Baron von Dortvenn scorns the precautions which would be taken by most people who found themselves in charge of such a priceless heirloom.
"Every criminal is a coward," the Baron told an Evening News representative yesterday. "I have been attacked three times in the course of my travels with the bracelet —"
"Sounds like a job for our friend the Fox," remarked Peter Quentin carelessly; and was amazed at the look Simon Templar gave him. It leapt from the Saint's eyes like blued steel.
"Think so?" drawled the Saint.
He skimmed the rest of the half-column, which was mainly concerned with the Baron's boasts of what he would do to anyone who attempted to steal his heirloom. Half-way down there was an inset photograph of a typical Junker with a double chin, close-cropped hair, monocle, and waxed moustaches.
"A nasty-looking piece of work," said the Saint thoughtfully.
Patricia Holm finished her Dry Sack rather quickly. She knew all the signs — and only that afternoon the Saint had hinted that he might behave himself for a week.
"I'm starving," she said.
They went into the restaurant, and the subject might have been forgotten during the Saint's profound study of the menu and wine list, for Simon had a very delicate discrimination in the luxuries of life. Let us say that the subject might have been forgotten — the opportunity to forget it simply did not arise.
"To get the best out of caviare, you should eat it like they used to in Rumania — in half-pound portions, with a soup-ladle," said the Saint, when the cloud of bustling waiters had dispersed.
And then he relaxed in his chair. Relaxed completely, and lighted a cigarette with infinite deliberation.
"Don't look round," he said. "The gent has got to pass our table. Just put it on record that I said I'd be damned."
The other two gazed at him vaguely and waited. A superb chef de restaurant came past, ushering a mixed pair of guests to a table on the other side of the room. One of them was a blonde girl, smartly dressed and rather good-looking in a statuesque way. The other was unmistakably the Baron von Dortvenn.
Simon could hardly keep his eyes off them. He barely trifled with his food, sipped his wine with no more interest than if it had been water, and lighted one cigarette from another with monotonous regularity. When the orchestra changed over to a dance rhythm, he pleaded that he was suffering from corns and left it to Peter Quentin to take Patricia on the floor.
The Baron was apparently not so afflicted.
He danced several times with his companion, and danced very badly. It was after a particularly elephantine waltz that Simon saw the girl, quite openly, dab her eyes with her handkerchief as she left the floor.
He leaned back even more lazily, with his eyes half closed and a cigarette merely smouldering in the corner of his mouth, and continued to watch. The couple were admirably placed for his observations — the girl facing him, and he saw the Baron in profile. And it became very plain to him that a jolly soirée was definitely not being had by all.
The girl and the Baron were arguing — not loudly, but very vehemently — and the Baron was getting red in the face. He was clearly working himself into a vicious rage, and wrath did not make him look any more savoury. The girl was trying to be dignified, but she was breaking down. Suddenly, with a flash of spirit, she said something that obviously struck home. The Baron's eyes contracted, and his big hands fastened on the girl's wrists. Simon could see the knuckles whitening under the skin in the savage brutality of the grip, and the girl winced. The Baron released her with a callous fling of her arm that spilled a fork off the table; and without another word the girl gathered up her wrap and walked away.
She came towards the Saint on her way to the door. He saw that her eyes were faintly rimmed with red, but he liked the steady set of her mouth. Her steps were a little uncertain; as she reached his table she swayed and brushed against it, slopping over a few drops from a newly-filled wine-glass.
"I'm awfully sorry," she said in a low voice.
The Saint snapped a match between his fingers, and held her eyes.
"I saw what happened — let me get you a taxi."
He stood up and came around the table while she started to protest. He led her up the stairs and through the lobby into the street.
"Really — it's awfully nice of you to bother-"
"To tell you the truth," murmured the Saint, "I have met people with a better taste in barons."
The commissionaire hailed a taxi at the Saint's nod, and the girl gave an address in St. John's Wood. Simon allowed her to thank him again, and coolly followed her in before the commissionaire closed the door. The taxi pulled out from the kerb before she could speak.
"Don't worry," said the Saint. "I was just feeling like a breath of fresh air, and my intentions are fairly honourable. I should probably have been obliged to smite your Baron on the nose if you hadn't left him when you did. Here — have a cigarette. It'll make you feel better."
The girl took a smoke from his case. They were held up a few yards farther on, in Piccadilly; and suddenly the door of the taxi was flung open and a breathless man in a double-breasted dinner-jacket appeared in the aperture.
"Pardon, madame — I did not sink I should catch you. It is yours, isn't it?"
He held up a small drop ear-ring; and as he turned his head Simon recognized him as a solitary diner from a table adjoining his own.
"Oh!" The girl sat up, biting her lip. "Thank you — thank you so much —"
"Il n'y a pas de quoi, madame" said the man happily. "I see it fall and I run after you, but always you're too quick. Now it's all right. I am content. Madame, you permit me to say you are a brave woman? I also saw everysing. Zat Baron —"
All at once the girl hid her face in her hands.
"I don't know how to thank you," she said chokingly. "You're all so sweet… Oh, my God! If only I could kill him! He deserves to be killed. He deserves to lose his beastly bracelet. I'd steal it myself —"
"Ah, but then you would be in prison, madame —"
"Oh, it'd be easy enough. It's on the ground floor… — you'd only have to break open the desk. He doesn't believe in burglar-alarms. He's so sure of himself. But I'd show him. I'd make him pay!"
She turned away to the corner and sobbed hysterically.
Simon glanced at the little Frenchman.
"Elle se trouvera mieux chez elle," he said; and the other nodded sympathetically and closed the door.
The taxi drew away in a wedge of traffic and turned up Regent Street. Simon sat back in his corner and let the girl have her cry. It was the best possible thing for her; and he could have said nothing helpful.
They had a practically clear run through to St. John's Wood; and the girl recovered a little as they neared their destination. She wiped her eyes and took out a microscopic powder puff, with the unalterable vanity of women.
"You must think I'm a fool," she said, as the taxi slowed up. "Perhaps I am. But no one else can understand."
"I don't mind," said the Saint.
The cab stopped, and he leaned across her to open the door. Her face was within two inches of his, and the Saint required all adventures to be complete. In his philosophy, knight-errantry had its own time-honoured rewards.
His lips touched hers unexpectedly; and then in a flash, with a soft laugh, he was out of the taxi. She walked past him and went up the steps of the house without looking back.
Simon rode back jubilantly to the Mayfair, and found his lady and Peter Quentin patiently ordering more coffee. The Baron had already left.