“I fervently hope so.”
A new reporter leaned forward to make himself heard.
“How is it Amos Klein never attends these premieres?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“But he does live in England, doesn’t he?”
“I can’t comment on Mr. Klein’s private life. I’m very sorry.”
There was a brief crescendo of protest from the men of the press, to whom the publisher’s reticence on the subject of his prize author was nothing new.
“Surely there’s no harm in telling us something about him, Mr. Hugoson!”
“You must have met Klein personally,” another said. “What’s he like?”
“Is he married?”
“Could you just give us some idea of his age?”
“And why all this mystery about him...”
Hugoson, looking badgered as well as badgerish, shook his head stubbornly.
“No comment.”
“Is the secrecy just a gimmick to arouse public interest?”
“No comment.”
As the reporters shouted more questions, all of which received the publisher’s ‘no comment’, the Saint noticed that Carol Henley was darting a helpless look at him over her beautiful bare shoulder as she was whisked away by a whole tribe of retainers towards a waiting limousine. She said something to Starnmeck, the producer, who gestured over the heads of the crowd for Simon to join them. It was at that point that Saintly dedication to the discovery and exploration of mysterious byways had to stand and do battle with the more purely human desire to see more of Carol Henley’s bare shoulders. But bare female shoulders of acceptable age are not terribly different one from another, particularly when one has enjoyed as many varied views of them as Simon Templar had; anyhow, Carol Henley’s were not likely to change radically in the next hour or two, whereas Finlay Hugoson’s apparently desperate need to communicate might.
Even so, Simon felt with some regret that he had very possibly chosen the drabber of the two alternatives as he waved good-bye to Carol and Starnmeck and saw the great gleaming black bubble of their car top lose itself in a swirl of other metallic bubbles. He had no logical reason to believe that his contact with Hugoson would expose him to anything more intriguing than some unoriginal recital of a businessman’s woes. But the Saint would never have survived and prospered so spectacularly if he had not possessed some of the qualities of gambler and clairvoyant, and tonight he was willing to chance the exceptional physique of Carol Henley against the possibility of what his sixth sense told him might come from Mr. Finlay Hugoson.
“Let’s take a cab to my flat and have something to drink,” Hugoson said.
He was breathless and bedraggled after his encounter with the now completely alienated reporters, a little like a dazed boxer stumbling out of the centre of the ring into the arms of his trainer.
“I appreciate the invitation,” Simon answered, “but there’s the party at the Savoy. It’d be rather rude for me to pass it up, don’t you think? You’re a part of this whole shindig, but I’m an invited guest.”
The publisher shook his head as he led the Saint towards the curb.
“Those post-premiere affairs are ghastly. Great masses of people showing off for one another like a lot of painted Hottentots. Frightfully depressing!”
“I know,” Simon said, “but at least I ought to put in an appearance. Starnmeck was good enough to invite me to the film; I suppose I should pay the price.”
Hugoson scratched his moustache nervously.
“As you wish. But I hope you’ll be satisfied with a brief appearance and have energy left for a talk with me. There’s... there’s a chance of considerable profit in it for you.”
The Saint looked at his small, badger like acquaintance with new interest.
“If there’s one thing I never lack, it’s energy,” he said, “and if there’s one commodity I never have enough of, it’s profit — as long, of course, as it’s dishonestly earned. I hope you don’t have any illusions about my taking up a literary career.”
“Not at all. I think I understand your interest.”
“Good. We can run over to the Savoy in my car, and then have our talk.”
He handed the doorman a ticket.
“Right away, Mr. Templar.”
The Saint’s car was brought promptly, and he took advantage of the short drive to the hotel to sound the publisher out.
“I assume your pal Amos Klein is uppermost in your mind at the moment,” he said.
Hugoson darted him a quick glance before answering, but apparently decided that even the Saint, whose private sources of information were popularly reputed to rival those of most national security agencies, could not know the facts of this matter.
“Of course,” he said, and then he paused.
“What’s all this ‘no comment’?” Simon asked.
Even while speeding through the post-theatre traffic of Trafalgar Square, he was as relaxed as most men would have been drowsing at home with the evening paper. Finlay Hugoson clutched the armrest and watched Simon’s impossibly near misses of other vehicles with strained admiration.
“I was merely being evasive with the reporters,” the publisher said.
“That was fairly obvious. The question is, why? If you want to tell me, that is.”
Hugoson’s mind seemed to be promptly taken off the rampaging armada of taxis by dour thoughts of his professional problems. He sat back and folded his arms.
“Can you guess what I made out of publishing The History of the 38th Regiment Hertfordshire Veteran Volunteer Infantry, morocco bound, with sixty glorious colour plates?”
Simon grinned.
“Obviously not one single family in the U.K. could afford to be without a copy,” he said with an appearance of mental calculation. “I should think you must have cleared at least, say, sixty thousand pounds.”
Finlay Hugoson showed no overt signs of amusement at the Saint’s whimsy.
“I took a net loss of almost four thousand,” he said. “And how much would you guess I was enriched by Birds of Western Australia, with thirty-five full-page photographic plates, each copy numbered and signed by the author — who incidentlaly was my wife’s brother?”
“Was it out in time for the Christmas gift trade?” Simon asked.
Hugoson grimly wrung his hands.
“Printers’ strike. We missed Christmas by two weeks.”
“Doesn’t sound good,” said the Saint.
“Net loss of two thousand. At least the libraries wanted that one.”
“Well, cheer up,” Simon said. “If you’d got it out in time for Christmas you might have broken even.”
“Wonderful,” groaned Hugoson. “What more could a publisher ask?”
“With your flair for picking winners, I’d say breaking even might call for a real celebration.”
“And then,” Hugoson said, “along came the first Charles Lake novel.”
“And?”
“They’re making me rich.”
“That’s nice.”
“They’re making me richer than I ever dreamed I’d be.”
“That’s even nicer.”
“But...”
“But what?” the Saint asked encouragingly. When the other hesitated, he continued. “And that still doesn’t explain all the ‘no comments’.”
There was no chance for explanation then, because the Saint’s skilful navigation had brought them to the Embankment entrance of the Savoy, where most of the horde of people in any way connected with Sunburst Five had already disembarked and made their way to the private rooms set aside for their jubilation. Simon and Hugoson found one or two hundred of them in the early phases of that intoxication which is never quite so swiftly induced or magnificently sustained as by the presence of an unlimited supply of free booze. The raiment of the females, as well as that of some of the males, would have made the finery of the best-dressed birds of western Australia seem pale in comparison, and the gushing and shameless politicking of both sexes would have made the first day of the mating season on Seal Island sound like the slumbrous murmurs of teatime at the old folks’ home.