Match in hand, Simon regarded him.
Norman Kent was the most darkly attractive of the Saints; Archie Sheridan had been the most delightfully irresponsible; Roger Conway was the most good-looking; but Dicky—
Dicky Tremayne was dark and handsome in the clean keen-faced way which is the despairing envy of the Latin, and with it Dicky’s elegance had a Continental polish and his eye a wicked Continental gleam. Dicky was what romantic maidens call a sheik—and yet he was unspoiled. Also he had a courage and a cheerfulness which never failed him. The Saint had a very real affection for Dicky.
“Who is it this time, son?” he asked.
Tremayne walked to the window and stared out.
“Her house in Park Lane was taken in the name of the Countess Anusia Marova,” he said. “So was the yacht she’s chartered for the season. But she was born in Boston, Mass., twenty-three years ago, and her parents called her Audrey Perowne. She’s had a lot of names since then, but the Amsterdam police knew her best as ‘Straight’ Audrey. You know who I mean.”
“And you—”
“You know what I’ve done. I spent all my time in Paris working in with Hilloran, who was her right-hand man in the States, because we were sure they’d get together sooner or later, and then we’d make one killing of the pair. And they are together again, and I’m in London as a fully accredited member of the gang. Everything’s ready. And now I want to know why we ever bothered.”
Simon shrugged.
“Hilloran’s name is bad enough, and she’s made more money—”
“Why do they call her ‘Straight’ Audrey?”
“Because she’s never touched or dealt in dope, which is considered eccentric in a woman crook. And because it’s said to be unhealthy to get fresh with her. Apart from that, she’s dabbled in pretty well everything—”
Dicky nodded helplessly.
“I know, old man,” he said. “I know it all. You’re going to say that she and Hilloran, to us, were just a pair of crooks who’d made so much out of the game that we decided to make them contribute. We’d never met her. And it isn’t as if she were a man—”
“And yet,” said the Saint, “I remember a woman whom you wanted to kill. And I expect you’d have done it, if she hadn’t died of her own accord.”
“She was a—”
“Quite. But you’d’ve treated her exactly the same as you’d’ve treated a man engaged in the same traffic.”
“There’s nothing like that about Audrey Perowne.”
“You’re trying to argue that she’s really hardly more of a crook than we are. Her crime record’s pretty clean, and the men she’s robbed could afford to lose.”
“Isn’t that so?”
Simon studied his cigarette-end.
“Once upon a time,” he observed, “there was a rich man named John L. Morganheim. He died at Palm Beach—mysteriously. And Audrey Perowne was—er—keeping him company. You understand? It had to be hushed up, of course. His family couldn’t have a scandal. Still—”
Tremayne went pale.
“We don’t know the whole of that story,” he said.
“We don’t,” admitted the Saint. “We only know certain facts. And they mayn’t be such thundering good facts, anyhow. But they’re there—till we know something better.”
He got to his feet, and laid a hand on Dicky’s shoulder.
“Let’s have some straight talk, Dicky,” he suggested. “You’re beginning to feel you can’t go through with the job. Am I right?”
Tremayne spread out his hands.
“That’s about the strength of it. We’ve got to be sure—”
“Let’s be sure, then,” agreed the Saint. “But meanwhile, what’s the harm in carrying on? You can’t object to the thrashing of Farrast. You can’t feel cut up about the shopping of Handers. And you can’t mind what sort of a rise we take out of Hilloran. What we do about the girl can be decided later—when we’re sure. Till then, where’s the point in chucking in your hand?”
Tremayne looked at him.
“There’s sense in that.”
“Of course there’s sense in it!” cried the Saint. “There’s more in the gang than one girl. We want the rest. We want them like I want the mug of beer you’re going to fetch me in a minute. Why shouldn’t we have ’em?”
Dicky nodded slowly.
“I knew you’d say that. But I felt you ought to know.…”
Simon clapped him on the back.
“You’re a great lad,” he said. “And now, what about that beer?”
