The Saint had had his piratical eye on her for a long time, and now, with the apt arrival of that last invitation at a period when he had no other more pressing business on his hands, it seemed as if the discounting of the charitable Countess was a pious duty which could no longer be postponed.
He called on her the same afternoon at her apartment, for when once the Saint had made up his mind to a foray the job was as good as done. A morning’s meditation had been enough for him to sketch out a plan of campaign, and after that he saw no good reason to put it aside while it grew whiskers.
But what the plan was is of no importance, for he never used it. He had sent in a card bearing his venerable alias of Sebastian Tombs, but when the Countess sailed into the luxuriously modernistic drawing-room in which the butler had parked him, she came towards him with outstretched hand and a grim smile that promised surprises a split second before she spoke.
“Mr Templar?” she said coolly. “I’m sorry I had to keep you waiting.”
It would be unfair to say that the Saint was disconcerted—in a buccaneer’s life nothing could be foreseen, and you had to be schooled to the unexpected. But a perceptible instant went by before he answered.
“Why, hullo, Maggie,” he murmured. “I was going to break it to you gently.”
“A man with your imagination should have been able to do better. After all, Mr Sebastian Tombs is getting to be almost as well known as the great Simon Templar—isn’t he?”
The Saint nodded, admitting his lapse, and making a mental note that the time had come to tear himself finally away from the alter ego to which he had clung with perverse devotion for too many years.
“You keep pretty well up to date,” he remarked.
“Why not?” she returned frankly. “I’ve had an idea for some time that I’d be getting a visit from you one day.”
“Would that be the voice of conscience?”
“Just common sense. Even you can’t have a monopoly on thinking ahead.”
Simon studied her interestedly. The vats of champagne which had sparkled down her gullet in aid of one charity or another over the past six years had left their own thin dry tang in her voice, but few of her other indulgences had left their mark. The cargoes of caviar, the schools of smoked salmon, the track-loads of foie gras, the coveys of quail, the beds of oysters, and the regiments of lobsters which had marched in eleemosynary procession through her intestines, had resolved themselves into very little solid flesh. Unlike most of her kind, she had not grown coarse and flabby: she had aged with a lean and arid dignity. At fifty, Maggie Oaks, late of Bermondsey and the Follies, really looked like a countess, even if it was a rather tart and desiccated countess. She looked like one of those brittle fish-blooded aristocrats who stand firm for kindness to animals and discipline for the lower classes. She had hard bright eyes and hard lines cracked into the heavy layers of powder and enamel on her face, and she was a hard bad woman in spite of her successful sophistication.
“At least that saves a lot of explanations,” said the Saint, and she returned his gaze with her coldly quizzical stare.
“I take it that I was right—that you’ve picked me for your next victim.”
“Let’s call it ‘contributor,’” suggested the Saint mildly.
She shrugged.
“In plain language, I’m either to give you, or have stolen from me, whatever sum of money you think fit to assess as a fine for what you would call my misdeeds.”
“Madam, you have a wonderful gift of coming to the point.”
“This money will be supposedly collected for charity,” she went on, “but you will take your commission for collecting it before you pass it on.”
“That was the general idea, Maggie.”
She lighted a cigarette.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be allowed to ask why it’s a crime for me to make a living in exactly the same way as you do?”
“There is a difference. I don’t set myself up too seriously as a public benefactor. As a matter of fact, most people would tell you that I was a crook. If you want that point of view, ask a policeman.”
Her thin lips puckered with watchful mockery.
“That seems to make me smarter than you are, Mr Templar. The policeman would arrest you, but he’d tip his hat to me.”
“That’s possible,” Simon admitted imperturbably. “But there are other differences.”
“Meaning what?”
“Mathematical ones. A matter of simple economy. When I collect money, unless I’m trying to put things right for someone else who’s been taken for a mug, between seventy-five and ninety per cent, of it really does go to charity. Now suppose you collect a thousand pounds in ticket sales for one of your parties. Two hundred and fifty quid go straight into your pocket—you work on the gross. Other organising expenses take up at least a hundred pounds more. Advertising, prizes, decorations, publicity, and what not probably cost another ten per cent. Then there’s the orchestra, hire of rooms and waiters, and the cost of a lot of fancy food that’s much too good for the people who eat it—let’s say four hundred pounds. And the caterers give you a fifty-pound cut on that. The net result is that you take in three hundred pounds and a nice big dinner, and the good cause gets maybe a hundred and fifty. In other words, every time one of your suckers buys one of your five-guinea tickets, to help to save fallen women or something like that, he gives you twice as much as he gives the fallen women, which might not be exactly what he had in mind. So I don’t think we really are in the same class.”
“You don’t mean that I’m in a better class?” she protested sarcastically.
The Saint shook his head.
“Oh, no,” he said. “Not for a moment…But I do think that some of these differences ought to be adjusted.”
Her mouth was as tight as a trap.
“And how will that be done?”
