Simon Templar rolled the rare bouquet of the idea through his mind. He had certainly hoped to have something sensational out of Hamilton's reports to confront Imberline with; but this might be even better.
It was nearly eight o'clock, and he was hurried and preoccupied enough to stride past a couple of men who were entering the lobby without recognising one of them until his step was taking him past them. He almost stopped, and then went straight on out of the street, without looking round or being quite sure whether he had been recognised himself. But the monkey-wrench he had flipped into the machinery clattered more musically in his ears as he hailed a taxi. He knew that it would produce some disorder even sooner than he had hoped, and he thought he knew a little more about Hobart Quennel's business conference that night; for the man he had belatedly identified was Walter Devan.
5. How Andrea Quennel tried everything,
and Inspector Fernack also did his best
1
Andrea Quennel cherished a crystal balloon of the last surviving cognac of Jules Robin, and said: "Where do we go from here?"
"That could be lots of places," said the Saint.
He felt durably sustained with two more cocktails, a bowl of the lobster bisque which only Louis and Armand make just that way, and a brochette of veal kidneys exuding just the right amount of plasma from the pores. He was icily sober, and yet he was recklessly ready for whatever was coming out of this.
"We might take in a good movie," he suggested through a drift of cigarette smoke.
"What — and catch one of those Falcon pictures with some body giving a bargain-basement imitation of you?"
He chuckled.
"All right. You call it. What's your favorite night club?"
"I'm sick to death of night clubs. Remember? I was Miss Glamor Girl of Nineteen-Something." Her generous mouth sulked. "Leave it to me, then. I know where we'll go."
The green convertible circled back to Fifth Avenue and purred north. The wind stirred in her ash blonde hair, and her hands were as light as the wind on the wheel. She looked pleased with herself in a private way.
Simon Templar was equally contented. He would have paid a regal fee for the privilege of listening to the business conference between Walter Devan and Frank Imberline, with the chance of having Hobart Quennel thrown in for good measure, and he wished he had had the forethought to appropriate the late Mr. Angert's ingenious aid to eavesdropping when the opportunity was there. But he hadn't; and the Savoy Plaza had not been considerate enough to architect itself with a convenient system of balconies for listening outside windows, as any hotel which had known it was going to be sued in a story of this kind would assuredly have done. The Saint had to be philosophical about it. He couldn't be in two places at once either, and he could imagine much duller places than where he was now. He cupped his hands around the lighting of another cigarette and leaned back to enjoy the air and the ride. To him, there had always been a kind of simple excitement in the mere motion of driving through New York in an open car at night, the car like a speedboat skimming through the tall angular canyons, dwarfed even by limousines like sedate yachts, and buses like behemoths towering and roaring clumsily along the stream. It was an atavistic fantasy, like defying the elements in a flimsy tent; and it matched a mood that was no less primitive, and a duel that was no less real for all its lightness.
The Park fell open on their left, and they drifted along its banks for a few blocks before Andrea turned off into one of the eastern tributaries. She pulled up outside a house with an open door and a dimly lighted hallway.
"Well?" she said. "Want to come in?"
"I don't remember hearing about this club."
"It's rather exclusive."
He got out of the car, and she came around and took his left arm. She pressed close to him as they went up the steps, in an easy and spontaneous intimacy; and he felt the gun in his holster hard against his side.
"You are careful, aren't you?" she said with the faintest mockery.
He looked very innocent.
"Why?"
"Carrying a gun when you go out on a date with a girl."
"I never know who else I might meet."
She laughed, and pressed buttons in the self-service elevator. He smiled with her; and he was very careful, keeping his right hand free and clear and his coat open.
They stopped at the fifth floor, and stepped out on to an empty landing with the same subdued lighting as the hall. She went to a door with a letter on it, and opened it with a key from her bag.
"Will you walk into my parlor?" she said.
He walked in. It was one of those things that had to be done, like leaving a front-line trench in an advance, and he could only do it with his shooting hand loose and ready and his muscles alert and all her nerves and senses tuned to the last sensitive turn. It was an absurdly melodramatic feeling, like the time when he had let her into his suite in Washington; but there was no alternative to unchanging vigilance, and the good earth had provided innumerable graveyards for adventurers who had drowsed at the wrong time.
They were in an apartment, he saw as she found switches and turned on lights.
"This is quite a club," he remarked.
It was a nice and ordinarily furnished place. He strolled around on the most casual tour of inspection, but he managed to open all the doors and glance into all the closets that might have harbored unfriendly hosts.
"Like it?" she said.
"Very much," he replied. "I miss some of the dear old bloated Café Society faces, but not too badly."
"I keep it for when I have to stay in town. That phonograph thing over there has a bar in it, and there ought to be some good brandy. Take care of us, darling."
He opened the cabinet and brought over a bottle and two glasses, and poured for them both. She sat with her long shapely legs tucked under her on a divan behind the low table. He took an armchair facing her, and sniffed his glass guardedly. It had a fine aroma, but he only sipped it.
They gazed at each other thoughtfully.
"Did I forget to tell you about my etchings?" she asked.
His mouth stirred slightly.
"Maybe you did."
"You don't approve of the way I lured you up here."
"I think it was charming."
"Then why do you have to stay miles over there?"
"I was just waiting for your father to come bursting in with a shotgun and insist on your making an honest man out of me."
"You are careful, aren't you?" she said again.
"It's a bad habit I got into," he said.
She emptied her glass and pushed it towards him. He refilled it expressionlessly and set it back in front of her. She stared at him sullenly, nipping one thumbnail between her white front teeth. She looked very young, very spoiled, and distractingly accessible.
"Why do you hate me so much?" she demanded.
"I don't," he said pleasantly.
"I think I could hate you."
"I'm sorry."
"Damn it, I do hate you! What am I doing this for? I never run after men. They run after me. And I let them run and run. I'm not a bit interested in you, really. I can't even think why I let you talk me into having dinner with you tonight."