Prelude For War

'But did they find what they were looking for?'

'I wish I knew. Bur there's a hell of a good chance that they didn't, since they made a mess like that. I wish I knew exactly what the prize was. It seems to me that it must have been a fair-sized dossier—something that wouldn't be too easy to hide. And unless Kennet was a certifiable lunatic he wouldn't have brought that to Whiteways with­out leaving a duplicate somewhere. Hence the battle of Balaclava Mansions.' He pushed his plate away and scowled at it. 'If only that damned girl could remember a bit more of the things Kennet told her! He must have spouted like a fountain, and she simply didn't listen.'

'Why don't you see her again?' suggested Patricia. 'You might be able to jog her memory or something. Any­way, you'd have a good time trying.'

Simon looked up at her from under impenitently slant­ing brows.

'Are you insinuating that a man of my unparalleled purity——'

'You'll have to hurry if you want to catch her today,' Patricia said practically. 'Peter found out from one of the chauffeurs that they're starting back to London at five-thirty.'

The Saint stood up restlessly.

'I think I'd better amble over,' he said.

Again the Hirondel roared over the Anford road, and a few minutes later it swung to a grinding stop in the small courtyard in front of the Golden Fleece. As Simon stopped the engine and hitched his long legs over the side he glanced around for a glimpse of his confederates. The maternal laws of England being what they were, Hoppy must have been torn away from his second bottle about three hours ago, and it would be another half-hour before he would be allowed to return to it. Simon scanned the landscape for some likely place where the thirsty vigil might have been spent, and he became totteringly transfixed as his eyes set­tled on the window of an establishment on the opposite side of the road, next to the Assembly Rooms, over which ran the legend; Ye Village Goodie Shoppe.

Peter Quentin was stoically reading a magazine; but on the other side of the table, bulging over the top of a choco­late eclair, the froglike eyes of Mr Uniatz ogled Simon through the plate glass with an indescribable expression of anguish and reproach that made the Saint turn hastily into the hotel entrance with his bones melting with helpless laughter.

The first person he saw was Valerie Woodchester her­self. She was sitting alone on the arm of a chair in the lounge, smoking a cigarette and swinging one shapely leg disconsolately, but at the sight of him her face brightened.

'Oh, hullo,' she said. 'What's the matter?'

'Some things are too holy to talk about,' said the Saint, sinking on to the chair opposite. 'Never mind. Perhaps you can bring me back to earth. Are you always being left alone?'

'The others are upstairs having a business conference or something.' She studied him with fresh and candid inter­est. 'Where have you been all the afternoon? You simply seemed to vanish off the face of the globe. I was afraid I should have to go back to town without seeing you again.'

'Then why go back to town?' he asked. 'You could come over and join us at Peter Quentin's. There's a spare bed and a dart board and plenty to drink, and we could see lots more of each other.'

For a moment she looked a little hesitant. Then she shook her head quite decidedly.

'I couldn't do that. After all, two's company and all that sort of thing, you know, and anyhow I don't think it would be good for you to see much more of me than you did when we first met.' A little smile touched her lips and gleamed in her dark eyes. 'Besides, I'm quite sure Algy Fairweather wouldn't like it. He's been warning me against you. For some reason or other he doesn't seem to approve of you an awful lot.'