“I thought it’d be an interesting change if you practised a little charity yourself. Suppose we set a donation of ten thousand pounds—”
“Do you really think I’d give you ten thousand pounds?”
“Why not?” asked the Saint reasonably. “Other people have. And the publicity alone would be almost worth it. Ask your press agent. Besides, it needn’t really even cost you anything. That famous diamond necklace of yours, for instance—even in the limited markets I could take it to, it’d fetch ten thousand quid easily. And if you bought yourself a good imitation hardly anyone would know the difference.”
For a moment her mouth stayed open at the implication of what he was saying, and then she burst into a deep cackle of laughter.
“You almost scared me,” she said. “But people have tried to bluff me before. Still, it was nice of you to give me the warning.” She stood up. “Mr Templar, I’m not going to threaten you with the police, because I know that would only make you laugh. Besides, I think I can look after myself. I’m not going to give you ten thousand pounds, of course, and I’m not going to let you steal my necklace. If you can get either, you’ll be a clever man. Will you come and see me again when you’ve hatched a plot?”
The Saint stood up also, and smoothed the clothes over his sinewy seventy-four inches. His lazy blue eyes twinkled.
“That sounds almost like a challenge.”
“You can take it as one if you like.”
“I happen to know that your necklace isn’t insured—no company in the country will ever carry you for a big risk since that fraudulent claim that got you a suspended sentence when you were in the Follies. Insurance company black lists don’t fade.”
Her thin smile broadened.
“I got two thousand pounds, just the same, and that’s more than covered any losses I’ve had since,” she said calmly. “No, Mr Templar, I’m not worried about insurance. If you can get what you’re after I’ll be the first to congratulate you.”
Simon’s brows slanted at her with an impudent humour that would have given her fair warning if she had been less confident. He had complete
ly recovered from the smithereening of his first ingenious plans, and already his swift imagination was playing with a new and better scheme.
“Is that a bet?” he said temptingly.
“Do you expect me to put it in writing?”
He smiled back at her.
“I’ll take your word for it…We must tell the newspapers.”
He left her to puzzle a little over that last remark but by the time she went to bed she had forgotten it. Consequently she had a second spell of puzzlement a couple of mornings later when she listened to the twittering voice of one of her society acquaintances on the telephone.
“My dear, how too original! Quite the cleverest thing I ever heard of…! Oh, now you’re just playing innocent! Of course it’s in all the papers! And on the front page, too…! How did you manage it? My dear, I’m madly jealous! The Saint could steal anything I’ve got, and I mean anything! He must be the most fascinating man—isn’t he?”
“He is, darling, and I’ll tell him about your offer,” said the Countess instinctively.
She hung up the microphone and said, “Silly old cow!”
There had been another ball the night before, in aid of a seamen’s mission or a dogs’ hospital or something, and she had had to deal with the usual charitable ration of champagne and brandy: at that hour of the morning after, her reactions were not as sharp as they became later in the day. Nevertheless, a recollection of the Saint’s parting words seeped back into her mind with a slight shock. She took three aspirins in a glass of whisky and rang for some newspapers.
She didn’t even have to open the first one. The item pricked her in the eyes just as the sheet was folded:
SAINT WILL ROB COUNTESS FOR CHARITY
“IT’S A BET,” SAYS SOCIETY HOSTESS
LONDON, October 12—Simon Templar, better known as ‘The Saint,’ famous twentieth-century Robin Hood, added yesterday to his long list of audacities by announcing that he had promised to steal for charity the £20,000 necklace of Countess Jannowicz, the well-known Society leader.
But for once the police have not been asked to prevent the intended crime. Templar called on the Countess personally last Tuesday to discuss his scheme, and was told that she would be the first to congratulate him if he could get away with it.
The twist in the plot is that Countess Jannowicz is herself an indefatigable worker for charity, and the organiser of countless social functions through which thousands of pounds are annually collected for various hospitals and humane societies.
Those who remember the Countess’s many triumphs in roping in celebrities as a bait for her charities believe that she has surpassed herself with her latest ‘catch.’ It was whispered that the sensational stunt launching of some new
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The Countess read it all through, and then she put her head back on the pillows and thought about it some more, and began to shake with laughter. The vibration made her feel as if the top of her head was coming off, but she couldn’t stop it. She was still quivering among her curlers when the telephone exploded again.
“It’s someone from Scotland Yard,” reported her maid. “Inspector Teal.”
“What the hell does he want?” demanded the Countess.
She took over the instrument.
“Yes?” she squawked.
“This is Inspector Teal speaking,” clacked the diaphragm. “I suppose you’ve seen that story about the Saint and yourself in the papers?”
“Oh, yes,” said the Countess sweetly. “I was just reading it. Isn’t it simply delightful?”
“That isn’t for me to say,” answered the detective in a laboured voice. “But if this is a serious threat we shall have to take steps to protect your property.”
