A girl came in from the riverside, in shorts, giving away legs that men would have spent money to see across a row of footlights, with dark rumpled hair and the face of a thoughtful pixie; and the Saint turned away again with some reluctance.
“And you,” Trapani was saying eagerly. “How is everything? You didn’t really have any trouble, of course?”
“Not really.”
“And you’re going to relax here and have a good time. I’m so glad that you heard about me and came here. Is there anything you want, anything I can do? You only have to ask me.”
Simon put down his tankard and looked up from it speculatively.
“Well, Giulio, since you mention it — would you happen to know anyone living around here by the name of Clarron?”
“Why, yes. Mr Reginald Clarron. I think his house is on the river, quite near here. I don’t know him personally, but I’ve heard of him.”
Trapani flashed a quick look around the bar. It might have been nothing but the automatic vigilance of a professional host, but Simon noticed it. There were not many customers just then — the girl with the legs who had just come in, who was being served a Martini, two young men in flannels who were drinking Pimm’s Cups, a thin elderly man in a dark suit with the anxious air of a traveling salesman, and a stout middle-aged woman in a respectable high-necked long-sleeved black dress, with a cupola of carroty hair capped with a pie-dish straw hat trimmed with some kind of artificial fruit salad, who was sipping a glass of port in the corner. She looked, Simon thought, like the prototype of every comic housekeeper he had ever seen in vaudeville.
“What sort of a guy is he?” Simon asked.
“A very distinguished-looking gentleman. Very charming, I’ve heard. But he doesn’t go out much. His wife is an invalid. She had a terrible accident a few months ago. But if you know them, I expect you heard about it.”
“Just how did it happen?” Simon evaded innocently.
“They were out shooting together. He put down his gun to help her over a fence, and it went off and shot her. His own gun. They saved her life, but her spine was permanently injured. Of course, he can never forget it. He spends all his time with her.” Trapani had lowered his voice discreetly, and his glance flicked away again for a moment. He leaned over and explained in an undertone, “That woman in the corner is their housekeeper.”
Her ears must have been abnormally sharp, or perhaps it was not too hard to interpret the furtive glance and the lowered voice, but the woman allowed no doubt that she had taken in the whole conversation.
“Indade I am,” she called out in a rich cheerful brogue.
“And a sweeter master an’ mistress I niver worked for. Jist as devoted as if they were on their honeymoon, an’ her so patient an’ forgiving, an’ himself eatin’ his heart out, poor man, with an awful thing like that on his conscience. Begorra, if anyone says a word aginst him, they’ll be answerin’ for it to me.”
“I’ve never heard one, Mrs Jafferty,” Trapani assured her hastily.
“Sure an’ it’d bring tears to the eyes of a potato to see them together, with himself waitin’ on her hand an’ foot, readin’ to her or playin’ cards with her or whativer she has a mind for, an’ bringin’ flowers from the garden ivery day.”
She squeezed herself cumbrously out from behind the little table, picked up a market bag that bulged as bountifully as her figure, and waddled across towards the Saint.
“An’ why would you be askin’ about them, sorr — if I may be so bold?”
“A friend of mine said I should look them up, if I happened to be around here,” Simon answered.
He had to think quickly, for this was a little sooner than he had expected to need a ready answer. And her eyes were very sharp and inquisitive.
“I’m on me way home now, sorr, with a bite for their dinner. If you’d be tellin’ me the name, I could tell them what to look forward to.”
“This was a friend of Mr Clarron’s former wife. He mightn’t even remember her. A Mrs Brown.”
“From America, maybe? Mr Clarron’s late wife was an American lady, they tell me.”
“Yes,” said the Saint gratefully. “From New York.”
“And your name, sorr, in case you should be callin’?”
“This is Mr Templar, Mrs Jafferty,” Trapani said.
Simon gazed at him gloomily.
“I’ll tell him you were askin’,” Mrs Jafferty said. “And good day to ye, gentleman.”
She hitched up her bag of groceries and bustled busily out.
“I’m sorry.” Trapani said. “Did I do wrong? You hadn’t told me you wanted to be incognito.”
“Forget it,” said the Saint. “I hadn’t had a chance to. It’s not your fault.”
He emptied his mug and put it down, and Trapani picked it up.
“Another? Or do you feel like some lunch?”
“Mr Templar is having lunch with me,” said the girl with the legs. Simon Templar blinked. He turned, with a cigarette between his lips and his lighter halted in mid-air. Finally, he managed to light it.
“If you say so,” he murmured. “And if Giulio will excuse me.”
“I excuse you and congratulate you,” Trapani beamed.
The girl drained her cocktail and came over, putting out her hand as the Saint stood up.
“I’m Adrienne Halberd,” she said.
“I’d never have recognized you.”
She laughed.
“That may take some explaining. But do you mind if I rush you off? I’m expecting a phone call at home, and I’ve got to get back for it.”
“I’ll see you later,” Simon told Trapani.
She was on her way to the other door, and he followed her.
“I walked over,” she said as they came out in front of the hotel. “But I expect you’ve got a car.”
“That rented job over there.”
They got in, and she said, pointing, “That way, to the right, and I’ll tell you where to turn.”
Simon spun the wheel and relaxed, letting cigarette smoke float from mildly amused lips.
“And now that we’re alone,” he said calmly, “may I ask any questions? Or do we go on playing blindfold chess?”
“All of a sudden? You didn’t argue when I practically kidnapped you.”
“I never argue with legs like yours, darling. But sometimes I ask questions.”
“You are the Saint, aren’t you?”
“True. But my mind-reading gifts have been slightly exaggerated.”
“You were asking about Reggie Clarron.”
“Which should prove that I didn’t know much about him.”
“You knew he’d been married before.”
“An inspired guess. A fat friend of mine happened to tag the name ‘Bluebeard’ on him, rather carelessly, just a few hours ago. Bluebeards, if you remember, don’t get much of a rating with only one wife. It was worth taking a chance on.”
“All right,” she said. “I took a chance on you. He’s only had two so far, I think, but you might help to nail him before he finally manages to kill the third. Not to mention saving the prospective fourth.”
The Saint raised his eyebrows.
“He has one picked out already?”
“Me,” said the girl.
3
The dining alcove was one corner of the living room of her cottage, sharing the row of gaily curtained windows that looked out over the green lawn that sloped down to the river bank. They sat there over some excellent cold roast beef and salad and mustard pickles, and the Saint sipped a tall glass of Guinness.
“He isn’t a mystery man at all,” Adrienne Halberd said. “That’s what makes it so difficult.”
“One of those open-book boys?” said the Saint.