The Saint Steps In

She laughed without a conscience, and pointed to the 'T' sticker on the windshield.

'All our cars belong to Quenco now, and that's a defense industry ... I was going to see if I could track you down in Stamford.'

'That was nice.'

She made a little face.

'Now you're stuck with me anyway. Get in, and you can buy me a drink somewhere.'

He got in, and she let in the clutch and crept up to the light on Madison.

'Where would you like to take me?' she asked.

He had gone that far. He had picked up the dice, and now he might as well ride his own roll to the limit.

He said: 'The Savoy Plaza.'

He was watching her, but she didn't react with even a flicker of withdrawal. She made the right turn on Madison, and sent the convertible breezing north, weaving adroitly and com­placently through the traffic, and keeping up a spillway of trivial chatter about some congressman who had been trying to date the hostess on the plane. The Saint was in practice by that time for interjecting the right agreeable noises. By the time they reached the Savoy Plaza he was cool and relaxed again, completely relaxed now, with a curious kind of patience that hadn't any immediate logical connection.

She berthed the car skillfully, and they went down into the cocktail lounge. He ordered drinks. She pulled off her gloves, giving the room the elaborately casual once-over of a woman who is quite well aware that every man in it has already taken a second look at her.

She said: 'How are your proteges?'

'Fine.'

'Did you leave Madeline in Stamford?'

As if he had only just said it, the recollection of what he had told her in Washington scorched across his mind; and he cursed himself without moving a muscle of his face. That was the one loophole which he had overlooked. Yet when he had created it, there had been no reason for not telling Andrea Quennel that he was taking Madeline back. It had seemed like ingenious tactics, even. A good deal had happened since then ...

He said, as unhesitatingly as he had told the same lie before, but with less comfort in it: 'I parked her with a friend in New York. I decided afterwards that too many accidents could hap­pen on a lonely country estate.'

'What about the Professor?'

'He's also been moved and hidden,' said the Saint, most truthfully.

She looked at him steadily, simply listening to him, and her face was as unresponsive as a magazine cover. It was impossible to tell who was learning what or who was fooling who.

Their drinks came, and they toasted each other pleasantly. But the Saint had a queer fascinated feeling of lifting a sword instead of a glass, in the salute before a duel.

'You haven't found out any more yet?' she asked.

'Not much.'

'When am I going to do something for you?'

'I don't know.'

'You're terribly talkative.'

He was conscious of his own curtness, and he said: 'How long are you going to be at Westport?'

'Maybe not very long. We've got a place at Pinehurst, North Carolina, and Daddy wants to spend some time there as soon as he can get away. He wants me to go down and see that it's all opened up ready.' She turned the stem of her glass. 'It's a lovely place—I wish you could see it.'

'I wish I could.'

'The gardens are gorgeous, and there's an enormous swim­ming pool that's more like a lake, and stables and horses. The riding's wonderful. Do you like to ride?'

'Very much.'

'We could have a lot of fun if you came down with me. Just the two of us.'

'Probably.'

Her eyes were big and docile, asking you to write your own meaning in them.

'Why couldn't you?'

'I've got a job to do,' he said.

'Is it that important?'

'Yes.'

'I know it must be ... But is it going on for ever?'

'I hope not.'

'Mightn't it be over quite soon?'

'Yes,' he said. 'It might be over quite soon.'

'Very soon?'

He nodded with an infinitesimal smile that was more in­scrutable than complete expressionlessness.

'Yes,' he said, 'it might be very soon indeed.'

'Then you must have been finding out things! Do you really know who all your villains are—what it's all about, and who's doing everything, and so on? I mean did you find your Axis agents or whoever they are?'

He lighted a cigarette and looked at her quite lazily. 'I've been rather slow up to now—I don't know what's been the matter with me,' he confessed. 'But I think I'm just com­ing out of the fog. You have these dull spells in detecting. It isn't all done by inspiration and rushing about, firing guns and leaping through windows. Sometimes a very plodding investi­gation of people's pasts, and present brings out much more interesting things. I think mine are going to be very interest­ing.'

Her gaze went over his face for a little while; and her mouth looked soft in an absentminded way, or perhaps it was always like that.

She lighted a cigarette herself, and there was a silence that might have held nothing at all.

'Daddy's coming up to Westport tonight,' she said.

'Oh, is he?' Every one of the Saint's inflections and expres­sions was urbane and easy; only the soaring away of his mind had left nothing but a shell of the forms and phrases.

'Why don't you drive up with me and have dinner, and you can meet him when he gets there? We can find you a bed, too.'

'I'd love to. But I've got my job.'

'Can't she take care of herself at all?'

'Not at the moment.'

'Are you—more than professionally interested?'

He caught the flash in her words, but he didn't let it bring a spark back from him.

'I'm sorry,' he smiled. 'I just couldn't go to Westport to­night.'

She said: 'Daddy's very interested in you. I broke down and told him about our talk last night. He thinks you're a pretty sensational person, and he's very anxious to meet you. He said he wanted to tell you something that he thinks you ought to know.'

The Saint was aware of a fleeting touch of impalpable fin­gers on his spine.

'What was it about?'

'He didn't say. But he wanted me to be very sure and tell you. And he doesn't make much fuss about anything unless it's important.'

'Then we'll certainly have to get together on it.'

'What about tomorrow?'

'I don't know. Maybe.'