"Your name?" said the Saint faintly.
"Yes sir. Reginald. That was pretty good, that was. But I suppose you've got pretty near the 'ole police force of the country taped, haven't you?"
The Saint swallowed. He searched unavailingly for an adequate reply.
Fortunately his anguished efforts were cut short by the blessed advent of two large cars that rolled up to the steps at the entrance of the building, and a spontaneous movement of the crowd drew the policeman back to his job. The Saint took out his cigarette case with a feeling of precarious relief and watched the cars disgorge the dignified shapes of Luker, Fairweather, Sir Robert and Lady Sangore, and Lady Valerie Woodchester.
"It must be wonderful to be famous," remarked Peter Quentin reverently.
"Get yourself some reflected glory," said the Saint. "Take Pat inside — I'm going to float around for a bit."
He waited while they disappeared, and presently followed them in. Immediately inside the entrance was a fair-sized hall in which a number of people were standing about, conversing in cathedral mutters. There were single doors on each side, and a double pair facing the entrance which opened into the main room where the inquest was to take place. Near these farther doors Lady Valerie was standing alone, waiting, rather impatiently tapping the ground with one trim-shod foot. Simon went over to her.
"Good morning," he said.
She turned languidly and inspected him, one finely arched eyebrow slightly raised. She had lovely eyes, large and dark and sparkling, shaded by very long lashes. Her dark hair gleamed with a warm autumn richness. The poise of her exquisitely modelled head, the angle of her childishly tip-tilted nose, the curl of her pretty lips, proclaimed her utter and profound disinterest in Simon Templar.
"What's happened to Luker and the others?" Simon asked. "I saw them come in with you just now."
"They're in the office talking to the coroner, if you want them," she said indifferently. Then suddenly she lost some of her indifference. "Are you a reporter?"
"No," said the Saint regretfully. "But I could get you one. May I compliment you on your taste in clothes. I always did like that dress."
He knew the dress very well, since he had helped Patricia to choose it.
Lady Valerie stared at him hard for a moment and then her expression changed completely. It ceased altogether to be cold and disdainfuclass="underline" her features became animated with eagerness.
"Oh," she said. "How silly of me! Of course I remember you now. You're the hero, aren't you?"
"Am I?"
She frowned a little.
"Not that I really hoot a lot about this hero business," she went on. "I daresay it's all very fine for great he-men to go rushing about dripping with sweat and doing noble things, but I think there ought to be special places set apart for them to perform in."
"You were rescued yourself the other night, weren't you?" said the Saint pleasantly.
"Rescued? My good man, I was simply thrown about like an old sack. When the fire alarm went off I didn't realize what it was for a moment, and then when Don Knightley came charging into my room with his hair standing on end and his eyes sticking out and his ears absolutely flapping with the most frightful emotion I merely thought I was in for a fate worse than death, and believe me I was. I mean, all's fair in love and war and all that sort of thing, but to be heaved up by one arm and one leg and slung over a man's bony shoulder, and then to be galloped about over miles of lawn with your only garment flapping up around your neck…"
She seemed to be expecting sympathy.
Simon laughed.
"It must have been rather trying," he admitted. "I haven't seen my rival today. By the way, where is he?"
"He had to go and change the guard, or something dreary. But it doesn't matter. It's nice to see you again."
She might almost have meant it.
"Next time you want rescuing, you must drop me a line," said the Saint. "I'm told I have a very delicate touch with damsels in distress. Maybe I could give you more satisfaction."
She glanced sideways at him, out of the corners of her eyes. Her lips twitched slightly.
"Maybe you could," she said.
"All the same," Simon continued resolutely, "it would have been even more trying if you'd been left in your room, wouldn't it?"
Again her expression changed like magic; in a moment she looked utterly woebegone.
"Yes," she said in a low voice. "Like — like John."
She turned wide, distressed eyes on him.
"I–I can't think what could have happened," she said tremulously. "He — he must have heard the alarm, and I–I know he wasn't drunk or anything like that. He couldn't have committed suicide, could he? Nobody would commit suicide like — like that."
She seemed to be begging him to reassure her that Kennet had not committed suicide; there were actually tears in her eyes. Simon was puzzled.
"No, he didn't commit suicide," he answered. "I'll bet anything on that. But why should you think of it?"
"Well, we did have the most awful row," and — and I swore I'd never speak to him again, and he seemed to take it rather to heart. Of course I didn't really mean it, but I was getting awfully fed up with the whole silly business, and he was being terribly stupid and awkward and unreasonable."
"Were you engaged to him, or something like that?"
"Oh no. Of course he may have thought… But then, nobody takes those things seriously. Oh, damn! It's all so hopelessly foul and horrible, and all just because of a silly bet."
"So he may have thought you were in love with him. You'd let him think so. Is that it?" Simon persisted.
"Yes, I suppose so, if you put it that way. But what else could I do?"
She stared at him indignantly, as if she were denying a thoroughly unjust accusation.
"I bet you wouldn't see a thousand-guinea fur coat that you were simply aching to have go slipping away just because you couldn't make a bit of an effort with a man," she said vehemently. "And it was in a good cause, too."
The Saint smiled sympathetically. He still hadn't much idea what she was talking about, but he knew with a tumultuous certainty that he was getting somewhere. Out of all that confusion something clear and revealing must emerge within another minute or two — if only luck gave him that other minute. He was aware that his pulses were beating a shade faster.
"Was John going to give you a fur coat?" he inquired.
"John? My dear, don't be ridiculous. John would never have given me a fur coat. Why, he never even took me anywhere in a taxi."
She paused.
"He wasn't mean," she added quickly. "You mustn't think that. He was terribly generous, really, even though he didn't have much money. But he used to spend it all on frightfully earnest things, like books and lectures and Brotherhood of Man leagues and all that sort of thing." She shook her head dejectedly. "He used to work so hard and study such a lot and have such impossible ideals, and now… If only he'd had a good time first, it wouldn't seem quite so bad somehow," she said chokingly. "But he just wouldn't have a good time. He was much too earnest."
"He probably enjoyed himself in his own way," said the Saint consolingly. "But about this fur coat. Where was that coming from?"
"Oh, that was Mr Fairweather," she answered. "Of course he's got simply lashings of money; a thousand guineas is simply nothing to him. You see, he thought it would be quite a good thing if John became reconciled with his father and stopped being stupid, and then he thought that if John was engaged to me — only in a sort of unofficial way, of course — I could make him stop being stupid. So he bet me a thousand-guinea fur coat to see if I could do it. So of course I had to try."
"Did you have any luck?"