"I can tell my men they didn't see her," said Wayvern.
"Besides that," Simon went on, "she ought to have a guard. Just in case. I've got to go to New York this afternoon, and I can't promise to be back tonight."
Jetterick grimaced.
"If I had a man to spare," he said, "I could divide him into six pieces and need all of them."
"I can take care of that," said Wayvern.
They all looked at each other. They seemed to have reached the end of what they could do.
"I'm driving in to New York," Schindler offered. "I can give you a lift, Simon."
It was still a while before they got away.
They talked the case to pieces all the way to the city, but the Saint was guilty of keeping most of his conclusions to himself and only contributing enough to sound natural and stay with the conversation. He had had enough analysing and theorising to last him for a long time. And now he was even more restless to get his hands on the dossiers that should be on their way to meet him. Somewhere in them, he hoped, there would be a key to at least one of the puzzles that was twisting through his brain. In spite of his friendship for Ray Schindler, he was glad when the ride was over and he could feel alone and unhampered again for whatever came next.
He was at the Roosevelt at four-thirty, and he was down to the last drop of a studiously nursed Martini when a thin gray man say down at his table and laid a bulky envelope between them. Typed on the envelope was "Mr. Sebastian Tombs."
"From Hamilton," said the thin gray man dolefully.
"God bless him," said the Saint.
"I hope I didn't keep you waiting?"
"No, I was early." Simon signaled a waiter. "Have a drink."
"Thank you, no. I have ulcers."
"One dry Martini," said the Saint, and turned back to the thin gray man. "Did Hamilton give you a message too?"
"The party you asked about is staying at the Savoy Plaza tonight."
"Good."
"If you'll excuse me," said the thin gray man sadly, "I must go and keep some other appointments."
He got up and went grayly and wispily away, a perfect nonentity, perfectly enveloped in protective coloring, whom nobody would ever notice or remember — and perfect for his place in a machine of infinite complexity.
Simon weighed the package in his hand and teased the flap with his thumb while he tasted his second cocktail, but he decided against opening it there. At that hour, the place was getting too busy and noisy, filling tip with business men intent on restoring themselves from the day's cares of commerce, and he wanted to concentrate single-mindedly on his reading.
He finished his drink more quickly than the last, but still with self-tantalising restraint, and put the envelope in his pocket and went out. His thoughts were working towards a quiet hotel room, a bottle of Peter Dawson, a bowl of ice, a pack of cigarettes, and a period of uninterrupted research. That may have been why he suddenly realised that he had been staring quite blankly at an open green convertible that swerved in to the curb towards him with a blonde blue-eyed goddess waving to him from behind the wheel.
He walked over to the car quite slowly, almost as though he were uncertain of the recognition; but he was absolutely certain, and it was as if the pit of his stomach dropped down below his belt and climbed up again.
"Hullo, Andrea," he said.
2
After the first chaotic instant he knew that this was only a coincidental encounter. No one except Hamilton and the thin gray courier could have told that he would be there at that moment — he had even let Schindler decant him at the Ritz-Carlton and walked over. But out of such coincidence grew the gambler's excitement of adventure. And there was no doubt any more that Andrea Quennel was adventure, no matter how dangerous.
Even if the only way she looked dangerous was the kind of way that had never given the Saint pause before.
She wore a soft creamy sweater that clung like suds to every curve of her upper sculpture, and her lips were full and inviting.
"Hullo," she said. "Surprised?"
"A little," he admitted mildly.
"We flew up this morning. Daddy had some business to attend to in New York, so I was going to Westport."
"What are you running on — bathtub gasoline?"
She laughed without a conscience, and pointed to the "T" sticker on the windshield.
"All our cars belong to Quenco now, and that's a defense industry… I was going to see if I could track you down in Stamford."
"That was nice."
She made a little face.
"Now you're stuck with me anyway. Get in, and you can buy me a drink somewhere."
He got in, and she let in the clutch and crept up to the light on Madison.
"Where would you like to take me?" she asked.
He had gone that far. He had picked up the dice, and now he might as well ride his own roll to the limit.
He said: "The Savoy Plaza."
He was watching her, but she didn't react with even a flicker of withdrawal. She made the right turn on Madison, and sent the convertible breezing north, weaving adroitly and complacently through the traffic, and keeping up a spillway of trivial chatter about some congressman who had been trying to date the hostess on the plane. The Saint was in practice by that time for interjecting the right agreeable noises. By the time they reached the Savoy Plaza he was cool and relaxed again, completely relaxed now, with a curious kind of patience that hadn't any immediate logical connection.
She berthed the car skillfully, and they went down into the cocktail lounge. He ordered drinks. She pulled off her gloves, giving the room the elaborately casual once-over of a woman who is quite well aware that every man in it has already taken a second look at her.
She said: "How are your protégés?"
"Fine."
"Did you leave Madeline in Stamford?"
As if he had only just said it, the recollection of what he had told her in Washington scorched across his mind; and he cursed himself without moving a muscle of his face. That was the one loophole which he had overlooked. Yet when he had created it, there had been no reason for not telling Andrea Quennel that he was taking Madeline back. It had seemed like ingenious tactics, even. A good deal had happened since then…
He said, as unhesitatingly as he had told the same lie before, but with less comfort in it: "I parked her with a friend in New York. I decided afterwards that too many accidents could happen on a lonely country estate."
"What about the Professor?"
"He's also been moved and hidden," said the Saint, most truthfully.
She looked at him steadily, simply listening to him, and her face was as unresponsive as a magazine cover. It was impossible to tell who was learning what or who was fooling who.
Their drinks came, and they toasted each other pleasantly. But the Saint had a queer fascinated feeling of lifting a sword instead of a glass, in the salute before a duel.
"You haven't found out any more yet?" she asked.
"Not much."
"When am I going to do something for you?"
"I don't know."
"You're terribly talkative."
He was conscious of his own curtness, and he said: "How long are you going to be at Westport?"
"Maybe not very long. We've got a place at Pinehurst, North Carolina, and Daddy wants to spend some time there as soon as he can get away. He wants me to go down and see that it's all opened up ready." She turned the stem of her glass. "It's a lovely place — I wish you could see it."
"I wish I could."
"The gardens are gorgeous, and there's an enormous swimming pool that's more like a lake, and stables and horses. The riding's wonderful. Do you like to ride?"
"Very much."
"We could have a lot of fun if you came down with me. Just the two of us."