Now he could see that her smile was a little too fixed and imperturbable to be genuine.
“It was quite an adventure,” she said. “You came down to Africa to see the wild animals, but I was quite surprised to discover that you have more right here than we ever dreamed of having.”
“Not more,” Simon said. “Just more in evidence.”
He moved on to Thomas Liskard, who had just been vacated by a very large gentlemen with a white walrus mustache.
“Very happy to see you,” he said, shaking Simon’s hand warmly.
His smile was much more spontaneous and convincing than his wife’s had been, but there was a strain in his eyes which betrayed his worry.
“I hope things are going well for you,” the Saint said.
“Well enough. We don’t really get down to business until tomorrow.”
Liskard was obviously preoccupied with his duties as host and greeter, so Simon started to move away after a few more words. He was surprised when Liskard stopped him with a touch on his arm and leaned forward to speak to him confidentially.
“I must talk to you alone,” he said. “Please don’t leave after dinner before we can get together.”
“Certainly.”
The Saint felt that peculiar thrill which often ran through his nerves when he sensed that he was on to something out of the ordinary. Maybe he would have a chance to give Prime Minister Liskard more than moral support after all. The social chitchat and the prolonged not very good dinner became no more than a journey he had to endure until he could speak with Liskard in private.
At last the thirty guests had been sufficiently regaled with toasts, filets, and crisp conversation to warrant their exodus from the dining room back to the reception room for after-dinner drinks. It was at that point that Liskard caught Simon’s eye and moved toward a hallway in the opposite direction from the movement of the crowd. The Saint followed. A moment later he found himself in an oak-paneled study — a lush but impersonal setting of leather chairs, a massive desk and heavy tables, shelves of books arranged in untouched perfection, and several paintings of Nagawiland’s countryside and industrial plants.
Liskard locked the door behind Simon and thanked him for coming. The public smile had vanished from his face, which looked much older than it had the day before. He said nothing as he poured brandy from a decanter into a pair of snifters. The Saint took the wing-backed chair which the Prime Minister indicated. He warmed the brandy in its crystal sphere with his hands as he waited. Liskard unlocked a drawer of the desk with a key taken from his pocket and drew out a fat white envelope.
The Saint inhaled the scent of the cognac deeply and released his breath with profound satisfaction. It was a satisfaction produced by more than the aroma of Delamain. It was a combination of contained excitement and pleasure at the knowledge that his destiny was running on schedule. The white envelope was going to confirm his earlier thoughts about the calumnies which would be directed at Liskard. The lions would stay frozen on their pedestals in Trafalgar Square.
“This came in the mail today,” Liskard said.
He did not offer the envelope to Simon, but slapped it down on top of the desk with the air of a man dealing a possible fourth ace to a gambling opponent. Simon nodded and let some brandy touch his tongue. Liskard clasped his hands behind his back and paced to the outer wall. He drew back one of the heavy drawn curtains slightly and looked out toward the front gate. The chants of the mob there came faintly into the room and faded again as he let the curtain fall back into place.
“Those are photostats of letters I wrote to a woman — a girl — here three years ago. Whoever sent them says he’ll show them to my wife and to the press in two days from now.”
Simon put down his glass.
“That’s clear enough and to the point. What’s the price?”
Liskard paced back to the desk and sat down heavily in the swivel chair behind it.
“That’s the most peculiar part. There’s no mention of money specifically. Look.”
Liskard leaned forward and opened the white envelope. He handed the Saint a small square of note paper whose typed message Simon studied carefully.
“Liskard:
You have 48 hours to think about these literary efforts of yours. Then I shall turn half of the originals over to your wife and half over to the newspapers... the ones which go in for big black headlines. You may be wondering what you can do to stop this from happening. Keep wondering.”
Simon put the paper back on the desk.
“That’s a peculiar form of blackmail. It’s very possible you’ll hear more from this character before the time is up. Could he have some special interest in wanting you to squirm?”
“A lot of people would like to see me squirm in a vat of hot oil or worse.”
Liskard seemed to be holding something back. Rather than question the Prime Minister directly, however, Simon first mentioned another angle.
“If this is being done by political enemies — which are the most likely sort of enemies for a man in your position to have, I should think — then why didn’t they just turn the letters over to the press right away without warning you? Or if they want some political concession out of you, like quitting the conference here, why didn’t they hit you with that demand when they hit you with these photostats? It seems stupid to give you a chance to prepare some kind of counterattack.”
“It does,” agreed Liskard.
Again, he seemed reluctant to say what was on his mind, so Simon continued with the obvious conclusion.
“Whatever the ultimate point of this turns out to be, it seems right now that the motive is to make you suffer. That hints at a personal vendetta, and it may mean that whoever sent these to you has no real intention of showing them to anybody else. He just wants to give you a couple of sleepless nights.”
“I’d like to think it was that easy,” Liskard said.
He had slumped his big body far down in his chair and was staring at the oriental carpet with brooding eyes.
“I assume you didn’t ask me in here just so you could share the glad tidings with me,” the Saint said.
Liskard looked up at him.
“No. Of course not. I’m being presumptuous enough to ask for your help. By reputation, you particularly dislike blackmail. It’s the sort of thing you may be willing to fight against — and I’m willing to pay you enough to make it quite worth your while.”
“So far so good,” said the Saint. “But I can’t be much help if you don’t let me know your own theories. Do you have any idea who might be doing this to you?”
Liskard sighed.
“Not really, but obviously my first thought is the girl I wrote them to. And naturally I’m not anxious to accuse somebody I... once thought so much of.”
“If you want me to help, we can’t be too delicate. What’s her name and what’s the whole story about her?”
“Her name is Mary Bannerman,” Liskard replied after a moment’s pause. “I met her here in London when I was up with the High Commission for several months. As I said, that was three years ago. She was a secretary trying to break into modeling. We had an affair that went on during most of the time I was here.”
“Was your wife in London?”
“No. She stayed at home.”
Simon took up his brandy glass again and got to his feet for a stroll around the room.
“And you wrote the letters while you were here? The Commission traveled all around Britain, as I recall.”
“Right. She was in London, and during those times I was away I wrote the letters... except for a few I sent her in England after the Commission went back to Nagawiland.”
“Absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder, I gather.”