“I’m sorry,” he said with hesitation. “I’m afraid you have the wrong number. This is Captain Kidd.”
While his formerly gushing caller hesitated, experiencing the disconcerting vertigo of rapidly turning tables, Simon admired his own psyche’s impromptu choice of a pseudonym: it was fairly appropriate for a man who had often been called — among more censorable things — the twentieth century’s brightest buccaneer. Most assuredly, had Simon Templar’s rakishly piratical face been exposed to the world three or four hundred years sooner, it would have been found on the poop of some white-winged marauder. As it was, his present day forays against the gold and jewel laden galleons of the Ungodly had brought him at least as much fame and perhaps even more fortune than in earlier tunes when heroism and daring were more common and less denigrated qualities on the face of the earth.
“You are kidding wiz me, dahling,” said the alleged embodiment of all things good in bed. “You are ze man zey call ze Saint.”
“That’s also a possibility,” said the Saint. “Now if you’ll tell me who you are we’ll be almost even.”
“I’ve told you, you funny man.” Her voice took on a sudden urgency. “But I have no time to argue any more. I am in trouble and I...”
“Perhaps,” Simon interrupted helpfully, “you’d better speak to your family doctor.”
It was impossible to tell definitely whether his caller snickered or suppressed a sigh of exasperation. At any rate she went on a moment later in the same desperate tone.
“I am told zat you are ze only one who can help me. Please, it is most important. I must see you. If you will meet me at...”
Simon, as she went on unnecessarily detailing a route by which he could arrive at a certain street corner not far from the British Museum, glanced at his watch and then out the window of his bedroom. Though it was only six in the evening, a heavy fog enveloped the autumn streets of London, and it was almost as dark as it would be at midnight.
“Listen,” he said, having no intention of refusing to accept the gauntlet which was being so charmingly flung at him, “I’m dressing for dinner now, and it just happens that I have no engagements for this evening. Why don’t you meet me at the White House at seven and...”
“White House?”
“It’s a restaurant, darling. No relation to the Birds’ Nest in Washington. Meet me there at seven and we can discuss your difficulties over the most delicious...”
“I couldn’t It... it must be later, and...”
“Then how about here at my house when it suits you? You know where I am, no doubt, since you have my number.”
“Yes, I think so. Upper Berkeley Mews. But...”
“And a charming spot it is, too,” Simon said nostalgically. “I lived here years ago and just found that the old place was available again. And I can’t think of a better partner for a housewarming than you.”
His Zsa Zsa or pseudo-Zsa Zsa was beginning to sound pressed.
“No,” she said. “It’s impossible. I beg you. Meet me where I said. At ten o’clock. Please.”
Whatever nefarious intentions she or someone she represented might have, her insistence on choosing her own ground assumed a naivete on Simon’s part which implied an almost unbelievable naivete on hers. Still, there was one inducement to go along with the proposaclass="underline" if someone was out to ensnare him in some way, the Saint would not have chosen the venue but he would know where and when to be on guard — which advantage was several cuts above not being fore-warned at all.
“If you insist,” he said pleasantly. “But it’s only fair to tell you that I don’t believe for a moment that you are Zsa Zsa Gabor I’m just curious enough to want to know what the gag is — and it’d better be good, or you may find yourself getting spanked.”
“Oh, zank you for coming. It will be worth your while.”
“I’m sure it’s intended to be worth someone’s while — but just whose is the question that fascinates me.”
The fascination stayed with him as he finished dressing, cast a fond glance over the walls and refurbishings of his old haunt, and piloted his car off into the mist. It added a special piquancy to a meal which was as relaxed and fine as he had anticipated, but which without the earlier phone call would have turned his thoughts more toward relaxation and eventual sleep than toward the expectation of excitement. The voice, even if spurious, had had a timbre of genuine sexiness which he recognized in the same way that a connoisseur recognizes the scent of a good wine; and it was an article of his faith that adventure never came to those who sat at home in fear of making a mistake.
A little before ten he drove to the appointed area and circled through the almost deserted streets, always keeping a block’s distance between himself and the corner his Zsa Zsa had mentioned. He saw nothing to change his mind about keeping the date. Then he zigzagged deviously through several blocks to confuse any possible observers, and parked a full five minutes’ long-striding walk from his destination. He did not think, under the peculiar circumstances, that there was any taint of paranoia in his desire to arrive in as discreet a way as he could.
Of course it was possible — just barely possible — that the much photographed form of Miss Gabor would come drifting toward him out of the dampness like a Magyar mermaid. She had been reported in London, and only the day before he had read one of the usual idiotic newspaper interviews with her. That could also have inspired a joker whose calendar had stuck at the first of April to use her name for a stupid hoax, even more probably than that the real Zsa Zsa would have had any reason or inclination to call him. But stranger things than that had happened in his incredible life, and he could never have slept peacefully again if he had not given this one at least a sporting chance to surprise him. And yet at the same time, even while logical skepticism was resignedly prepared for a pointless jape, the conditioned reflexes of a lifetime still found themselves tautening to respond to anything more sinister than either of those simple alternatives. As he was about to emerge from an alley half a block from the trysting spot, he stopped and listened. The neighborhood, composed of small shops all closed in the evening, seemed absolutely deserted, and the more distant sounds of the city were muffled by mist. He looked along the street, both ways. Visibility was held down to barely a block, but it was obvious that within that area, at least, there was no one waiting for him.
He moved around the corner, out of the narrow passage, and went along the sidewalk. Then, almost like an echo of the sound of his own shoes on the dimly gleaming pavement, he heard the other steps. He went quickly around the comer of the block, where he was supposed to meet Zsa Zsa, and stood still to listen. The footsteps continued, drawing closer, from the direction of the alley he had just vacated.
As he heard them, swiftly analyzed their character, compared them with footsteps in general, the Saint felt the hairs prickle icily on the back of his neck. For the footsteps were not those of a woman — nor of a man either. Certainly of no animal. With mechanical steadiness they came on, accompanied now by a faint whining sound like that begun by a cuckoo clock just before the bird pops out to announce the hour.
Simon looked, and the unknown — which had aroused such aboriginal stirrings of his body fur — became the ridiculously familiar.
A metal toy soldier about twelve inches in height was marching along the sidewalk, its tin rifle on its shoulder, its wide painted eyes staring sightlessly straight ahead.