“But why would Adrian do it?” she protested. “He mayn’t be a great artist yet, but I know he wouldn’t be a crook.”
“Not even if they gave him a sales talk about what they might do to you if he didn’t co-operate?”
Julie sat pondering for a moment, then abruptly raised her eyes to meet Simon’s: “What’ll they do with him when he’s finished the painting?”
“I’m sorry you asked that question,” the Saint replied. “I’m not sure that Pargit knows yet. He’s probably hoping that things will work out so that he can just let Adrian go when it’s all over. Your brother won’t be told everything that’s going on. Pargit may think that a pay-off and a warning to keep his mouth shut will be enough. But Caffin’s a cautious type; and a rougher type. I’m afraid he may come up with a more drastic way of guaranteeing that Adrian will keep the secret.”
Julie jumped to her feet.
“We can’t just sit here talking about it! We’ll have to get the police, and...” She started towards the telephone, changed her mind after two steps, and swarmed over the wire player with all ten fingers. “We even heard where they’re keeping him. Let’s play it back. How do you work this thing?”
“You’re going to feel awfully silly if you erase the evidence,” said the Saint with dry restraint.
But Julie had managed to light upon the rewind control, and the tape responded with shrill backward gibberish. She kept pushing at the side of it as if that could prod it to go faster.
“If you want to become a model you’ll have to learn what to do with your hands,” Simon remarked.
The conspicuous members of her anatomy upon which he was commenting flapped near his face like a pair of distraught pigeons.
“How’ll we find the place where they talk about where he is?” Julie begged.
“Just wait a few more seconds.”
As if he could somehow make sense out of the high-pitched squawking of the reversed wire, the Saint sat alertly watching the machine. Then reached out and with a quick movement brought the rewind to a halt.
“I’d better ring up the police now,” Julie said. “We’ll be hunting through that recording all night.”
“No we won’t,” Simon contradicted. “Listen.”
He started the tape forward, just at the moment in the clandestine meeting when Caffin ended a sentence with: “so everything is going fine, but the sooner you can get your blooming Rembrandt Junior to finish his job the happier I’ll be,” and Pargit began a sentence with: “Very well. How exactly do 1 find this place where you’re keeping him?”
Julie gaped at Simon, pointing at the recorder.
“Now how in the world did you know exactly where to stop it?”
“Being born almost superhuman is a big help,” he said modestly.
“Oh, you!”
“We’re missing the whole thing,” he said, and ran the wire back so that they could hear Pargit ask his question again.
Caffin’s voice replied: “One of my boys can give you a ride when you want it.”
“I’m perfectly capable of driving myself down there,” Pargit insisted. “Norcombe’s not your personal property. And that’s my Rembrandt you’ve got down there.”
“Fifty per cent yours,” Caffin corrected. “But as far as I’m concerned, Rembrandt Junior is all yours. He’s more trouble than a whole bloody old folks’ home.”
“Eccentric type,” Pargit agreed. “How do I find him?”
“Like you were going to Bournemouth on the road round the top of the New Forest. But when you come to the River Avon you continue on across it into Dorset. Then... you’d best look for The Happy Huntsman on your right after you...” Caffin must have moved across the room, for his voice faded and the next few words were indistinct. “... old road between stone walls. It’s an old farmhouse, the only place round, stone like the walls, with a red kind of thing in front where there used to be a well.”
“I’ll recognise it.”
“Don’t expect a candle burning in the window for you. There’s only a couple of rooms we use, upstairs. Just to be sure none of my chaps bashes you, knock on the front door like this — three times fast, three times slow.” Knuckles rapped on wood. “And don’t try walking in until somebody opens up for you.”
Simon shut off the recorder. “That’s it. Everything but a map.”
“May I call the police now?”
“We are not going to call the police,” said the Saint firmly. “And in case you get any ideas about calling them when I’m not listening, I can assure you that you’ll be putting your brother’s life in serious danger.”
“Why?” she demanded.
“Because he’s the most damaging evidence round, and a lot more trouble to hide than a painting. If that gang gets any idea that the kitten is out of the sack, you can credit yourself with making him instantly expendable.”
Julie was stymied. She tried to think of some retort, then crossly folded her arms.
“And I suppose you can take care of the whole thing perfectly all by yourself?”
“I think so,” the Saint replied calmly.
“Well, when?”
“In the morning. Your brother’s safe for now, and there’s something else I want to do tonight.”
He left her still questioning and protesting, but more or less resigned to the necessity of obeying his orders.
“If you can’t sleep, pack a few things,” he told her. “Including some walking shoes.” He paused at the door. “Do you enjoy watching birds?” he asked.
“Birds?” she exclaimed, in the final throes of exasperation.
“Just a thought,” he said lightly. “See you in the morning. Eat a good breakfast.”
When he arrived to pick her up, at 9:30 in the morning, she was waiting at the door with an inexpensive suitcase already in the hall.
“Beautiful day for a drive, isn’t it?” he drawled. “You look lovely. The weather’s perfect. What more could a man ask?”
In his festive mood he suddenly swept up her hand and kissed it. She blushed but did not pull away.
“You look very pleased with yourself, I must say,” she remarked. “Did you enjoy yourself last night?” “Immensely!”
He picked up her suitcase, watched her lock the door, and led the way briskly out to his waiting Hirondel.
“Out on the town, I suppose,” she said jealously. “As a matter of fact, no. I was breaking and entering.”
“Breaking and entering what?” she asked with alarm.
“The Leonardo Galleries.”
She sank into the passenger seat, looking a little stunned. Only after Simon had gunned the engine to life and pulled away from the kerb did she manage her next question. “You don’t mean that you actually broke in there?” “That’s exactly what I do mean.” He slipped the car into second gear and it hurtled forward breath-takingly. “There were one or two things I wanted to confirm. The most interesting fact I uncovered was that the owner of the Rembrandt, who doesn’t yet know it’s a real Rembrandt, is Lord Oldenshaw. You’ve heard of Lord Oldenshaw? A very rich gentleman, and soon to be a lot richer when he gets his painting back.”
“How did you get in that place?” Julie asked.
“Oh, I decoyed a constable, picked a lock, then just pulled out my flashlight and settled down to go through Cyril’s files. Then I put everything back just the way it had been before I got there, locked the door behind me, and went home and had a nightcap.” Julie continued to stare at him.