“Take steps—Oh, but I don’t want to make it too easy for him. He always seems to get away with everything when the police are looking out for him.”
There was a strangled pause at the other end of the wire. Then:
“You mean that this really is only a publicity stunt?”
“Now, now,” said the Countess coyly. “That would be telling, wouldn’t it? Goodbye, Inspector.”
She handed the telephone back to her maid.
“If that damn flatfoot calls again, tell him I’m out,” she said. “Get me some more aspirin and turn on my bath.”
It was typical of her that she dismissed Teal’s offer without a moment’s uneasiness. After she had bathed and swallowed some coffee, however, she did summon the sallow and perspiring Mr Ullbaum who lived a feverish life as her press agent and vaguely general manager.
“There’ll be some reporters calling for interviews,” she said. “Some of ’em have been on the phone already. Tell ’em anything that comes into your head, but keep it funny.”
Mr Ullbaum spluttered, which was a habit of his when agitated, which was most of the time.
“But what’s so funny if he does steal the necklace?”
“He isn’t going to get the necklace—I’ll take care of that. But I hope he tries. Everybody he’s threatened to rob before has gone into hysterics before he’s moved a finger, and they’ve been licked before he starts. I’m going to lick him and make him look as big as a flea at the same time—and all without even getting out of breath. We’ll treat it as a joke now, and after he’s made a fool of himself and it really is a joke, it’ll be ten times funnier. For God’s sake go away and use your own brain. That’s what I pay you for. I’ve got a headache.”
She was her regal self again by cocktail time, when the Saint saw her across the room at the May Fair with a party of friends, immaculately groomed from the top of her tight-waved head to the toes of her tight-fitting shoes, and looking as if she had just stepped out of an advertisement for guillotines. He sauntered over in answer to her imperiously beckoning forefinger.
“I see your press agent didn’t waste any time, Mr Templar.”
“I don’t know,” said the Saint innocently. “Are you sure you didn’t drop a hint to your own publicity man?”
She shook her head.
“Mr Ullbaum was quite upset when he heard about it.”
The Saint smiled. He knew the permanently flustered Mr Ullbaum.
“Then it must have been my bloke,” he murmured. “How did you like the story?”
“I thought it was rather misleading in places, but Mr Ullbaum is going to put that right…Still, the police are quite interested. I had a phone call from a detective this morning before I was really awake.”
A faint unholy glimmer crossed the Saint’s eyes.
“Would that be Inspector Teal, by any chance?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him to leave me alone.”
Simon seemed infinitesimally disappointed, but he grinned.
“I was wondering why he hadn’t come paddling around to see me and add some more fun to the proceedings. I’m afraid I’m going to miss him. But it’s nice to play with someone like you who knows the rules.”
“I know the rules, Mr Templar,” she said thinly. “And the first rule is to win. Before you’re finished you’re going to wish you hadn’t boasted so loudly.”
“You’re not worried?”
She moved one jewel-encrusted hand indicatively.
“Did you notice those two men at that table in the comer?”
“Yes—have they been following you? I’ll call a cop and have them picked up if you like—”
“Don’t bother. Those are my bodyguard. They’re armed, and they have orders to shoot at the drop of a hat. Are you sure you aren’t worried?”
He laughed.
“I never drop my hat.” He buttoned his coat languidly, and the impudent scapegrace humour danced in his eyes like sunlight on blue water. “Well…I’ve got to go on with my conspiring, and I’m keeping you from your friends…”
There was a chorus of protest from the other women at the table, who had been craning forward with their mouths open, breathl
essly eating up every word.
“Oh, no—”
“Countess, you must introduce us—”
“I’ve been dying to meet him—”
The Countess’s lips curled.
“Of course, my dears,” she said, with the sugariness of arsenic. “How rude of me!” She performed the introductions, “Lady Instock was telling me only this morning that you could steal anything from her,” she added spikily.
“Anything,” confirmed Lady Instock, gazing at the Saint rapturously out of her pale protruding eyes.
Simon looked at her thoughtfully.
“I won’t forget it,” he said.
As he returned to his own table he heard her saying to a unanimous audience: “Isn’t he the most thrilling—”
Countess Jannowicz watched his departure intently, ignoring the feminine palpitations around her. She had a sardonic sense of humour, combined with a scarcely suppressed contempt for the climbing sycophants who crawled around her, that made the temptation to elaborate the joke too attractive to resist. Several times during the following week she was impelled to engineer opportunities to refer to “that Saint person who’s trying to steal my necklace;” twice again, when their paths crossed in fashionable restaurants, she called him to her table for the express pleasure of twitting him about his boast. To demonstrate her contempt for his reputation by teasing him on such friendly terms, and at the same time to enjoy the awed reactions of her friends, flattered something exhibitionistic in her that gave more satisfaction than any other fun she had had for years. It was like having a man-eating tiger for a pet and tweaking its ears.
The Happy Highwayman (The Saint Series) Page 15