“No. My name is Simon Templar, and I don’t think any occupational label would fit me.”
For many people, the mention of his name would have been explanation enough, but this girl showed no immediate recognition.
“I have what you might call independent means, and my hobby is helping damsels in distress. You looked to me very much like a distressed damsel, and that’s why I followed you. Now why would you ask if I’m a detective or policeman?”
A waitress brought two coffees, and strawberries and cream for the girl.
“It seems that everybody I’ve met since I got to London is a detective or something like that.”
“Well, I’m definitely not,” Simon assured her. “But I think I do have the distinction of having discovered a café that makes the worst coffee in the world. How are the strawberries?”
“Delicious, thank you.”
“Would you like to tell me what was bothering you when you looked into that art gallery, and possibly also enlighten me about all those detectives?”
The girl spooned up another ripe strawberry, and ate it before she replied.
“I still don’t know anything at all about you,” she said.
“I don’t even know your name,” the Saint parried.
“Julie Norcombe.”
“Well, before I start telling you anything else about myself, would you answer one question for me: How well do you know Cyril Pargit?”
The girl shook her head.
“Who’s Cyril Pargit?”
“What about Chief Inspector Teal of Scotland Yard?” Simon asked. “Do you know him?”
“I’ve never heard of him. Who are these people?”
“What about the woman with the platinum hair and silver dress who was in the gallery when you came in? Do you know her?”
“No. I never saw her before. You certainly do ask as many questions as a detective.”
Simon sat back in his chair and tapped a knuckle against his lips before responding.
“Well, then,” he said, “the man who was talking to the woman with the silver dress — who is he?”
Julie Norcombe let her spoon remain in the half-finished bowl of strawberries. “He seemed to work in the place, and to be selling that woman a painting.”
“Does that surprise you?” Simon asked.
“Well, yes.”
“Why should it? After all, he’s the owner.”
“He owns that art gallery?”
“Yes, he does.”
She was openly astonished.
“I don’t suppose he has a twin brother, does he?”
“Not that I know of.
“I think the picture’s developed enough for us to hang it up to dry,” said the Saint. He leaned towards her and spoke swiftly. “You know Cyril Pargit, but you know him under another name. An obvious reason would be the married man trying to keep the girlfriend from finding out he has a wife. Girlfriend comes to London, stumbles on him in a place he isn’t supposed to be, et cetera. The only trouble with that is that Cyril doesn’t have a wife. But he could be trying to keep two or more girlfriends from discovering one another’s existence. Is it anything that simple?”
“No,” she said almost indignantly. “I’m not an absolute idiot. But you’re right about the part where I know that man by a different name. Except of course that it just isn’t possible.”
“Tell me why.”
“I can’t.”
“Apparently you think there’s some danger involved if you tell me?”
“I... Yes.”
“Well, suppose we make a trade. I’m going to tell you something which you could use to spoil everything I’m trying to do at the moment. All you have to do is tip Pargit off and I’m licked before I start. But I can’t expect you to stick your neck out if I don’t.” He pushed his almost untasted coffee aside and rested his forearms on the table. “I believe that dear Cyril is a con-man and a fraud. In fact I know he is, but perhaps not in a way that makes him liable to arrest just at the moment. I’ve taken an interest in it because he cheated an old lady who’s a friendly neighbour of mine. Does that help?” Julie Norcombe nodded. “Well, then, how about telling me why you’re interested.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” she said tensely. “I’ve been told that I’ll be breaking the law if I say anything. Let me see how I can put it... Something happened. Some people who said they were with the Special Branch came to where I live and told me not to say anything to anybody, but to see a man at Whitehall who would explain it all to me. I went to Whitehall and saw the man, and he told me not to say anything to anybody. He even told me not to tell anybody I’d seen him, so you see, I’m already getting into trouble. Except — the man I saw at Whitehall is the same man I just saw at that gallery...”
“Cyril Pargit,” the Saint said.
“That’s right.”
“Very strange indeed. What department was this Whitehall man in?”
“Something to do with the Official Secrets Acts. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but his name was Fawkes.”
“And you saw him in Whitehall?”
“Yes. In an office there.”
“And you won’t tell me what it was that happened that got you sent to see this Guy Fawkes in the first place?”
She was very subdued, very nervous about what she had told him already and the fact that she desperately wanted to tell him more.
“My brother was arrested. He didn’t come home the night before last, and they came and told me he’d been arrested.”
“In connection with the Official Secrets Act?” Simon filled in. “What does your brother do that involves him with official secrets?”
Julie spread her hands helplessly.
“Nothing! Nothing at all that I know of. He’s an artist. I don’t think he’d know an official secret if he found it on his dinner plate.”
Noting she had finished her strawberries and drunk all her coffee, Simon asked her if she would like anything more. When she said no, he signalled the waitress for the bill.
“What are your plans for the rest of the afternoon?” he asked her.
“I don’t have any, now,” she said. “I really...” Suddenly, like a cloud crossing the sun, tears filmed her eyes. “I think I’ll just go home.”
“I’ll see that you get there safely,” Simon told her. “It sounds as if you’re up against a conspiracy of some kind. We may just have to form a little conspiracy of our own.”
Chapter 5
On the taxi ride to Chelsea, the Saint pieced together the chips and splinters of information that Julie Norcombe reluctantly, fearfully divulged. By the time they reached her brother’s flat he knew all about her coming to London, her brother’s profession and personality, and everything that had passed since that evening when Adrian had gone out and not returned. Simon was playing with those scanty details in his head, trying not to rush his conclusions, but angling for different patterns, searching for possibilities that might be overlooked if he let his attention become fixed on one interpretation. Whatever storm was brewing, with Cyril Pargit near or at its centre, gave fascinating new dimensions to the problem he had set out to explore earlier that same day. Here was something even more intriguing than an encounter with a mere unctuous opportunist of the art trade who was technically guilty of little more than being too imaginative in his sales talks.
The Saint helped Julie out of the taxi and she was surprised when he paid the driver instead of getting back into the cab himself.
“I don’t mean to push myself on you,” he said, still very careful of this jumpy girl’s apprehensions. “But I don’t think we’ve quite finished our business yet.”
His approach to her was hampered by the knowledge that she had a lot less reason to trust him than she had Mr Fawkes or the Special Branch officers who had called on the night of her brother’s disappearance. Simon’s biggest trump was the force of his own sincerity. With people who deserved no better, or in circumstances that demanded it, he was capable of the most outrageously convincing pretences, and of feats of simulation that would have aroused the envy of many a seasoned actor. But now, when he was being himself, and totally honest, his persuasiveness was really overwhelming. It helped to be as handsome as he was, to speak and dress as he did (people always seem to trust the educated rich), and to have such an air of self-confidence that you could not imagine him ever needing to do anything underhanded. But at the root of his power to draw people to him and inspire their trust was something intangible, an invisible aura which surrounded his body and flowed from his incredible eyes which was practically irresistible.