They drifted through the yammer of high-pitched voices, conveniently allowing an eddy among the other guests to cut them off from their sponsors, the Kennedys. The Saint’s casually roving eyes inventoried the crowd without finding in it anything to give direction to his unformed questions. It seemed to be composed of fairly standard ingredients — playboys old and young, business men, and politicians, blended with their wives, mistresses, and prospectives. He sought and failed exasperatingly to find a single sinister aroma in the brew.
Then through a gap in the crowd he glimpsed a white head that looked like Stephen Elliott, and started to steer Monica towards it. Before they had made much progress the throng parted in another quarter, spilling away like a bow wave before the onrush of a monumental figure that bore down upon them like an ocean liner. Simon had only a moment to hope that it could stop in time before it rammed them with its monstrous bosom. “I thought I recognised you,” Mrs Wingate cried, ignoring Simon to concentrate on his companion. “It must be Monica Varing. Imagine!”
Monica smiled and said, “I’m afraid I wasn’t invited, Mrs Wingate, but I was with the Kennedys this afternoon, and they insisted I come along with them. I do hope you won’t mind.”
She played the gracious lady with such perfect restraint and charm that even Simon was impressed, while Mrs Wingate almost swooned.
“I’m so glad. How could I possibly mind? I’ve admired your art for so long, my dear Miss Varing — oh! A cocktail?”
She beckoned urgently, and a servant came with his tray. He offered it to Simon last, and Mrs Wingate’s attention was directed to Monica’s escort.
“Oh, dear — I should know you, too,” she gushed — and giggled helplessly. “I’m sure I should. I have such a dreadful memory for names.”
“There’s no reason why you should know mine,” said the Saint amiably. “I’m uninvited, too. I came with Miss Varing. My name is Templar. Simon Templar.”
“Simon Templar,” Mrs Wingate echoed, looking at him along her nose, over a battery of chins. “It’s familiar, somehow. Oh, I know. The Senator from—”
Behind the Saint a deep, mild, slightly treacly voice said, “Not quite, Laura. Not quite.”
Stephen Elliott moved into the group with a sort of apologetic benevolence that reminded the Saint of an undertaker associating with the bereaved.
Seen without interference by the dark glasses through which Simon had observed him first, there was a fresh pink tint to his long, aristocratic features rather similar in contour to those of a well-bred horse, which suggested that he had arrived fresh from a facial. His skin strengthened the impression with a smooth softness which implied the same attention daily. Whatever his other philanthropies may have been, it was evident that he must have been a benison to his barber.
Simon admitted him to their circle with an easy geniality that contained no hint of recognition.
“I’m not in the public eye just now,” he said. “Though there was a time when I was, rather painfully.”
Mrs Wingate fixed him with a sharp stare.
“I can’t remember names, but I have a wonderful memory for faces. I — oh, no. Of course not.”
But her eyes were puzzled.
Stephen Elliott’s deprecating smile and unnaturally soothing voice implied that all was for the best as he said, “Mr Templar is the Saint, Laura. Surely you’ve heard of the Saint?”
“Oh, heavens,” Mrs Wingate said, losing her poise and clutching at a sapphire pendant sitting like a mahout on the elephantine bulge of her bosom.
“My dear Mrs Wingate,” Simon said lightly, “even if I were still actively pursuing my profession, I could never bring myself to swipe sapphires from such a charming throat.”
Mrs Wingate giggled, but she relinquished her grip on the pendant rather reluctantly.
“Surely you’re not — I mean—”
She glanced around apprehensively. Simon smiled at her.
“Even Jack the Ripper must have had his social hours,” he said. “Please consider me on my best behaviour. You need have no fears for your sapphires, your silver, or your honour, though the latter...” He beamed at Mrs Wingate, who snickered again, unaware that the sentence might have been finished in many more ways than one, and at least half of them unflattering.
Elliott introduced himself. “—since Laura is too flustered, I gather,” he said gravely. “Miss Varing? How do you do? Meeting two such notable figures is rather an event. I’ll celebrate it by joining you in a drink.”
He beckoned to a passing tray.
“To crime,” the Saint suggested, and they drank, though Mrs Wingate had a moment’s startled pause first.
“To crime,” Elliott repeated. “I’m surprised to hear that from you, Mr Templar. I thought the Saint changed sides a while ago.”
“There was a war on at the time,” Simon said casually, “and some of it seemed sort of important. But now I’m back to stirring up my own trouble. You might call it my private reconversion problem... As a matter of fact, I’m working on a case now, and I find I haven’t lost much of my knack.”
“A case?” Elliott asked.
“Yes. It should interest you, in view of the work you’ve been doing among Chicago’s poor. Have you ever heard of someone called the King of the Beggars?”
Simon threw out the phrase with perfect carelessness, and just as airily made no point of watching for a reaction.
It would have made little difference if he had. Stephen Elliott’s Santa Claus eyebrows merely drew together in a vaguely worried way; while Mrs Wingate bridled as if her position in the Social Register had been questioned, and then said, “It’s fantastic. Utterly fantastic. I’ve heard rumours, of course, but — Mr Templar, you must realise that such things are... are...”
“Fantastic?” the Saint prompted.
“Not too much so, in my opinion,” Stephen Elliott answered him. “There certainly is some sort of criminal organisation victimising the poor in Chicago. I’m not blind, Mr Templar. But just how widespread is it?”
Simon shrugged.
Elliott’s distinguished equine face worked uncomfortably.
“I know,” he said at last. “It’s a pernicious racket, no matter how small. It should be stamped out. And you say you’re going after it?”
The Saint flipped a mental coin, and decided to hold his course.
“Yes. I haven’t been able to find out much yet. I wonder if you could help me?”
Elliott pursed his lips.
“I’m afraid they don’t talk to me. Not about that. It’s hard to break down the wall of reticence a socially unfortunate man has had to build up. I can inquire, if that will help.”
“You haven’t been interested enough so far to ask questions?” Monica put in.
“It’s a police matter. I feel that I can do more good in my own way... Of course, if I could be of any use—”
Mrs Wingate said abruptly, “Why, you’re the blind beggar!”
This time the Saint was naturally watching Elliott. He saw blank startled astonishment leap into the man’s eyes. He held his own reflexes frozen under an unmoving mask of bronze and waited, while Mrs Laura Wingate babbled on.
“I don’t understand. I’m sure I can’t be mistaken. But... but... I never forget a face, Mr Templar. What in the world—”
Elliott’s hand moved towards the watch-chain stretched across his vest.
“What do you mean, Laura?”
“I’m sure I must be making a fool of myself. But, Stephen, you know I’ve got a photographic memory. I think you were with me, too... Yesterday! Mr Templar—”
The coin had come down and bedded itself flatly in hot solder. There wasn’t even a theoretical chance any more of its landing on its edge. Its verdict had been delivered with more finality even than the Saint had played for. But he had always been a sucker for the fast showdown, the cards on the table and the hell with complicated stratagems...