Her vague light eyes studied him for a moment longer; and then she stood up.
"Anyway, I did get to meet you, just the same, so I think it was worth it… I'll get out of your way now."
He watched her. The curious inward immobility that had seized him when she told him her name had dissolved completely, but imperceptibly, so that he hadn't even noticed the change. But his brain was fluid and alive again now, as if all the cells in it were working like coordinated individuals, like bees in a hive.
He said: "Sit down, Andrea, and finish your drink."
She sat down, with a surprised expression, as if someone had pushed her. The Saint smiled.
"After all, you were enterprising," he murmured, "so I'll forgive you. Besides, it's just occurred to me that you might be able to do something for me one of these days."
Her eyes opened.
"Could I? I'd do anything… But you're just kidding me. Nothing so marvelous as that could ever happen!"
"Don't be too sure."
"Do you often do that? — I mean, get perfect strangers to help you do things?"
"Not often. But sometimes. And anyway, perhaps by that time we won't be such strangers."
"I hope not," she said softly; and then she blinked. "This isn't happening to me," she said.
He laughed.
"What do you do — work for Quenco too?"
"Oh, no. I'm much too stupid. I just do nothing. I'm a very useless person, really. What would you want me to do for you?"
"I'll tell you when the time comes."
"I hope it'll be something exciting."
"It might be."
She leaned forward a little, watching him eagerly.
"Tell me — why did you think I might be an Axis agent? Were you expecting one?"
"It wasn't impossible," he said carefully.
"Are you working on some Secret Service job? And those men you had the fight with tonight… No, wait." She frowned, thinking. Somehow, although she said she was stupid, she managed to look quite intelligent, thinking. "Mr. Devan only thought of a hold-up. But he knew this girl you rescued — Madeline Gray. You see, I've got a memory like a parrot. Her father has an invention. Synthetic rubber. So the Gestapo or whatever it is want to get hold of it. So they think if they can kidnap his daughter they can make him tell. But you're looking after her, so they don't get away with it. So you think they'll be sending somebody to get rid of you. How's that?"
He blew a meticulously rounded smoke-ring.
"It's not bad."
"Is it right?"
"I can't answer for all of it. Madeline Gray, yes. Father makes synthetic rubber, yes. Try to kidnap daughter, yes. But who and why — that's something to make up our minds about slowly."
"Is that why you asked if I was an Axis agent or a private crook?" she said shrewdly.
The shift of his lips and eyebrows was cheerfully noncommittal.
"Wonderful weather we've been having," he said.
"But you were looking after her."
"I am looking after her," he said, without a trace of emphasis on the change of tense.
She pouted humorously.
"All right. I mustn't ask questions." She finished her drink, and gazed into the empty glass. "Couldn't we go somewhere and dance?" she said abruptly.
"No." He came up off the chairback that he had been propping himself on. "I'm sorry, but I've got to pack a couple of things. And then I'll be traveling."
She stood up.
"You mean you're leaving Washington?"
"Yes."
"Then how are we going to get to know each other better?"
"How does anyone find you?"
"You can call Daddy's office in New York. His secretary always knows where we are — he talks to her every day. I'll talk to her myself and ask her to tell you."
"Then it ought to be easy."
She hesitated.
"But where are you going?"
He thought it over before he answered. "I'm going to see Calvin Gray, and I'm taking Madeline with me. I told you I was looking after them. I'd love to go dancing with you, Andrea, but this is business."
"Where does he live?"
"Near Stamford, Connecticut."
"We've got a place at Westport," she said lingeringly.
"Then we might run into each other some time," he smiled.
He took her to the door, and after she had gone he came back and poured himself another drink before he went to the telephone. He had to call three or four numbers before he located the man he wanted.
"Hullo, Ham," he said. "Simon. Sorry to interrupt you, but I'm going solo for a few days. I want a private plane to go to the nearest field to Stamford. Organize it for me, will you? I'll be at the airport in an hour."
"You don't want much, do you?"
"Only one of those little things that you handle so beautifully, comrade… Oh, and one other thing."
"I suppose you'd like Eleanor to come down and see you off."
"Get me some dossiers. Anything and everything you can dig up — including dirt. Airmail them to me at General Delivery, Stamford. Get the names. Calvin Gray, research chemist. A guy named Walter Devan, who works for Quenco." Simon lighted a cigarette. "Also Hobart Quennel himself, and his daughter Andrea."
He hung up, and sat for several moments, drawing steadily at his cigarette and watching the smoke drift away from his lips.
Then he went into the bedroom and started packing his bag, humming gently to himself as he moved about. He was traveling very light, and there wasn't much to do. He had practically finished when the telephone rang again, and he picked it up.
"Washington Ping-Pong and Priority Club," he said.
"This is Madeline Gray," she said. "Are you still tied up?"
"No."
"Can you come up to see me, or shall I come down?"
He didn't need to be as sensitive as he was to feel the unnatural restraint in her voice.
"Is something going on," he asked quietly, "or can't you talk now? Just say Yes or No."
"Oh, yes, I can talk. There's nobody here. I suppose I'm just silly. But…" The pause was quite long. Then she went on, and her voice was still cold and level and sensible. "I've been trying to phone my father and let him know we're coming. But they say there's no answer."
Simon relaxed on the bed and flipped cigarette ash on the carpet.
"Maybe he's gone to a movie, or he's out with the boys analysing alcohol in one of the local saloons."
"He never goes out in the evening. He hates it. Besides, he knew I was going to phone tonight. I was going to talk to him as soon as I'd seen Imberline. Nothing on earth would have dragged him out until he knew about that. Or do you think you've scared me too much?"
The Saint lay back and stared at the ceiling, feeling cold needles tiptoeing up his spine and gathering In spectral conclave on the nape of his neck.
4
Simon Templar checked his watch mechanically as the Beechcraft sat down on the runway at Armonk airport. One hour and fifteen minutes from Washington was good traveling, even with a useful tail wind, and he hoped that his haste hadn't ground too much life out of the machinery.
The pilot who was to take the ship back, who hadn't asked a single question all the way because he had been taught not to, said: "Good luck." Simon grinned and shook hands, and led Madeline Gray to the taxi that he had phoned to meet them.
As they turned east towards Stamford he was still considering the timetable. They could be at Calvin Gray's house in twenty minutes. Making about an hour and thirty-five minutes altogether. Only a few minutes longer than one of the regular airlines would have taken to make New York, even if there had been a plane leaving at the same time. Furthermore, he had left no loophole for the Ungodly to sabotage the trip, or to interfere with him in any way before he got to his destination. They couldn't have intercepted him at any point, because they couldn't have discovered his route before it was too late.