The Saint nodded, admitting his lapse, and making a mental note that the time had come to tear himself finally away from the alter ego to which he had clung with perverse devotion for too many years.
"You keep pretty well up-to-date," he remarked.
"Why not?" she returned frankly. "I've had an idea for some time that I'd be getting a visit from you one day."
"Would that be the voice of conscience?"
"Just common sense. Even you can't have a monopoly on thinking ahead."
Simon studied her interestedly. The vats of champagne which had sparkled down her gullet in aid of one charity or another over the past six years had left their own thin dry tang in her voice, but few of her other indulgences had left their mark. The cargoes of caviar, the schools of smoked salmon, the truckloads of foie gras, the coveys of quail, the beds of oysters and the regiments of lobsters which had marched in eleemosynary procession through her intestines, had resolved themselves into very little solid flesh. Unlike most of her kind, she had not grown coarse and flabby; she had aged with a lean and arid dignity. At fifty, Maggie Oaks, late of Weehauken and the Follies, really looked like a countess, even if it was a rather tart and dessi-cated countess. She looked like one of those brittle fish-blooded aristocrats who stand firm for kindness to animals and discipline for the lower classes. She had hard bright eyes and hard lines cracked into the heavy layers of powder and enamel on her face, and she was a hard bad woman in spite of her successful sophistication.
"At least that saves a lot of explanations," said the Saint, and she returned his gaze with her coldly quizzical stare.
"I take it that I was right--that you've picked me for your next victim."
"Let's call it 'contributor,' " suggested the Saint mildly.
She shrugged.
"In plain language, I'm either to give you, or have stolen from me, whatever sum of money you think fit to assess as a fine for what you would call my misdeeds."
"Madam, you have a wonderful gift of coming to the point."
"This money will be supposedly collected for charity," she went on, "but you will take your commission for collecting it before you pass it on."
"That was the general idea, Maggie."
She lighted a cigarette.
"I suppose I shouldn't be allowed to ask why it's a crime for me to make a living in exactly the same way as you do?"
"There is a difference. I don't set myself up too seriously as a public benefactor. As a matter of fact, most people would tell you that I was a crook. If you want that point of view, ask a policeman."
Her thin lips puckered with watchful mockery.
"That seems to make me smarter than you are, Mr Templar. The policeman would arrest you, but he'd tip his hat to me."
"That's possible," Simon admitted imperturbably. "But there are other differences."
"Meaning what?"
"Mathematical ones. A matter of simple economy. When I collect money, unless I'm trying to put things right for someone else who's been taken for a mug, between seventy-five and ninety percent of it really does go to charity. Now suppose you collect a thousand dollars in ticket sales for one of your parties. Two hundred and fifty bucks go straight into your pocket--you work on the gross. Other organizing expenses take up at least a hundred dollars more. Advertising, prizes, decorations, publicity and what not probably cost another ten percent. Then there's the orchestra, hire of rooms and waiters and the cost of a lot of fancy food that's much too good for the people who eat it--let's say four hundred dollars. And the caterers give you a fifty-dollar cut on that. The net result is that you take in three hundred dollars and a nice big dinner, and the good cause gets maybe a hundred and fifty. In other words, every time one of your suckers buys one of your thirty-dollar tickets, to help to save fallen women or something like that, he gives you twice as much as he gives the fallen women, which might not be exactly what he had in mind. So I don't think we really are in the same class."
"You don't mean that I'm in a better class?" she protested sarcastically.
The Saint shook his head.
"Oh no," he said. "Not for a moment. . . . But I do think that some of these differences ought to be adjusted."
Her mouth was as tight as a trap.
"And how will that be done?"
"I thought it 'd be an interesting change if you practised a little charity yourself. Suppose we set a donation of fifty thousand dollars----"
"Do you really think I'd give you fifty thousand dollars?"
"Why not?" asked the Saint reasonably. "Other people have. And the publicity alone would be almost worth it. Ask your press agent. Besides, it needn't really even cost you anything. That famous diamond necklace of yours, for instance--even in the limited markets I could take it to, it 'd fetch fifty thousand dollars easily. And if you bought yourself a good imitation hardly anyone would know the difference."
For a moment her mouth stayed open at the implication of what he was saying, and then she burst into a deep cackle of laughter.
"You almost scared me," she said. "But people have tried to bluff me before. Still, it was nice of you to give me the warning." She stood up. "Mr Templar, I'm not going to threaten you with the police because I know that would only make you laugh. Besides, I think I can look after myself. I'm not going to give you fifty thousand dollars, of course, and I'm not going to let you steal my necklace. If you can get either, you'll be a clever man. Will you come and see me again when you've hatched a plot?"
The Saint stood up also, and smoothed the clothes over his sinewy seventy-four inches. His lazy blue eyes twinkled.
"That sounds almost like a challenge."
"You can take it as one if you like."
"I happen to know that your necklace isn't insured --no company in the country will ever carry you for a big risk since that fraudulent claim that got you a suspended sentence when you were in the Follies. Insurance company black lists don't fade."
Her thin smile broadened.
"I got ten thousand dollars, just the same, and that's more than covered any losses I've had since," she said calmly. "No, Mr Templar, I'm not worried about insurance. If you can get what you're after I'll be the first to congratulate you."
Simon's brows slanted at her with an impudent humour that would have given her fair warning if she had been less confident. He had completely recovered from the smithereening of his first ingenious plans, and already his swift imagination was playing with a new and better scheme.
"Is that a bet?" he said temptingly.
"Do you expect me to put it in writing?"
He smiled back at her.
"I'll take your word for it. ... We must tell the newspapers."
He left her to puzzle a little over that last remark, but by the time she went to bed she had forgotten it. Consequently she had a second spell of puzzlement a couple of mornings later when she listened to the twittering voice of one of her society acquaintances on the telephone.
"My dear, how too original! Quite the cleverest thing I ever heard of! ... Oh, now you're just playing innocent! Of course it's in all the papers! And on the front page, too! . . . How did you manage it? My dear, I'm madly jealous! The Saint could steal anything I've got, and I mean anything! He must be the most fascinating man--isn't he?"
"He is, darling, and I'll tell him about your offer," said the countess instinctively.
She hung up the microphone and said: "Silly old cow!" There had been another ball the night before, in aid of a seamen's mission or a dogs' hospital or something, and she had had to deal with the usual charitable ration of champagne and brandy; at that hour of the morning after her reactions were not as sharp as they became later in the day. Nevertheless, a recollection of the Saint's parting words seeped back into her mind with a slight shock. She took three aspirins in a glass of whisky and rang for some newspapers.