Meryl Vascoe was already in the Saint's car; and Simon returned to the wheel with a grin and a shrug. For a little while he was completely occupied with finding out just how high an unlawful speed he could make through traffic. When the Saint set out to do some fast travelling it was a hair-raising performance: but Meryl Vascoe's hair was fortunately raise-proof. She spent some minutes repairing various imperceptible details of her almost flawless face, and then she touched his knee anxiously.
"When we get there, just put me down at the comer," she said. "I'll run the rest of the way. You see, if Father saw you drive up to the door he'd be sure to ask questions."
" 'What are you doing with that scoundrel?' " Simon said melodramatically. " 'Don't you know that he can't be trusted with a decent woman?' "
She laughed.
"That isn't what I'm worried about," she said. "Though I don't suppose he'd be very enthusiastic about our being together — I haven't forgotten what a scene we had about that dance where you picked me up and took me off to the Cafй de Paris for the rest of the night. But the point is that I don't want him to know that I've been out driving at all."
"Why not?" asked the Saint, reasonably. "The sun is shining. London is beginning to develop its summer smell. What could you do that would be better and healthier than taking a day in the country?"
She looked at him guardedly, hesitating.
"Well — then I ought to have gone out in my own car, with one of the chauffeurs. But he'd be furious if he knew I'd been out with Bill Fulton, so when I went out this afternoon I told him that I was going shopping with an old school friend."
Simon groaned.
"That old school friend — she does work long hours," he protested. "I should have thought you could have invented something better than that. However, I take it that Papa doesn't like Bill Fulton, and you do, so you meet him on the quiet. That's sensible enough. But what's your father got against him? He looked good enough to me. Does he wash, or something?"
"You don't have to insult my father when I'm listening," she said stiffly; and then, in another moment, the emotions inside overcame her loyalty. "I suppose it's because Bill isn't rich and hasn't got a title or anything… And then there's the Comte de Beaucroix "
Simon swerved the car dizzily under the arm of a policeman who was trying to hold them up.
"Who?" he demanded.
"The Comte de Beaucroix — he's staying with us just now. He had to go and see some lawyers this afternoon, but he'll be back for dinner; and if I'm not home and dressed when they ring the gong, Father 'll have a fit."
"Poor little rich girl," said the Saint sympathetically. "So you have to dash home to play hostess to another of your father's expensive phonies."
"Oh no; this one's perfectly genuine. He's quite nice, really, only he's so wet. But Father's been caught too often before. He got hold of this Count's passport and took it down to the French Consulate, and they said it was quite all right."
"The idea being," Simon commented shrewdly, "that Papa doesn't want any comebacks after he's made you the Comtesse de Beaucroix."
She didn't answer at once; and Simon himself was busy with the task of passing a truck on the wrong side, whizzing over a crossing while the lights changed from amber to red, and making a skidding turn under the nose of a taxi at the next red light. But there was some queer gift of humanity about him that had always had an uncanny knack of unlocking other people's conventional reserves; and besides, they had once danced together and talked much delightful nonsense while all the conventional inhabitants of London slept.
She found herself saying: "You see, all Bill's got is his radio business, and he's invented a new valve that's going to make him a fortune; but I got Father to lend him the five thousand pounds Bill needed to develop it. Father gave him the money, but he made Bill sign a sort of mortgage that gave Father the right to take his invention away from him if the money wasn't paid back. Now Father says that if Bill tries to marry me he'll foreclose, and Bill wouldn't have anything left. I know how Bill's getting on and I know if he only has a few months more he'll be able to pay Father back ten times over."
"Can't you wait those few months?" asked the Saint. "If Bill's on to something as good as that—"
She shook her head.
"But Father says that if I don't marry the Comte de Beaucroix as soon as he asks me to — and I know he's going to — he'll foreclose on Bill anyway, and Bill won't get a penny for all his work." Her voice broke, and when Simon glanced at her quickly he saw the shine of tears in her eyes. "Bill doesn't know — if you tell him, I'll kill you! But he can't understand what's the matter with me. And I–I—" Her lovely face tightened with a strange bitterness. "I always thought these things only happened in pictures," she said huskily. "How can any man be like that?"
"You wouldn't know, darling," said the Saint gently.
That was all he said at the time; but at the same moment he resolved that he would invest five of his shillings in an admission to Mr. Elliot Vascoe's exhibition. Certain things were indubitably Ordained…
He arrived just after the official opening, on the first day. The rooms in which the exhibition was being held were crowded with aspiring and perspiring socialites, lured there either in the hope of collecting one of Mr. Vascoe's bacchanalian invitations to dinner, or because they hoped to be recognised by other socialites, or because they hoped to be mistaken for connoisseurs of Art, or just because they hadn't the courage to let anyone think that they couldn't spend five shillings on charity just as easily as anyone else. Simon Templar shouldered his way through them until he sighted Vascoe. He had done some thinking since he drove Meryl home, and it had only confirmed him in his conviction that Nemesis was due to overtake Mr. Vascoe at last. At the same time, Simon saw no reason why he shouldn't deal himself in on the party.
With Vascoe and Meryl was a tall and immaculately dressed young man with a pink face whose amiable stupidity was accentuated by a chin that began too late and a forehead that stopped too soon. Simon had no difficulty in identifying him as the Comte de Beaucroix, and that was how Meryl introduced him before Vascoe turned round and recognised his unwelcome visitor.
"How did you get in here?" he brayed.
"Through the front door," said the Saint genially. "I put down my five bob, and they told me to walk right in. It's a public exhibition, I believe. Did you come in on a free pass?"
Vascoe recovered himselfwith difficulty, but his large face remained an ugly purple.
"Come to have a look round, have you?" he asked offensively. "Well, you can look as much as you like. I flatter myself this place is burglar-proof."
Meryl turned white; and the Count tittered. Other guests who were within earshot hovered expectantly — some of them, one might almost have thought, hopefully. But if they were waiting for a prompt and swift outbreak of violence, or even a sharp and candid repartee, they were doomed to disappointment. The Saint smiled with unruffled good humour.
"Burglar-proof, is it?" he said tolerantly. "You really think it's burglar-proof. Well, well, well!" He patted Mr. Vascoe's bald head affectionately. "Now I'll tell you what I'll do, Fatty. I'll bet you five thousand pounds it's burgled within a week."
For a moment Vascoe seemed to be in a tangle with his own vocal chords. He could only stand and gasp like a fish.
"You — you have the effrontery to come here and tell me you're going to burgle my house?" he spluttered. "You — you ruffian! I'll have you handed over to the police! I never heard of such — such — such—"
"I haven't committed any crime yet, that I know of," said the Saint patiently. "I'm simply offering you a sporting bet. Of course, if you're frightened of losing—"