“Read the dates when they were taken,” suggested the Saint. Daly read the date stamped in the corner on the back of each print.
“Tenth July 49... Tenth July 49.” Daly frowned, puzzled. “Well, he couldn’t have been in two places at once... Wait a minute, the photos must have been taken a few hours apart — Nassau in the afternoon or evening, Lisbon later on... No, that’s no good, no plane would get him there that fast. Must be a misprint.”
Simon nodded thoughtfully.
“Mind if I borrow these two?”
“Help yourself — just don’t flash ’em around on your way out.”
The Saint was willing to admit to himself that this duplicate tycoon had him, at that moment, completely perplexed. He was as reluctant to believe in the possibility of perfect impersonation as in the existence of talking dogs; yet here was this Patroclos double, seemingly breaking all the rules. And the two photographs appeared to clinch the issue. Simon’s reasoning on that had followed much the same course as Joe Daly’s: two photos had been taken no more than a few hours apart, and each showed unmistakeably a man who appeared to be Patroclos; but it was an inescapable fact that no aircraft could possibly have flown him from Nassau to Lisbon in those few hours. In any case there was a time lag of several hours, which made it all the more inconceivable that he could have travelled from one engagement to the other.
After leaving the Express building Simon drove to Berkeley Square, where Patroclos had his London house. Simon cruised around the square until he came to the number Patroclos had given him. And then, to put it mildly, he blinked his eyes in disbelief.
True, the Patroclos house was one of the most expensive and elegant residences in that expensive and elegant quarter. That was exactly as the Saint had expected. But what he had not expected was to see Diogenes Patroclos and Ariadne getting out of a silver Bentley and going into the house.
For perhaps a minute, the Saint stared after them at the closed door. They had given no sign of noticing his presence, but he had been close enough to them to see that the likeness, if they were doubles of the real Patroclos and Ariadne, was incredible. Certainly, the Saint mused, from a distance of a few feet it was utterly convincing visually. Whether the effect could be sustained at closer quarters, and when voices and mannerisms could be studied, remained to be seen. The Saint had every intention of taking a close look at the two of them, but first there was one obvious check that had to be made.
He drove back to Manson Place and phoned Athens.
After the usual delay he was connected with the Patroclos HQ. He asked for Patroclos, and Ariadne came on the line.
“No, of course we are not in London. We are here in Athens.”
“But I’ve just seen someone here — he could be him.”
“That is impossible. Mr Patroclos is here in his office.”
“Let me speak to him,” said the Saint.
Ariadne hesitated.
“He is in conference. He gave strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed.”
“Get him to the phone — now,” Simon said flatly, “or I quit the job.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“All right,” Ariadne replied. “But he will be very angry. And you will have to wait while I interrupt the meeting.”
After some delay Simon heard Patroclos’ familiar accents on the line.
“Templar — I am told you have seen the impostor. Why are you wasting time telephoning, instead of watching him?”
“I just wanted to be quite sure,” explained the Saint, “that it was the impostor I saw.”
“I am here in Athens. If you have seen the impostor, it should make your job easier. Now I am very busy. Please do not waste my time telling me that I am being impersonated. That I already know. Goodbye.”
There was a definitive clunk on the line, followed by a silence that effectively terminated all argument.
The Saint hung up and remained wrapped in thought for many minutes afterwards.
However, he had certain other private interests of some insistence with legitimate demands on his time, so that it was not until the evening that his meditations reverted entirely to the problems of Diogenes Patroclos, as his peregrinations took the Hirondel again through Berkeley Square. And it happened that he was cruising past Patroclos’ house just as an easily recognisable “society” couple in evening dress got out of a chauffeur-driven car. They rang the bell; the door opened, and they were admitted at once, but not so quickly that Simon missed catching a glimpse of someone shaped like Ariadne who was doing the reception. By the time he had a chance to stop without creating a block of honking traffic, another evening-dressed and equally publicised couple arrived and were admitted by Ariadne’s double in the same manner. And then the Saint’s eyes widened in amazement as he realised the extent of the fake Patroclos’ sheer barefaced audacity.
5
The impostor was giving a party.
For a few blissful minutes, the Saint sat in the car and savoured the full rich succulence of the situation. He watched as more guests — a dozen or so more — arrived. And then he spoke philosophically calming words to himself and went home to change into a more suitable costume than he was wearing.
Thirty minutes later, immaculately tuxedoed for the occasion, he knocked at the door of the Berkeley Square house. It was opened by the girl who looked like Ariadne; and the likeness was passable enough; but Simon was certain that this was not the girl he had met in Athens.
“Ariadne!” cried the Saint, with a complete show of spontaneous warmth. “And looking more beautiful than ever!”
The girl’s eyes flickered with puzzlement.
“Have we met somewhere?”
“Monte Carlo. Simon Templar. We shared a langouste at the Hotel de Paris, I seem to remember.”
“I... I think you must be mistaken,” said the girl slowly.
Simon’s brain was racing to make her reaction add up to some kind of sense. If she was impersonating the real Ariadne, he reasoned, surely she should be bluffing it out?
“Oh dear, forgotten incident, are we?” Simon did his best to look hurt. “Well, never mind — just tell Dio Tin here, would you?”
Ariadne Two flushed and hesitated; she must have known that the name Simon Templar appeared nowhere on the guest list, but she was reluctant to turn him away in case Patroclos himself had invited this tall and insolently handsome man and forgotten to let her know.
“I suppose it’s all right,” she said reluctantly. “You’d better come in.”
“Right ho,” said the Saint, who was already halfway into the hall.
His keen glance took in the crystal chandeliers and bracket-lights, the magnificent gilt mirror, the marble floor and columns, the elegant carved staircase. Georgian classic at its best. Coats and furs bulged from the cloaks recess behind the front door, and an upper-class babble of voices issued from the drawing room into which Simon followed the dubious-faced Ariadne Two.
About twenty people were standing about in typical party groups, drinking champagne and talking, and making more noise about both activities than was strictly necessary. Most of the guests were instantly recognisable, as Simon had already noted, as bigwigs of one sort or another — cultural, social, financial, or in some cases all three.
“Do you know anyone?” Ariadne Two asked.
“Probably,” replied the Saint. “I don’t see Dio, though.”
“He’s busy at the moment. But I’ll tell him you’re here.”
Ariadne Two beckoned over the footman with a tray of drinks; and then, with a last uncertain glance at the Saint’s innocent features, she disappeared through a door at the far end of the room.