"I am not going to the reception," said Mrs. Dempster-Craven; but it was noticeable that her tone was not quite so freezing. "I have a previous engagement to dine with Lord and Lady Bredon."
Simon chalked up the point without batting an eyelid. He had not engineered that encounter without making inquiries about his victim, and it had not taken him long to learn that Mrs. Dempster-Craven's one ambition was to win for herself and her late husband's millions an acknowledged position among the Very Best People. That carelessly-dropped reference to a Prince, even an Italian Prince, by his first name, had gone over like a truck-load of honey. And it was a notable fact that if Mrs. Dempster-Craven had pursued her own inquiries into the reference, she would have found that the name of Simon Templar was not only recognized but hailed effusively; for there had once been a spot of bother involving a full million pounds belonging to the Bank of Italy which had made the Saint forever persona grata at that Legation[1]).
The chauffeur returned with a taxi, and Mrs. Dempster-Craven's two hundred pounds of flesh were assisted ceremoniously out of the Rolls. Having had a brief interval to consider pros and cons, she deigned to thank the Saint for his share in the operation with a smile that disclosed a superb set of expensive teeth.
"I hope your car isn't seriously damaged," she remarked graciously; and the Saint smiled in his most elegant manner.
"It doesn't matter a bit. I was just buzzing down to Hurlingham for a spot of tennis, but I can easily take a taxi." He took out his wallet and handed her a card. "As soon as you know what the damage'll cost to put right, I do hope you'll send me in the bill."
"I shouldn't dream of doing such a thing," said Mrs. Dempster-Craven. "The whole thing was undoubtedly Bagshawe's fault."
With such startling volte-face, and another display of her expensive denture, she ascended regally into the cab; and Simon Templar went triumphantly back to Patricia.
"It went off perfectly, Pat! You could see the whole line sizzling down her throat till she choked on the rod. The damage to the Hirondel will cost about fifteen quid to put right, but we'll charge that up to expenses. And the rest of it's only a matter of time."
The time was even shorter than he had expected; for Mrs. Dempster-Craven was not prepared to wait any longer than was necessary to see her social ambitions fulfilled, and the highest peak she had attained at that date was a week-end at the house of a younger son of a second viscount.
Three days later Simon's mail-box yielded a scented mauve envelope, and he knew before he opened it that it was the one he had been waiting for.
118, Berkeley Square,
Mayfair, W.I.
My dear Mr. Templar,
I'm sure you must have thought me rather abrupt after our accident in Hyde Park on Tuesday, but these little upsets seem so much worse at the time than they really are. Do try and forgive my rudeness.
I am having a little party here on Tuesday next. Lord and Lady Palfrey are coming, and the Hon. Celia Mallard, and lots of other people whom I expect you'll know. I'd take it as a great favour if you could manage to look in, any time after 9.30, just to let me know you weren't offended.
I do hope you got to Hurlingham all right.
Yours sincerely,
"Who said my technique had ever failed me?" Simon demanded of Peter Quentin at lunchtime that day.
"I didn't," said Peter, "as I've told you all along. Thank God you won't be going to prison on Thursday, anyway — if it's only a little party she's invited you to, I don't suppose you'll even see the Star of Mandalay."
Simon grinned.
"Little party be blowed," he said. "Gertrude has never thrown a little party in her life. When she talks about a 'little' party she means there'll only be two orchestras and not more than a hundred couples. And if she doesn't put on the Star of Mandalay for Lady Palfrey's benefit I am a bob-tailed ptarmigan and my name is Alphonse."
Nevertheless, when he suggested that Peter Quentin should come with him there was not much argument.
"How can you get me in?" Peter demurred. "I wasn't invited, and I don't known any princes."
"You've got an uncle who's a lord or something, haven't you?"
"I've got an uncle who's the Bishop of Kenya; but what does Mrs. Dempster-Craven care about South African bishops?"
"Call him Lord Kenya," said the Saint. "She won't look him up in Debrett while you're there. I'll say we were dining together and I couldn't shake you off."
At that point it all looked almost tediously straightforward, a commonplace exploit with nothing but the size of the prize to make it memorable. And when Simon arrived in Berkeley Square on the date of his invitation it seemed easier still; for Mrs. Dempster-Craven, as he had expected, was proudly sporting the Star of Mandalay on her swelling bosom, set in the centre of a pattern of square-cut sapphires in a platinum pendant that looked more like an illuminated sky-sign than anything else. True, there was a large-footed man in badly fitting dress clothes who trailed her around like a devoted wolfhound; but private detectives of any grade the Saint felt competent to deal with. Professionals likewise, given a fair warning — although he was anticipating no professional surveillance that night. But he had not been in the house twenty minutes before he found himself confronting a dark slender girl with merry brown eyes whose face appeared before him like the Nemesis of one of his most innocent flirtations — and even then he did not guess what Fate had in store for him.
At his side he heard the voice of Mrs. Dempster-Craven cooing like a contralto dove:
"This is Miss Rosamund Armitage — a cousin of the Duke of Trayall." And then, as she saw their eyes fixed on each other: "But have you met before?"
"Yes — we have met," said the Saint, recovering himself easily. "Wasn't it that day when you were just off to Ostend?"
"I think so," said the girl gravely.
A plaintive baronet in search of an introduction accosted Mrs. Dempster-Craven from the other side, and Simon took the girl in his arms as the second orchestra muted its saxophones for a waltz.
"This is a very happy reunion, Kate," he murmured. "I must congratulate you."
"Why?" she asked suspiciously.
"When we last met — in that famous little argument about the Kellman necklace — you weren't so closely related to the Duke of Trayall."
They made a circuit of the floor — she danced perfectly, as he would have expected — and then she said, bluntly: "What are you doing here, Saint?"
"Treading the light fantastic, drinking free champagne, and watching little monkeys scrambling up the social ladder," he answered airily. "And you?"
"I'm here for exactly the same reason as you are — my old age pension."
"I can't imagine you getting old, Kate."
"Let's sit out somewhere," she said suddenly.
They left the ballroom and went in search of a secluded corner of the conservatory, where there were armchairs and sheltering palm trees providing discreet alcoves for romantic couples. Simon noticed that the girl was quite sure of her way around, and said so.
"Of course I've been here before," she said. "I expect you have, too."
"On the contrary — this is my first visit. I never take two bites at a cherry."
"Not even a five thousand pound one?"
"Not even that."
She produced a packet of cigarettes from her bag and offered him one. Simon smiled, and shook his head.
"There are funny things about your cigarettes that don't make me laugh out loud, Kate," he said cheerfully. "Have one of mine instead."
"Look here," she said. "Let's put our cards on the table. You're after that pendant, and so am I. Everything on our side is planned out, and you've just told me this is your first visit. You can't possibly get in front of us this time. You took the Kellman necklace away under our noses, but you couldn't do it again. Why not retire gracefully?"