Beer was brought, and tasted with a fitting reverence. The discussion was closed.
With the Saint, momentous things could be brought up, argued, and dismissed like that. With Roger Conway, perhaps, the argument would have been pursued all night—but that was only because Roger and the Saint loved arguing. Dicky was reserved. Rarely did he throw off his reserve and talk long and seriously. The Saint understood, and respected his reticence. Dicky understood also. By passing on so light-heartedly to a cry for beer, the Saint did not lose one iota of the effect of sympathy; rather, he showed that his sympathy was complete.
Dicky could have asked for nothing more, and when he put down his tankard and helped himself to a cigarette, the discussion might never have raised its head between them.
“To resume,” he said, “we leave on the twenty-ninth.”
Simon glanced at the calendar on the wall.
“Three days,” he murmured. “And the cargo of billionaires?”
“Complete.” Dicky grinned. “Saint, you’ve got to hand it to that girl. Seven of ’em—with their wives. Of course, she’s spent a year dry-nursing them. Sir Esdras Levy—George Y. Ulrig—Matthew Sankin—”
He named four others whose names could be conjured with in the world of high finance.
“It’s a peach of an idea.”
“I can’t think of anything like it,” said the Saint. “Seven bloated perambulating gold mines with diamond studs, and their wives loaded up with enough jewellery to sink a battleship. She gets them off on the rolling wave—knowing they’ll have all their sparklers ready to make a show at the ports they touch—on a motor yacht manned by her own crew—”
“Chief Steward, J. Hilloran—”
“And the first thing the world’ll know of it will be when the cargo is found marooned on the Barbary coast, and the Corsican Maid has sailed off into the blue with the which-nots…Oh, boy! As a philosophic student, I call that the elephant’s tonsils.”
Dicky nodded.
“The day after tomorrow,” he said, “we leave by special train to join the yacht at Marseilles. You’ve got to say that girl does her jobs in style.”
“How do you go?”
“As her secretary. But—how do you go?”
“I haven’t quite made up my mind yet. Roger’s taking a holiday—I guess he deserves it. Norman and Pat are still cruising the Mediterranean. I’ll handle this one from the outside alone. I leave the inside to you—and that’s the most important part.”
“I mayn’t be able to see you again before we leave.”
Then you’ll have to take a chance. But I think I shall also be somewhere on the ocean. If you have to communicate, signal in Morse out of a porthole, with an electric torch, either at midnight or four in the morning. I’ll be on the look-out at those times. If.…”
They talked for two hours before Tremayne rose to go. He did so at last.
“It’s the first real job I’ve had,” he said. “I’d like to make it a good one. Wish me luck, Saint!”
Simon held out his hand.
“Sure—you’ll pull it off, Dicky. All the best, son. And about that girl—”
“Yes, about that girl,” said Dicky shortly. Then he grinned ruefully. “Goodnight, old man.”
He went, with a crisp handshake and a frantic smile. He went as he had come, by way of the fire escape at the back of the building, for the Saint’s friends had caution thrust upon them in those days.
The Saint watched him go in silence, and remembered that frantic smile after he had gone. Then he lighted another cigarette and smoked it thoughtfully, sitting on the table in the centre of the room. Presently he went to bed.
Dicky Tremayne did not go home to bed at once. He walked round to the side street where he had left his car, and drove to Park Lane.
The lights were still on in an upper window of the house outside which he stopped, and Tremayne entered without hesitation, despite the lateness of the hour, using his own key. The room in which he had seen the lights was on the first floor; it was used as a study and communicated with the Countess Anusia Marova’s bedroom. Dicky knocked, and walked in.
“Hullo, Audrey,” he said.
“Make yourself at home,” she said, without looking up.
She was in a rich blue silk kimono and brocade slippers, writing at a desk. The reading lamp at her elbow struck gold from her hair.
