Now the girl’s voice became more angry than hysterical.
“I’m a complete idiot! I believed the whole thing! And Adrian’s probably dead or something!”
She started crying.
“Don’t be so pessimistic,” Simon said, trying to counter her despair with reassurance. “If anyone had killed your brother it wouldn’t have served much purpose to use four men — men you might identify later — just to sell you on a fake version of where he’d be for the next few days or weeks. I certainly don’t think he’s dead. Assuming he’s taken an involuntary leave of absence, whoever’s got him must plan to keep him for some time — otherwise why go to so much trouble to stop you reporting him as missing? So I don’t imagine he’s in any immediate danger.”
“But why would anybody want to kidnap him?” Julie argued. “Nobody in our family is rich.”
“Maybe you can help answer that,” said the Saint. “Any ideas?”
“No. I can’t imagine Adrian doing anything except painting. He never had an ordinary job.”
“Any strong political views?”
“No political views at all. He never joined anything.”
“What about trips abroad?”
“He couldn’t afford them. I suppose he’s been doing better lately than he used to, but he certainly wouldn’t have much spare cash for foreign holidays.”
“It hardly sounds like the traditional picture of an artist’s life. What about friends? Girlfriends?”
“He never mentioned any girls. He must have friends, but I don’t know who they are. Adrian’s very quiet.”
Simon got to his feet.
“May I see his studio?”
Julie took him back through the hall to the room at the rear of the flat where her brother’s sketches, paintings, and working paraphernalia filled most of the floor space.
“This is just the way he left it,” she said.
For a long time Simon did not say anything. He moved about the studio, stopping for a while in front of each of Adrian Norcombe’s creations, occasionally going back to one, comparing it with another. When he had made a complete circuit of the room, he went back to the large half-finished painting in the middle of the studio, and then turned to Julie.
“Is everything here his work?” he asked.
“I think so,” she replied. “Do you like them?”
“Well, they’re very interesting,” the Saint remarked. “Every one of these paintings is very good.” He leaned close to the big canvas, moving the tips of his fingers very lightly over the surface. “Technically, they’re brilliant. He seems to be able to make a brush do anything he wants it to do. But he makes it do something different each time. I mean, each painting in here could have been done by a different man. There’s no continuity in the style.” He turned back to Julie, wanting to draw her out more. “Don’t you agree?”
She nodded a little reluctantly, as if by agreeing she would be criticising her brother.
“Adrian said almost the same thing about himself,” she admitted. “He said he couldn’t seem to find his own personal style. I guess he learned to paint mostly by copying masterpieces in museums, and he never grew out of it. That’s what he said. He’s really made most of his money restoring paintings, or making copies for people. Even when he tried to paint something entirely his own, he said it came out looking like somebody else’s.”
Simon indicated the bucolic scene on which Adrian had been working.
“Titian in this case, Didn’t he ever go in for twentieth-century styles?”
“I suppose not. He doesn’t think much of modern painting. He loves the old masters.”
The Saint nodded almost abruptly.
“I’d better be going now. Thanks very much for everything you’ve told me and shown me.”
The suddenly almost formal way he spoke to her suggested that he wanted to break off the discussion and get on with something he considered more urgent. Julie took it to mean that he was dropping the whole subject.
“But what are we going to do?” she asked half frantically. “If my brother’s been kidnapped we must call the police. That man Pargit—”
“Is our only lead at the moment,” Simon interrupted. “He’s much more likely to show us the way to your brother if he doesn’t suspect anyone’s on to him than if the police land on him. There must be quite a group involved in addition to Pargit if they had three men round here posing as Special Branch officers. And the stakes must be pretty high to merit all that manpower.”
“But the police are trained to handle things like this, aren’t they?”
“If it makes you feel any better, an inspector from Scotland Yard was in Pargit’s emporium this afternoon, and I’m sure that even though he doesn’t know about your brother yet he’s taking a close and continuing interest in the Leonardo Galleries. Believe me, if Scotland Yard hears about the Fawkes caper it won’t be a well-kept secret; somebody among the enemy is almost sure to get on to the fact that you’re being questioned. Since it’s so important to them to keep anybody from knowing that your brother has disappeared, it might be very unhealthy for him if he became a hot potato.”
Julie stood in the living-room near the front door. She looked almost tearful again, tired and distraught and discouraged.
“Do you mean that we just have to wait?”
“No. I mean that in a case like this I’m a lot more confident in my own methods than I am in Scotland Yard’s. Within a few hours after I leave here, Pargit isn’t going to have a minute of privacy. He won’t know it, but I’ll know exactly what he’s up to. I don’t like waiting any more than you do, but if we’re patient for just a little while we should be able to get a lead on what’s going on.”
“How will I know?” Julie asked.
“I’ll be keeping in close touch with you — which would be a pleasure even if it weren’t a necessity. And if you need to contact me, here’s a number you can call. Keep trying until I answer. And one thing in particular: Considering our enemy’s tactics, don’t go anywhere with any stranger, even if he proves to you that he’s a policeman or a detective — especially if he proves he’s a policeman or a detective. All right?”
“All right.”
Simon opened the door, stepped outside after a glance up and down the street, and smiled at her. “Don’t worry. We’ll find your brother. And as soon as I’ve contacted a couple of unsavoury acquaintances of mine and put them to work, I’d be glad to start giving you a personally conducted tour of London. You got off to a bad start, but you’ll see what a great time a beautiful girl can have here.”
“I don’t know how a beautiful girl would feel, but I’d enjoy getting out.”
Simon studied her face for a moment. “Is that false modesty, or do you really not know you’re beautiful?”
“I know I’m not beautiful.” The Saint shook his head as he turned to go. “I can see I’m also going to have to give you a conducted tour of yourself.”
Chapter 6
“Hullo, Archibald,” said the Saint cheerfully. “How would you and your creepy confederate like to earn a few dishonest quid?”
The little man was startled when the Saint slipped as soundlessly as an escaped shadow into the wooden chair beside him. Then his face split into a grin like a dropped melon, revealing the rotting pits of his teeth.
“Simon!” he said in a hushed voice trained never to be overheard by anyone more than three inches from his elbow. “Fancy seeing you ’ere! Now you’re so bleedin’ famous, I never thought you’d be down in our neighbourhood no more.”