He was looking back through the rear window, deciding whether they were being followed. Presently he was satisfied and turned round again.
"Take a cruise through the park, Peter, while I peel off my whiskers."
He stowed the outfit carefully away in a concealed locker in front of him, ready to be put on again when it was required. The venerable black homburg joined it, along with the grey suede gloves; and he took off the lightweight black overcoat and laid it folded on the seat beside him. In a few minutes he was smoothing down his own dark hair and lighting a cigarette.
"What's Teal having a spasm about this time?" demanded Peter Quentin. "And why didn't you let me in on it before?"
"It's only just begun," said the Saint.
He told the story from the beginning, in a synoptic rapid-fire outline which omitted no important details except the connecting links which his own imagination was still working on.
"Sherry, Spain, Spanish Rebels, American bearer bonds, mysterious Pongos with hammers and artillery and a Polish forger who was stood up against a wall in Oviedo," he repeated at the end of it. "And a Spanish civil war still going on and getting bloodier and messier every day, in case you've forgotten it. I've seen a lot of odd things mixed up together in my time, but I think this is in the running for a prize."
"But who's doing what?" said Peter.
"That's what I'm still trying to get straight," said the Saint frankly. "Oviedo's changed hands about half a dozen times, and I don't remember who was holding it when Urivetzky was wiped up. I don't know which side Urivetzky was on or why he should have been mixed up in it at all — except that there seem to be amateurs from half the countries in Europe taking sides in the picnic anyway. But I have got an idea what's in the wind, and I'm going to know some more before I go to bed."
The car slowed up, and Peter said: "Shall I go round again while you're thinking?"
Simon flicked the stub of his cigarette through the window.
"I did all my thinking before I sent for you," he said. "You can cut out here — we're going to Cambridge Square."
"I have heard of it," said Peter with heavy irony. "But not from you. What's it got to do with this party? I thought you said Graham's digs were in Bloomsbury."
"So they are," said the Saint equably. "And Quintana's digs are in Cambridge Square."
There was a certain pregnant interval of silence while Peter brought the car out of the park and squeezed it through the tide of traffic swirling around Hyde Park Corner.
"I always thought you were daft," he said as they floated out of the maelstrom into the calmer waters of Grosvenor Place. "And now I know it."
"But why?" asked the Saint reasonably. "Comrade Quintana seems to have been quite a pal of Ingleston's, so he ought to be interested in the news about his boy friend. Or if he's already heard it he'll want someone to condole with him in his bereavement. But if he has heard it I should be interested to know how — I sent for all the evening papers, and there wasn't a line about the murder in any of them."
"Why shouldn't he have heard about it from the police?"
"He might have. And yet somehow I don't think so. I stuck that photograph right under Teal's bloodhound nose, and he was too busy boiling with thwarted rage because I'd accounted for knowing the name of the corpse to be able to smell a clue when he'd got one. Of course he may have done some more sniffing since then, but even then it may take him some time to realize who Luis Quintana is. And anyway we've got to chance it, because Quintana's our own best clue… You can stop the car here, Peter — I won't drive up to the door."
"What's making you so modest all of a sudden?" Peter enquired innocently as he applied the brakes.
The Saint smiled and stepped out onto the pavement.
"It comes natural to me," he said. "And this isn't going to be an official visit."
"I'll bet you don't even know what sort of a visit it is going to be," said Peter accusingly; and Simon grinned at him without shame.
"I don't — which only makes it more interesting. Wait for me here, old lad, and I'll tell you all about it later."
He was only confessing the simple truth, but in the way he looked at it there was nothing about it to depress the spirits. The Saint had always been like that — daft, as Peter had called him, but daft with a magnificent insolence of daftness that had driven more than one of his adversaries to desperation as they essayed the hopeless task of predicting his unpredictable impulses. Having nothing to make plans for, the Saint had seen no reason to expend his energy on making them, particularly when so much of it would have been spent on meeting hypothetical difficulties while the real ones were probably never thought of. He had obtained Quintana's address from a friend on a newspaper, and all he knew about it was that it was number 319 in the square. He had no idea what type of house it was; and on that depended the development of his campaign. On that and on whatever other schemes crossed his mind on the way.
He sauntered along the south side of the square, assimilating numbers and opening his mind impartially to the free influx of inspiration. Number 319, he discovered, stood in the very southeast corner of the square at the right-angle junction of the two streets that entered the square at that point. It was a broad two-storied house of vaguely Georgian architecture, flanked by the wings of wall common to that type of facade which apparently screened a small surrounding garden. Across the front an entrance driveway ran in past the front door under a pillared portico. And as the Saint stood on the corner, lighting a cigarette and taking in every detail of the building with the trained eye of a veteran, a taxi turned into the drive and coughed itself to a standstill under the porch. Simon moved a little so that he could see between the pillars, and for one moment only he saw the passenger who got out of the cab, as he paid off the driver before he turned and went up the steps through the front door, which had been opened for him as soon as the taxi pulled up.
For one moment only — but that was enough to make the Saint catch his breath so quickly that the lighter in his hand went out. For the man who had gone in, the man whose face he had seen for that paralyzing instant, was Ladek Urivetzky, the supreme forger of the twentieth century, the man who was reported to have been eliminated by a firing squad in Oviedo four weeks ago.
VI
Simon had no doubt of it. He had never met Urivetzky in person, but his memory for faces was as accurate as a card index, and his private collection of photographs and descriptions of outstanding members of the international underworld contained items that would have been envied by more than one official bureau of records. And that sallow, thick-lipped, skull-like face with the curved scar under the left eye was as unmistakable as any face could be without previous firsthand examination.
For some seconds the Saint stood motionless, while the door closed and the empty taxi rattled on out of the driveway and departed into the night. Then he moved on with a tremor of exquisite excitement tugging at his nerves.
He made a complete circuit of the block in which the house stood. It was quite a small block, and the rest of the buildings in it consisted of the ordinary, monotonously identical, tall narrow houses common to that part of London. Built in an unbroken row one against the other, they formed a solid three-sided wall with no openings other than a couple of narrow alleys in one side which led into little courtyards of mews garages buried in the heart of the block. Nowhere did the place seem less effectively protected than it did at the front.