“I’ll prove it, then. He can have them back — right now! Just a second...”
She whirled and went to one of the wall shelves and slammed a whole stack of records on to the sofa. She hesitated a moment, and then snatched down another armful of discs. A white envelope — small and unlike the one Liskard had received — fell to the floor, but there was no sign of any secret nest of billets doux.
Mary Bannerman turned to face the Saint with an entirely transformed expression.
“They’re gone,” she said.
“That did seem likely,” Simon replied impassively.
He was leaning down to pick up the small envelope from the floor. It was heavy with metal. The girl took it from his hand and tossed it back on the shelf.
“Those are the keys to my wardrobes,” she said. “Do you believe me, or should I—”
“What about the letters?” Simon interrupted.
The girl was no longer defiant and outraged, but stunned and frightened.
“I know you’ll never believe me,” she said, “but I don’t have the slightest idea where they are. I put them down behind those records months ago when I first moved into this apartment. I remember seeing them there a few weeks back.”
“I suppose any number of people could have taken them.”
“But who’d want to? No one knew about them. I’ve never even discussed Tom with other people, even when I realized that he didn’t love me and had just been using me. He’s terribly selfish and ambitious, but I wouldn’t do a thing like blackmail him. After all, I was... very fond of him.”
Simon felt a growing sense of frustration. No amount of conversation with Mary Bannerman at the moment seemed likely to get him much nearer the truth.
“No theories, then?” he persisted.
“Wait a minute! Yes. I had a robbery here three weeks ago. They stole some jewelry and furs and cash. It never occurred to me that they might have taken the letters.”
“Maybe they were after the letters, and the rest was a blind. Did the thieves get caught?”
“No.”
“And you don’t know of anybody who could have wanted to get the letters?”
“Not a soul.”
“That covers the field of suspects pretty thoroughly. What are you doing for dinner tomorrow night?”
She was startled into truth.
“I... nothing,” she said flatly.
“I’ll pick you up at eight. Think this business over between now and then. Maybe you’ll come up with some ideas. If not, we’ll at least have fun.”
He turned to the door. She watched him step into the hall, and even though he would not have bet a tin cufflink on her honesty, he felt a little sorry for her. She looked sadly distressed and preoccupied, just as a woman might be expected to look when a tormenting part of her past was brought suddenly to the surface of her thoughts.
“Mr Templar... I know I’m labelled a sinner... God knows what Tom has told you about me. But it doesn’t follow that I am a pushover for Saints.”
Simon smiled.
“Message received. We’ll worry about these theological questions as they come up.”
6
The next morning the Saint reported his progress — or lack of it — to Liskard by telephone.
“Is it true about the robbery?” Liskard asked when Simon had finished. “Do you think the letters were really stolen?”
“I’ll have to check on it. I’ll say one thing: either your friend is a first-rate actress or she’s in the clear. But which it is I wouldn’t care to guess yet.”
“What about this man with her?” Liskard asked. “Who was that?”
“His name was Jeff Peterson,” Simon answered. “Does that ring a bell?”
Liskard hesitated, then became suddenly excited.
“Yes. Very likely. Is he from Nagawiland?”
“Mary Bannerman did refer to him as a colonial.”
“Then he must be the one. He’s a sort of black sheep of a good family back there.”
“You know him?” Simon asked.
“No. But I know his father. I sacked him from my cabinet six months ago.”
Simon seemed to feel horizons expanding around him.
“That’s a fascinating bit of news, to say the least. Why did you toss him out?”
“I’m allergic to alcoholics.” His voice became momentarily acid. “I seem to attract them.”
“And Jeff Peterson seems to attract Mary Bannerman.”
Liskard was silent for an abnormally long time.
“How... is she?” he asked.
“She seems well enough.”
“What is her attitude toward me?”
Simon, as much as he respected Liskard’s political position, felt no particular sympathy for his self-inflicted romantic complications.
“I get the impression that she hates your guts and would gladly put a knife between your ribs if you came within range.”
Liskard grunted.
“She’s not the only one,” he said half-humorously. “I think I’m the most popular man to hit England since the Luftwaffe.”
“That’s because you’re a political realist,” the Saint told him. “The world hates political realists. Everybody loves a liar if they love his lies. So buck up; the same fringe adores you, and you can always say you went down telling the truth.”
“An optimistic thought.”
“Well, you’re not going down,” Simon said. “Not if I can do anything about it. Time’s short, though. I’ll be in touch.”
Not long after talking to the Prime Minister, who that afternoon would begin his negotiations with the British government, Simon drove over to Chelsea and checked on Mary Bannerman’s theft story with the police there. Her tale was confirmed. The robbery had taken place one night about three weeks before, and several thousand pounds’ worth of female frippery — mostly heavy metals and animal pelts — had been carted off to parts unknown. Not surprisingly, the police had made no progress toward apprehending the thieves.
The Saint had affairs of his own to attend to during the rest of the day which have nothing to do with this story. He got back to Upper Berkeley Mews at about four, as the cold winter evening already was descending on wet misty streets. With fond recollections of the sunny expanses of Africa, he settled down at a desk overlooking the mews to catch up on some bills which had accumulated while he was away.
Not long afterward he noticed, there below, plowing slowly along through the murk, a small gaily decorated van with pictures of ice cream cones and the words Mister Snowball inscribed on its side panels. Odd as it was, Simon devoted very little thought to that specimen of unseasonal traffic on his almost untraveled backwater until it passed again a quarter of an hour later going in the opposite direction. By the time it had come back again, and again, and then once more while he was dressing for dinner, he had developed a fairly complete theory as to its origin and contents. Its orbit was so regular that he decided to intercept it on its next passage.
He was about to step out his front door when his telephone rang. The Mister Snowball van crept by right on schedule, but Simon was forced to watch it from a window.
“Mr Templar,” a man’s muffled voice said through the earpiece of the phone. “I understand that Mr Liskard is anxious to recover certain letters.”
“And where did you pick up that idea?” Simon asked coolly.
The caller was momentarily stymied.
“He’ll need those letters if he doesn’t want to be in very bad trouble. Go to Belfort Close. Park your car at the circle at the end. There is a gate into a small churchyard. You’ll be met there.”
“Sounds delightful,” said the Saint. “Who brings the Maypole?”
“If Liskard wants the letters, you’d better be there... in an hour.”