She had studied his bronze six feet two inches of superb physical condition and noted the relaxed yet alert way he carried that steel-sprung muscular frame. Her gaze had lingered on the chiselled piratical features and tried to fathom the elusive light of something like mockery that danced in his reckless blue eyes. She had measured objectively the supreme confidence and competence of his fluid movements, the style and élan and sheer exuberance with which he did even the simplest thing.
And she had approved.
Of course, she had known him before, in the legend. He was the incomparable modern swashbuckling hero, the twentieth century’s brightest buccaneer, the preposterously handsome knight errant whose exploits around the world had made more headlines than some Hollywood starlets had had affairs. His reputation, in short, was as familiar to her as to any of a hundred million of so newspaper readers — to say nothing of Charteris devotees — from Los Angeles to Liverpool, from Tasmania to Togoland.
But now she had seen him for herself, and she had approved.
And he would have had to be at least moderately unobservant — which he was not — to have been unaware of her thorough scrutiny.
“You noticed, then?” she said, because it was something to say.
The Saint didn’t reply at once — or not in words.
He allowed his glance to flit over her — rapidly, but deliberately and pointedly. The travel of that impudent gaze began at her red-gold hair, which was styled in a simple but perfect upsweep; it went on past a face that neither needed nor apparently received much help from artifice but which could still have launched a thousand powerboats; it took in a series of feminine curves which are best described as ripe, correctly positioned, and expensively coutured; and it continued to her ankles, whose sculptural virtues would have defeated the pens of much more highly paid chroniclers than this. And having completed that comprehensive downward voyage, the Saint’s shameless gaze embarked on the return.
An inspection as frank as that could easily have seemed rude, but coming from him it somehow didn’t. He had a feel for these things, seeming to know by effortless instinct how to flatter a civilised woman without running too much risk of offending her. As his eyes swept back up to her face, completing a survey the whole of which had taken a bare few seconds, she met his gaze again calmly without flinching or reddening.
He said simply:
“Yes, I noticed you. I’m sure you know just how beautiful you are.”
It could have been a barbed compliment, but wasn’t. He said it without any imputation of vanity on her part or any embarrassment for himself. He made it sound the most natural remark in the world; and he went on in the same candid way.
“Let’s face it, being inconspicuous isn’t your strong suit. And neither is modesty mine. Sure, I saw you giving me the once-over... and the twice-over. And I’d’ve been as flattered as hell except for one thing.”
She raised an eyebrow in query. She was still smiling.
“A certain notoriety,” he said. “One of whose effects is to make strangers stare a bit from time to time. Even beautiful redheads whom I might be only too pleased to imagine were interested in me simply as a man. Your inspection was certainly rather more persistent than most, though. So I had to reckon with the possibility that you’d be around knocking on my door before long. But I also had to reconcile myself to the fact that, if you did come, it almost certainly wouldn’t be on account of my irresistible manly torso... Mrs Tatenor.”
He threw out the name lightly, knowing it would be no surprise to her that he knew it.
“It’s Arabella,” she said quickly. “But of course you’ve seen me with Charles.” There was a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she went on. “In fact, I seem to remember that you were close enough to our party in the clubhouse yesterday to have seen that I was drinking... gin and tonic.” The Saint sighed.
“You have no faith in my omniscience,” he said sadly.
She eyed the tough-looking broad-shouldered figure swathed in dazzling green who lounged before her, and her lips curved in an enigmatic half-smile.
“No. Only in your — more human powers. And I’ll have you know that your irresistible manly torso does have something to do with that.”
He raised a shocked eyebrow. “You mean you’ve decided I’m man enough for — for whatever it is you have in mind?”
“Even that Noel Coward outfit can’t disguise the capabilities of the Saint,” she said lightly.
It was an agreeable enough game, he thought, this fencing with double entendres. But it wasn’t getting them very far or fast along the road she’d started on when she’d decided to call on him.
“By the way, how did you know my room number?” he asked casually.
She eyed him in amusement.
“I asked the desk clerk when I came in. Isn’t that what you’d have done?”
The Saint took a thoughtful pull at his drink.
“Probably. But I’m not a married lady with a reputation to look after.”
“Reputation phooey!” She made a face. “I don’t give a fig for that sort of notion.”
Her convention-defying stance struck a chord, and Simon grinned.
“The hell with desk clerks,” he agreed. “Anyway, you’re here, having made quite a preliminary investment in reconnaissance.”
He waited patiently. She drank deeply, taking her time.
“Yes. You have a reputation — a particular reputation — for involving yourself in all sorts of troubles. Sometimes other people’s troubles.”
He waited while she downed most of the remaining half of her drink. Then she continued, still giving an impression of some reluctance to come to the point.
“And I know that when you do get involved in something it’s usually because you’ve sniffed out some nasty bit of business for yourself — or some specimen of human vermin you just can’t resist smacking on the snout. But occasionally when you weigh into the affray, it’s because you’ve been asked.”
Simon Templar took a long pull from his own drink — he had some catching up to do — and regarded her soberly. (They were weakish drinks.) He studied her relaxed posture, her calm face, her big bright untroubled eyes.
“And you’re asking?” he queried.
“Certainly,” she said. “After all, I understand you specialise in damsels in distress.”
2
The Saint smiled inwardly as well as outwardly. It looked as if he had one very out-of-the-ordinary lady here, and he was glad he had the opportunity to get to know her better.
“Of course I do,” he answered. “Doesn’t every self-respecting redblooded knight errant? But...” The upward displacement of one dark eyebrow was minute, but sufficient to suggest a polite skepticism that was barely distinguishable from complete open-mindedness. “But... are you in distress?”
She wrung her hands helplessly and batted her eyelashes at him nineteen to the dozen.
“Is that better?”
They both laughed; and then she said seriously:
“Simon, I may not be as demonstratively in distress as some of your classic damsels. Technically you might even say I’m not in distress at all. Certainly I don’t think I’m in any kind of personal danger.” Here she looked wistful, almost as if she would have rather enjoyed being in personal danger. “All of which may seem to disqualify me as a true dyed-in-the-wool d in d. And all of which is part of the reason why it’s taken me four days to make up my mind to come and see you.”
“And the rest of the reason?”