As Simon came within earshot, Undine was saying: ". and rub his nose in it. The banks don't make any loans on artistic integrity, and a producer who isn't as tough as a bank better learn to print his own money. I know what I can do for anyone and I figure what they've got to do for me to pull their weight in the package, or I'm not interested—"
He broke off, cigar and goatee cocked challengingly, as the Saint stopped at the table.
Maureen Herald's face lighted up momentarily, and then masked itself with a kind of cordial restraint.
"Oh, hullo, Simon," she said, and turned smoothly to the others. "This is Mr. — Thomas." The hesitation was barely perceptible. "Sir Jasper Undine. Mr. & Mrs. Carozza — that is, Dominique Rousse." The dark withdrawn man, then, was the lush actress's husband. "I'm afraid I didn't get all the other names—"
Undine did not bother to supply them. He stared at the Saint steadily. The impenetrable sunglasses hid his eyes, but at this range it could be seen that his nose was fleshy and his mouth large-lipped and moist.
He asked brusquely: "Any relation of the Thomas brothers — Ralph and Gerald — the directors?"
"No," said the Saint pleasantly.
"Not an actor?"
"No."
"You can sit down, then. Get him a chair, Wilbert."
The carroty young man gave up his own seat and went looking for another. He was the only customer in the place who was wearing a tie, and even a shiny serge jacket as well. They were like symbols of servitude amid the surrounding riot of casual garb, and obviously defined his part in Undine's retinue.
"There's nothing wrong with actors except when they're trying to get a job, and then there's a limit to how many you can 'ave around at the same time," said Sir Jasper. His origins revealed themselves in his speech more consistently through its intonation and subject matter than by the dropping of H's, which he did only occasionally. "One day somebody 'll make a robot that you just wind up and it says what you put on a tape, and then they can all butter themselves. Get him a drink, Wilbert."
"And who would make the tape recording?" Simon inquired mildly.
"The writers would be glad to do that themselves. They always know 'ow their precious lines ought to be spoken better than anybody else — don't they, Lee?"
The taciturn Carozza, whose profession was thus revealed, gave a tight-lipped smile without answering. Now the Saint remembered having seen his name in print as one of Europe's avant‑garde new dramatists, but was vague about his actual achievements. It was not a sphere in which Simon Templar had more than a superficial interest.
"These brainy chaps can do anything," Undine pursued. "Look at him. There's Dominique, who gets made love to by all the matinée idols — on the set, of course — and papers her bathroom with mash notes from millionaires, and I could go for her myself, but she falls for his intellectual act. He's hired to work on my script, and she wants to play the lead in it, but he goes and marries her. That's what you do with brains."
"You promised me the part before that," said Dominique Rousse sullenly.
"I said you were the best bet I'd seen. But what am I betting on now? All you'll be thinking about is what Lee wants, not what I want. I'm kidding, of course."
If he was, it was with a touch that tickled like a club.
"Does that mean you were kidding when you asked me to come here for an interview?" Maureen Herald asked.
"Get me another cigar, Wilbert." Undine brought his opaque gaze back to her. "Listen, you remember in 'Ollywood about six years ago, right after the premeer of your first picture, which I saw — I was giving a party, and I sent you an invitation, but you didn't come then."
"I'd never met you, and I happened to have another date."
"I knew it couldn't 've been because you felt too grand for the likes of me. After all, you came all the way here this time, didn't you?"
"So all this was just your way of getting even?" she asked steadily.
"Now why would I go to all that trouble? I'm reminding you, that's all. I didn't let it make any difference when I told my lawyers to go ahead and draw up a contract with everything your agent was able to get out of me. I rang 'em up this afternoon and they said they'd already sent it off. It should be here in the first post tomorrow. Then all I got to do is make up my mind to be big-'earted and sign it."
"But if—"
"Who said you and Dominique couldn't both be starred? There's two female parts in the script that could be built up equal, if we can stop Lee trying to give all the best of it to his wife."
"I'm sorry," Carozza said, speaking at last. "But I don't see that." He had only a trace of accent, which was as much Oxford as Latin. "Unless Messalina dominates everything—"
Sir Jasper clutched his temples.
"There 'e goes. Just like I told you." He turned to Maureen again, and dropped a heavy hand on her knee. "But don't worry — he'll come 'round when he thinks about all that lolly I could stop paying him every week. So let's you and me go to dinner and talk about this part." He stood up, royally. "Wilbert, order one more round and pay the bill. So long, everybody."
Simon met Maureen's eyes as they looked at him, letting her take the cue, and they said as plainly as if she had spoken: "Forgive me, but I guess I am stuck with it. What else can I do?"
The Saint smiled his understanding, and said: "I'll call you tomorrow."
He accepted another Peter Dawson without compunction, and made it a double just to reciprocate the courtesy with which it had been offered. The Carozzas also shrug-nodded acceptance; but the two starlet types, after ogling the Saint speculatively and receiving little encouragement, twittered obliquely to each other and took their leave.
While Wilbert (whether that was his first or his last name, it fitted his function and personality like a glove) was twisting one way and another trying to flag down a waiter, Dominique Rousse exploded in a furious aside to her husband which was pitched too low for any other ear; but Carozza silenced her with a warning down-drift of his brows. He was studying the Saint now with the undeviating concentration which he seemed to aim at its objects like a gun.
"Did I hear Miss Herald say you were Mr. Simon Thomas?" he inquired.
"You did," Simon replied easily.
"I was wondering if it should have been Simon Templar."
"Why?"
"You have a great resemblance to a picture I saw once — of a person who is called the Saint."
"Have I?"
"I think you are being modest."
The Saint grinned at him blandly and indulgently, and drawled: "I hope that's a compliment."
The ginger-haired Wilbert had finally accomplished his assignment, which had kept him out of this exchange, and now as if he had not heard any of it he pulled a notebook and a ballpoint pen from his pocket and leaned towards the Saint like a college-magazine reporter.
"What hotel are you staying at, Mr. Thomas?"
"I'm staying in a friend's apartment. He lent it to me while he's away."
"Would you give me the address? And the telephone number, if there is one?"
The Saint was mildly surprised.
"What ever for?"
"Sir Jasper will expect me to know," Wilbert said. "If he wanted to get in touch with you again for any reason, and I didn't know where to find you, he'd skin me alive."
With his jug-handle ears and slightly protruding eyes and teeth, and the complexion that looked as if it had been sandpapered, he was so pathetically earnest, like a boy scout trying for a badge, that Simon didn't have the heart to be evasive with that information. But in return he asked where Undine was staying.