Prelude For War

'Grrr,' said Mr Fairweather.

If possible, he improved on his performance with the word 'but.' This time, in one primitive ululation, he added to his symphonic integration of emotions the despairing dolour of the camel whose backbone is just giving way under the final straw, the shuddering panic of the hunted hyena which feels the tiger's fangs closing on its throat, the pitiful expiring gasp of the goldfish which has just been neatly hooked from its bowl by a hungry cat.

'Of course I've been cursing myself for not thinking of it before,' said Lady Valerie penitently. 'I mean, if those papers really were terribly important, I suppose I ought to have said something about them at the inquest. That's where I'd like your advice. Do you think I ought to ring up Scotland Yard and tell them about it?'

Mr Fairweather had no new depths to plumb. He was a man who had already done all the gamut running of which he was capable.

'Listen,' he said with frightfully muted violence. 'You must put that idea out of your head at once. The police have no discretion. Think—think of how it might hurt poor Johnny's father. And whatever happens, you mustn't say a word to Templar. You haven't told him about those papers yet, have you?'

'No, not definitely. But you know, I believe he guesses something about them. He's terribly suspicious. Two or three times this evening he asked me if Johnny had ever given me anything to keep for him, or if I knew where Johnny might have kept his private papers. But he can't do anything to me, because I thought I'd better be on the safe side and so I've taken plenty of precautions. You see, Celia Mallard probably knows where I left those papers, and I've written to her about them. She's at Cap d'Ail now, but I'll probably hear from her in a day or two.'

'Celia Mallard knows where they are?' moaned Fair-weather. 'How the devil does she know?'

'Well, I seem to remember that she was with me when I dumped them, and she's got a perfectly marvellous mem­ory, so she'll probably remember all about it. I told her in my letter that they were worth thousands of pounds, and that the Saint was after them, and so if anything happened to me she was to go straight to the police. That ought to stop the Saint doing anything really awkward, oughtn't it?'

Mr Fairweather's mouth opened. After all his other vicissitudes, he underwent the culminating sensation of having been poured out of a frying pan into an ice-cold bath. The contrast steadied him for a moment; but he shivered.

'I suppose it might,' he said. 'But what made you say the papers were worth thousands of pounds?'

'I don't know. But I thought, if they really are terribly important, they're bound to be worth a lot of money to somebody, aren't they?' she said reasonably.

'That doesn't follow at all,' Fairweather said firmly. 'But—er—you know that I'd see you didn't lose by it, in any case. Now, will you let me know directly you hear from Celia Mallard, or as soon as you remember what you did with them? And—um—well, if it's a matter of money, you did tell me once that you needed a car to go with that fur coat, didn't you ?'

'How could you ?' she said pathetically. 'To talk about that fur coat now, and remind me of poor Johnny . . . Please don't talk to me about it any more; I don't think I can ever bear to hear it mentioned again. You're making me feel dreadfully morbid, Algy, and I've had such a tiring day. I think I'd better ring off now before I break down altogether. Good-bye.'

The receiver clicked.

'Wait a minute,' Fairweather said suddenly.

There was no answer.

Lady Valerie Woodchester was walking back across the bright modernistic sitting room of her tiny apartment on Marsham Street. She fitted a cigarette into a long holder and picked up the drink that she had put down when she telephoned. Over the rim of the glass