There was a cut-glass decanter on the side table, glasses, a siphon, an inlaid cigarette-box. Dicky helped himself to a drink and a cigarette, and sat down where he could see her.
The enthusiastic compilers of the gossip columns in the daily and weekly Press had called her the most beautiful hostess of the season. That in itself would have meant little, seeing that fashionable hostesses are always described as “beautiful”—like fashionable brides, bridesmaids, and débutantes. What, therefore, can it mean to be the most beautiful of such a galaxy?
But in this case something like the truth might well have been told. Audrey Perowne had grave grey eyes and an enchanting mouth. Her skin was soft and fine without the help of beauty parlours. Her colour was her own. And she was tall, with the healthy grace of her kind, and you saw pearls when she smiled.
Dicky feasted his eyes.
She wrote. She stopped writing. She read what she had written, placed the sheet in an envelope, and addressed it. Then she turned.
“Well?”
“I just thought I’d drop in,” said Dicky. “I saw the lights were on as I came past, so I knew you were up.”
“Did you enjoy your golf?”
Golf was Dicky’s alibi. From time to time he went out in the afternoon, saying that he was going to play a round at Sunningdale. Nearly always he came back late, saying that he had stayed late playing cards at the club. Those were the times when he saw the Saint.
Dicky said that he had enjoyed his golf.
“Give me a cigarette,” she commanded.
He obeyed.
“And a match…Thanks…What’s the matter with you, Dicky? I shouldn’t have had to ask for that.”
He brought her an ashtray and returned to his seat.
“I’m hanged if I know,” he said. “Too many late nights, I should think. I feel tired.”
“Hilloran’s only just left,” she said, with deceptive inconsequence.
“Has he?”
She nodded.
“I’ve taken back his key. In future, you’ll be the only man who can stroll in here when and how he likes.”
Dicky shrugged, not knowing what to say.
She added, “Would you like to live here?”
He was surprised.
“Why? We leave in a couple of days. Even then, it hadn’t occurred to me—”
“It’s still occurring to Hilloran,” she said, “even if we are leaving in a couple of days. But you live in a poky little flat in Bayswater, while there are a dozen rooms going to waste here. And it’s never occurred to you to suggest moving in?”
“It never entered my head.”
She smiled.
“That’s why I like you, Dicky,” she said. “And it’s why I let you keep your key. I’m glad you came tonight.”
“Apart from your natural pleasure at seeing me again—why?”
The girl studied a slim ankle.
“It’s my turn to ask questions,” she said. “And I ask you—why are you a crook, Dicky Tremayne?”
She looked up at him quickly as she spoke, and he met her eyes with an effort.
The blow had fallen. He had seen it coming for months—the day when he would have to account for himself. And he had dreaded it, thought he had his story perfectly prepared. Hilloran had tried to deliver the blow, but Hilloran, shrewd as he was, had been easy. The girl was not easy.
She had never broached the subject before, and Dicky had begun to think that Hilloran’s introduction had sufficiently disposed of questions. He had begun to think that the girl was satisfied, without making inquiries of her own. And that delusion was now rudely shattered.
He made a vague gesture.
“I thought you knew,” he said. “A little trouble in the Guards, followed by the OBE. You know. Order of the Boot—Everywhere. I could either accept the licking, or fight back. I chose to fight back. On the whole it’s paid me.”
“What’s your name?” she asked suddenly.
He raised his eyebrows.
“Dicky Tremayne.”
“I meant—your real name.”
“Dicky is real enough.”
“And the other?”
“Need we go into that?”
She was still looking at him. Tremayne felt that the grim way in which he was returning her stare was becoming as open to suspicion as shiftiness would have been. He glanced away, but she called him back peremptorily.
“Look at me—I want to see you.”
Brown eyes met grey steadily for an intolerable minute. Dicky felt his pulse throbbing faster, but the thin straight line of smoke that went up from his cigarette never wavered.
Then, to his amazement, she smiled.
“Is this a joke?” he asked evenly.
