“That’s how it has to be. You can’t turn it down. If you can louse me up, I can do the same to you.”
The Saint smiled.
“That isn’t the point. You’re forgetting something. Remember when you were the damsel in distress, and I was all set up to be the knight in shining armor? You had the right idea then.”
“You hijacked me,” she said sultrily, “like any other crook.
“But I didn’t keep the spoils, like any other crook, he said imperturbably. “I found out how much Northwade had under paid that young inventor, and I sent him the difference — anonymously. Minus, of course, my ten-per-cent commission.”
She was not quite incredulous.
“I’ve heard stories like that about you, but I didn’t believe them.”
“They happen to be true. Call me crazy, but that’s my racket... Now in this case, it seems to me that most of the value of that necklace ought to go back to the poor bloody Indians who were sweated by the maharajah to pay for it while the British Government, as represented by Lord and Lady Offchurch, were benevolently sipping tea in the palace. So if you helped, I might let you have another ten per cent for yourself, but that’s all. And you can’t turn it down. Don’t forget you can louse me up, I can do the same to you.”
She sat down in another chair and looked upwards at him under lowered brows, and her gray eyes had the darkness of storm clouds.
“You certainly make it tough — stranger,” she said, and her smile was thin.
“Can’t I sell you a good cause, just once?”
“I think your cause stinks, but I have to buy it. You don’t give me any choice. Damn you.”
The Saint laughed. He crossed to her and held out his hand.
“Okay, Jeannine.”
She put her cool fingers firmly in his, and he knew, he knew quite surely, that the handshake was as false as the way her eyes cleared. The certainty was so real that it was a fleeting chill inside him, and he knew that now they were committed to a duel in which no tricks could be ruled out. But his gaze matched hers for frankness and straightforwardness, and he said, “Well now, pardner, let’s know what track you were on.”
“I was on the Coast when she arrived. I was working out on a producer. He took me to a party that she was at. I knew I couldn’t risk her in Hollywood, but I found out that New Orleans was the first place she wanted to stop over in on her way East. So right away this was my home town. I took the next plane here and got hold of this apartment, and don’t ask how. Then I wired her the address and said I was sorry I’d been called away suddenly but she must look me up and let me show her the town. Then I spent my time with a guidebook finding out what to show her.”
“As an inspirational worker, it’s an honor to know you,” Simon murmured approvingly. “Of course, you can’t belong to an old Creole family, because you can’t introduce her around. So what are you — an artist?”
“A writer. I’m getting material for a novel.”
“Which the producer was interested in.”
“Exactly.”
“And how did you figure the job?”
She was silent for a few moments, her eyes turned to a corner but not looking at anything.
“I’ve been able to get the necklace in my hands long enough to count the pearls while I was admiring them, and take a wax impression of one of them for size. I’m having an imitation made in New York. As soon as it gets here, I’ve only got to make the switch.”
Simon showed his respect.
“You can write scripts for me, any time,” he said.
“Now tell me your angle,” she responded.
“Darling, I never had one.”
She stared.
“What?”
“I didn’t even know Lady Offchurch was here, until that guy I was having dinner with pointed her out and practically dared me to steal her necklace. He just happens to be the local Gestapo.”
Gun metal glinted in the gray eyes.
“Why, you chiseling...” Then she laughed a little. “So you do it to me again. Why do you always have to be bad news, stranger? It could have been so much fun.”
“It still could be,” he said impudently, but she stood up and slipped past him towards the sideboard. He strolled lazily after her and said, “By the way, when do you expect to get that imitation?”
“Maybe the day after tomorrow.”
And again he felt that tenuous cold touch of disbelief, but he kept it to himself, and held out his glass for a refill.
“On account of Wendel — that’s the name of the gendarme — I’d better not risk being seen with you in public.” He looked across the alcove into the kitchen, and said as the idea struck him, “Tell you what — if we can’t eat out together, we can still dine. I’ll bring some stuff in tomorrow and start fixing. I forgot to tell you before, but I’m as good as any chef in this town.”
“You just got a job,” she said.
He went back to his hotel in a haze of thought. The cool drafts of skepticism which had whispered around him began to reward him with the exhilaration of walking on the thin ice which they created. He was a fool for danger, and he always would be.
This was danger, as real as a triggered guillotine. It was true that she had no choice about accepting his terms — out loud. But it wasn’t in keeping with her character as he knew it to accept them finally. And she had been just a little too evasive at one point and too acquiescent at another. It didn’t balance. But when the catch would show was something he could only wait for.
He went to her apartment the next afternoon, laden with the brown paper bags of marketing. She made him a drink in the kitchen while he unpacked and went to work with quick and easy efficiency.
“What are we having?”
“Oxtail.” He smiled at her lift of expression. “And don’t despise it. It was always destined for something rarer than soup.”
He was slicing onions and carrots.
“These — browned in butter. Then we make a bed of them in a casserole, with plenty of chopped parsley and other herbs. Then, the joints packed neatly in, like the crowd at a good fire. And then, enough red wine to cover it, and let it soak for hours.”
“When does it cook?”
“When you come home tonight. I’ll drop in for a nightcap, and we’ll watch it get started. Then it cools overnight, and tomorrow we take off the grease and finish it... You’d better let me have a key, in case you’re late.”
“Why don’t you just move in?” He grinned.
“I guess you forgot to invite me. But I’ll manage.” He trimmed fat from the joints, while the frying pan hissed gently with liquescent butter. “Did the mailman deliver?”
“It didn’t come today.”
And once again it was like a Geiger counter clicking to the intrusion of invisible radioactivity, the way his intuition tingled deep down at her reply.
He said, pleasantly, “I hope you really do know as much about me as you indicated once.”
“How do you mean?”
“I shouldn’t want you to be worrying about whether I’m going to double-cross you again. I made a deal with you, and when I make deals they stay made. It’s only when someone else starts dealing from the bottom that all bets are off.”
“Obviously,” she said, with cool indifference.
She let him take a key to the apartment when he left, and that alone told him to save himself the trouble of returning for a search while she was out. If there was anything she didn’t want him to find, it would certainly not be there.
He had taken routine precautions against being followed when he went to the Bienville, but as he turned into the lobby of the Hotel Monteleone the chunky figure of Lieutenant Wendel rose from an armchair to greet him.
“Had a nice afternoon, Saint?”
“Very nice, thank you,” Simon replied calmly, and the detective’s face began to darken.