“In any case, please be seated,” LeGrand implored her. “Monsieur Templar, this is Mademoiselle Lambrini.”
She did not offer her gloved hand, but acknowledged the introduction with not much more than a glance as she sat down in the chair which LeGrand offered her.
“I thought I had made it clear,” she said, “that our business was to be confidential.”
“And so it is!” LeGrand protested.
“With no exceptions,” Mademoiselle Lambrini said, looking pointedly at Simon.
“Mademoiselle,” LeGrand said, “believe me, he is to be trusted, and will perhaps play a part in our transaction. And let me add very quickly that there are already exceptions — which I knew nothing about. The man who was here when you came the first time was from the police.”
Mademoiselle Lambrini finally reacted with something other than frosty calm. Her eyes narrowed and her hands unconsciously moved over one another with nervous agitation in her lap.
“What did they want?” she asked. “The police, I mean. They could have no interest in me.”
“But they have,” LeGrand said. “The Inspector — Mathieu was his name — instructed me to telephone him if I should be approached by a woman with rare paintings to sell.”
“Why?” Mademoiselle Lambrini asked.
She seemed nervous, as Simon had noticed as soon as she heard about the investigator from the police — and yet she seemed genuinely surprised and puzzled that the police should be taking any interest. Simon felt strongly that the probings of the police were a new and unexpected factor in her plans, and a factor which she really could not explain to herself.
“He did not tell me,” LeGrand replied. “He said only that if such a person should contact me with paintings to sell I should contact the police because they wished to interview her.”
“And you told them... what?” she asked.
“Nothing. But I would appreciate an explanation from you.”
“I have none,” she said. “I can think of no reason why the police, even if they should have heard about my paintings, would have any interest in them. But of course it does seem that all the world is hearing about them very rapidly.”
She was looking at the Saint again.
“If there is no reason for the police to be interested in them, why should you be ashamed of letting the world hear about them?” Simon asked.
Mademoiselle Lambrini drew herself up haughtily.
“Monsieur, I assure you that I am not ashamed in the slightest. But I am discreet, and for good reason. Monsieur LeGrand has apparently already told you about my paintings. They are not the sort of possessions a woman, living alone, advertises for everybody on earth to hear about. If Monsieur LeGrand is unwilling to respect my wishes about this, there are plenty of other dealers in Paris who would be delighted to hear about them.”
“Mademoiselle,” LeGrand responded with dignity, “if everything is in order, we can conclude this matter tomorrow. Such things cannot be kept secret for long, especially if the police are interested. They will be contacting other dealers all over Paris. But I am willing to tell this Inspector Mathieu nothing if you are willing to trust me and the one or two people I may take into my confidence before I actually pay you for the paintings. Isn’t that fair enough?”
“Whom else would you tell — besides Monsieur Templar?” the woman asked.
“The only other I have in mind is an expert on the Italian Renaissance — an old friend of mine I would wish to corroborate my judgment of the paintings. You certainly could not object to that.”
“But I understood that you were the greatest expert in France,” Mademoiselle Lambrini said.
“In many ways,” LeGrand said matter-of-factly. “But in a situation of this sort, with masterpieces of such magnitude, I would not dare to trust my own evaluation alone.”
“You’ve seen the paintings?” Simon asked him.
“I have seen a number of color photographs,” LeGrand said. “They include extreme detail. I am already quite satisfied, tentatively, one might say. I have no doubt that Professor... my friend will agree as soon as he has seen the canvases themselves.”
“And when will this be?” Mademoiselle Lambrini asked.
“Tomorrow morning?” LeGrand suggested. “Would you prefer to have the paintings brought here?”
“I would prefer that you come to my house. Just a moment.”
She took a pen and small leather-bound pad from her purse and wrote out an address.
“I trust you can find this,” she said, giving the piece of paper to LeGrand. “It’s a white house, set back from the road, surrounded with high hedges.”
They discussed directions for finding the house while the Saint watched in silence, wondering just how he could insure that his acquaintance with Mademoiselle Lambrini could be kept active and developing. He would have had the same thoughts even if there had not been paintings and police and a couple of million dollars involved... some of which. might eventually be coaxed into his own pockets. Miss Lambrini was what in the coarser forms of detective fiction might have been called a doll. She had the sort of imperious beauty that seems challenging the world to conquer it, and the continuing sight of her had the same effect on Simon that the sight of Mount Everest must have on a dedicated mountain climber.
She got to her feet with the same crisp abruptness that had characterised all her movements.
“Very well,” she said. “Ten-thirty in the morning. I should have preferred today because I have my own plans to consider, but if you can come to a decision tomorrow I shall be satisfied.”
“I trust we shall all be satisfied,” LeGrand said. “And I shall have my check book with me.”
“Good. I hope I can trust both of you to refrain from discussing this with anyone. I have... specific reasons to worry.”
A shadow crossed her face when she spoke the last words. Simon took it as a cue.
“Maybe you should tell us more about that side of things,” he said.
“I need no help,” she replied. “Good day.”
They were at the door, and LeGrand opened it for her.
“Good day, Mademoiselle Lambrini. Monsieur Templar, if you will remain here briefly I can show you...”
“I think I’ll walk with Mademoiselle Lambrini,” the Saint told him. “You’ll hear from me later today.”
“I have told you I need no help,” the woman said. “I’m quite capable of walking unassisted.”
“I won’t offer you my protection, then,” the Saint said amiably. “Just my charming company.”
“I had hoped that you might be interested in Mademoiselle Lambrini’s paintings,” LeGrand said. “It is certainly the opportunity of a lifetime to share in.”
“At the moment I’m more interested in Mademoiselle Lambrini,” Simon said hurriedly. “I’ll telephone you. She’s getting away.”
She was in fact out of the door and walking quickly out of viewing range from the windows of the salon. The Saint ignored LeGrand’s protestations, shook the dealer’s nervously damp hand, and strode away after the woman. He could see her blonde head among the people gathered at a crossing half a block away. She turned to the left at the intersection, but the Saint was already gaining on her rapidly. She was easy to follow, taller than most women, and the afternoon sun made a beacon of the lightness of her hair.
About five doors down the new street she had taken, the Saint caught up with her. Before she noticed him he quietly fell into step alongside her. When she happened to look round and notice him she gave a start and then a short humorless laugh.
“Is there more than one of you?” she asked, still in that tantalizingly accented French. “Or are you the same gentleman I asked to leave me alone just a minute ago?”