Liskard shook his head.
“It wasn’t that.”
“Was it just a physical thing that didn’t affect either of you very deeply?”
“I’m afraid it wasn’t that either. I told her I loved her... as she told me. I told her I’d leave my wife and marry her...”
“You told her all this in writing?” Simon asked, indicating the envelope.
Liskard looked sheepishly miserable.
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t really mean it?”
“I meant it at the time. That’s what makes me feel guilty. I had every intention of doing just as I’d said, and then...”
“Then what?” Simon asked when the rest of the statement failed to materialize.
Liskard looked up with a gesture of self-disgust.
“Templar, there are some things a man is almost too ashamed of to talk about. I went back to Nagawiland. Suddenly, I was in line for Prime Minister. A divorce would have ruined my chances, especially since my wife’s family is very big in our politics down there. So... I didn’t leave Anne. I dropped Mary. And I became Prime Minister.”
“How did Mary Bannerman take that?” Simon asked.
“Badly, but you can’t blame her, especially since she was very young.”
“How young?”
“Twenty-three then.”
“And married by now?”
“I honestly don’t know anything about her, except that she did become a model. I’ve seen her picture in magazine advertisements.”
Simon studied the expression on Liskard’s rugged face.
“Apparently you still have some feeling for her, if you don’t mind my saying so. If she is behind this, you’re going to have to think of her as an enemy, and not as a poor seduced child you feel terribly guilty about.”
Liskard’s eyes flashed with momentary anger. Then reason took the upper hand again and he spoke with controlled emotion.
“I’d rather you hadn’t said that, but... you do have a point. Of course my reason for not telling the police — or anybody else except you — about this isn’t just because of the danger of the news leaking out. It’s also because I feel Mary’s partially justified in doing this, if she is doing it, and I don’t want to hurt her. I’m hoping that you can — if you will-find out what she wants and somehow stop this whole business before anybody gets hurt.”
“That’s a little like telling me to go out and stop a charging rhino tenderly. If she’s really out for revenge, what exactly do you expect me to do?”
“I’m sure you’re better at things like that than I am,” Liskard replied. “But my first thought of course is that we should find out what we can about Mary and what she’s done with my letters... You might think of a way to get them back.”
Simon compressed his lips thoughtfully.
“Are they really very compromising?”
“Compromising?” Liskard echoed. For the first time since they had entered the room his usual sense of humor showed signs of breaking through his gloom. “They’re lurid. They make Casanova sound like a Salvation Army sergeant.”
“May I see one?”
The Saint had no prurient interest nor any great curiosity about the intimate details of Thomas Liskard’s love life, which were undoubtedly very much like the intimate details of everyone else’s love life. But he had learned to be skeptical enough about guilty-conscience reactions to want to make his own impartial estimate of how much dynamite there really was in that white envelope.
Liskard hesitated, and then without saying anything opened the envelope and handed over one of the sheets of paper which it contained. Simon read it quickly and was satisfied that the Prime Minister had not exaggerated.
“I see what you mean,” he said simply.
He handed it back.
“Pretty ridiculous, isn’t it?” Liskard said uncomfortably.
“Pretty certain to ruin your political career if it gets out,” the Saint said. “That kind of thing may go a long way with the ladies, but it doesn’t go over very big with the voting public.”
“You may think this is just high-sounding talk,” Liskard responded with desperate earnestness, “but now it isn’t my own career in politics that I’m worried about. If these negotiations should fall through, it could lead to chaos in my country.”
“I agree,” said the Saint. “And there’s not much time. Let’s see if Mary Bannerman is in the phone book.”
5
Mary Bannerman’s Chelsea address said a good deal for her successful rise from secretary to model. The Saint drove directly to her apartment building from Prime Minister Liskard’s dinner party. Back in Hampstead the diplomatic set was still going strong on a fuel mixture of champagne and hot air, but Simon had decided to try to see Liskard’s ex-girlfriend that same night — and with a preliminary phone call which could have helped her to evade his visit.
It was 10.30, and Chatterton Close — the half-block cul-de-sac in which Mary Bannerman lived — was quiet at that hour. Some very large, shiny, expensive cars and some very small, shiny, expensive cars were parked along either side of the street. The only sound was the click of the high heels of a pair of fur-wrapped girls hurrying along the sidewalk. Simon went into the three-storeyed white building marked “109” and climbed carpeted stairs to the second floor. Like the halls of all very fine apartment buildings, its halls were silent and smelled of wax and lemon furniture polish, without the slightest taint of pork fat or cabbage. Simon was pleased with that. He had a distinct preference for evildoers (if Mary Bannerman should indeed turn out to be an evildoer) who lived in sanitary surroundings.
The brass nameplate beside one of the doors read BANNERMAN. Simon was about to ring the bell when he heard voices filtering from the other side of the door. Obviously, considering the quiet of the rest of the building, the dialogue had to be taking place at an impressive level of volume for him to be able to hear it at all. The first voice was a woman’s.
“Get away from here, you filthy swine!”
“Give them to me or I’ll wring your selfish little neck!”
“Just try it!”
“I will!”
On the next line the woman’s voice rose to a screech of operatic proportions.
“Put away that gun, you fool!”
Simon was a great believer in the time honored equation of homes — or even apartments — with medieval castles, and concomitant rights of privacy, but he was an even stronger believer in the rights of women not to be menaced with weapons unless he was satisfied that they deserved such treatment. He turned the handle of the unlocked door and threw it open, knowing that would be enough by itself to stall any murder which might be about to take place.
The sudden opening of the door brought an even louder screech from the female voice than had the threat of the gun, and Simon found himself looking at a scene quite different from what he had expected.
The aggressive male was in a chair with a piece of paper in his hands. He looked brawny enough to do plenty of damage even without a gun, but he was much more startled than threatening. The woman was on her feet and had thrown herself back against the nearest wall in fright. She was young, redheaded, and gorgeous. The evidence that she was gorgeous was especially plentiful, since she was wearing a gauzy white negligee that might have been woven of spider webs and spun sugar, but obviously wasn’t since it was standing up under a considerable strain as its wearer twisted her body to stare at the Saint.
“Madame Tussaud’s?” he inquired apologetically.
The young man who had been seated jumped to his feet. He wore expensive trousers and a gray cashmere turtle-neck sweater.