Now he could see that her smile was a little too fixed and imperturbable to be genuine.
“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 mustache.
“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 confidentially.
“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 became 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 followed. A moment later he found himself in an oak-paneled study—a lush but impersonal setting of leather chairs, a massive 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 satisfaction 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 happening. 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 blackmail. 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 Commission 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 to
ld 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. Suddenly, 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 business 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.”
“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 negotiations 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 directly to her apartment building from Prime Minister Liskard’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 without 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, considering 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 different 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 se
emed 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 question 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…”
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