She shook her head.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wanted to make sure if you were straight—straight as far as I’m concerned, I mean. You see, Dicky, I’m worried.”
“You don’t trust me?”
She returned his gaze.
“I had my doubts. That’s why I had to make sure—in my own way. I feel sure now. It’s only a feeling, but I go by feelings. I feel that you wouldn’t let me down—now. But I’m still worried.”
“What about?”
“There’s a squeaker in the camp,” she said. “Somebody’s selling us. Until this moment, I was prepared to believe it was you.”
3
Tremayne sat like an image, mechanically flicking the ash from his cigarette. Every word had gone through him like a knife, but never by a twitch of a muscle had he shown it.
He said calmly enough, “I don’t think anyone could blame you.”
“Listen,” she said. “You ask for it—from anyone like me. Hilloran’s easy to fool. He’s cleverer than most, but you could bamboozle him any day. I’m more inquisitive—and you’re too secretive. You don’t say anything about your respectable past. Perhaps that’s natural. But you don’t say anything about your disreputable past, either—and that’s extraordinary. If it comes to the point, we’ve only got your word for it that you’re a crook at all.”
He shook his head.
“Not good enough,” he replied. “If I were a dick, sneaking into your gang in order to shop you—first, I’d have been smart enough to get Headquarters to fix me up with a convincing list of previous convictions, with the co-operation of the Press, and, second, we’d have pulled in the lot of you weeks ago.”
She had taken a chair beside him. With an utterly natural gesture, that nevertheless came strangely and unexpectedly from her, she laid a hand on his arm.
“I know, Dicky,” she said. “I told you I trusted you—now. Not for any logical reasons, but because my hunch says you’re not that sort. But I’ll let you know that if I hadn’t decided I could trust you—I’d be afraid of you.”
“Am I so frightening?”
“You were.”
He stirred uncomfortably, frowning.
“This is queer talk from you, Audrey,” he said, rather brusquely. “Somehow, one doesn’t expect any sign of weakness
—or fear—from you. Let’s be practical. What makes you so sure there’s a squeaker?”
“Handers. You saw he was taken yesterday?” Dicky nodded. “It wasn’t a fluke. I’ll swear Teal would never have tumbled to that valise-handle trick. Besides, the papers said he was ‘acting on information received.’ You know what that means?”
“It sounds like a squeal, but—”
“The loss doesn’t matter so much—ten thousand pounds and three weeks’ work—when we’re set to pull down twenty times that amount in a few days. But it makes me rather wonder what’s going to happen to the big job.”
Tremayne looked at her straightly.
“If you don’t think I’m the squeaker,” he said, “who do you think it is?”
“There’s only one other man, as far as I know, who was in a position to shop Handers.”
“Namely?”
“Hilloran.”
Dicky stared.
The situation was grotesque. If it had been less grotesque, it would have been laughable, but it was too grotesque even for laughter. And Dicky didn’t feel like laughing.
The second cut was overwhelming. First she had half accused him of being the traitor, and then, somehow, he had convinced her of a lie without speaking a word, and she had declared that she trusted him. And now, making him her confidant, she was turning the eye of her suspicion upon the man who had been her chief lieutenant on the other side of the Atlantic.
“Hilloran,” objected Dicky lamely, “worked for you—”
“Certainly. And then I fired him—with some home truths in lieu of notice, I patched it up and took him back for this job because he’s a darned useful man. But that doesn’t say he’s forgiven and forgotten.”
“You think he’s out to double-cross you, and get his own back and salve his vanity?”
“It’s not impossible.”
“But—”
She interrupted with an impatient movement.
“You don’t get the point. I thought I’d made it plain. Apart from anything else, Hilloran seems to think I’d make a handsome ornament for his home. He’s been out for that lay ever since I first met him. He was particularly pressing tonight, and I sent him away with several large fleas in each ear. I’ll admit he was well oiled, and I had to show him a gun—”
Enter the Saint (The Saint Series) Page 19