, or a pistol with a pistol. The present opposition was
placing him in the position of a fencer with a
rapier en
countering a wild-eyed
peasant flailing the air with a pitchfork. He had to adjust his tactics to the
non-professional
mentality, which
meant, among other things, adjusting to an
enemy who was going to be stupidly logical as long as he thought things
were going his way, but stupidly and unpredictably
erratic as soon as he got confused.

It was also true that the opposition, however
obvious they
were about laying an ambush, were devilishly subtle about
their motives. There still seemed to be no point at all to the
whole
affair except a desire to torment Thomas Liskard
with worry. Even now,
in the telephone call, there had been
no demand for money. Most blackmailers preferred to get
their loot as rapidly as possible and clear out
before they could be trapped.

The Saint glanced at his watch. It was a
quarter to seven.
In a few minutes Mister Snowball would be cruising by
again.
Simon put on his raincoat, and slipped a small flash
light into his
pocket. He stepped out on to the street just in
time to see the ice cream
van turn the corner, heading toward him. Then, as he appeared on the sidewalk
it stopped several
doors away and turned off its lights. If he had not been
watching
for it he might never have noticed it. The sky was totally dark now, and the
street lamps were muted by a light
fog.