She didn't recoil from that.
She said: "I think you're making all that up to scare me. I don't believe it. I can't."
"That's your choice."
"And now I suppose you're going to tell it all to the police."
"Eventually, and if it seems like a good idea — yes."
"Well, I didn't tell you anything. I won't admit a word of it. I made it all up, too. Just to keep you talking. They'll laugh at you—"
"I've been laughed at before."
"Simon," she whispered, "couldn't you just lie down and talk to me about it?"
He picked out another cigarette and lighted it with a hand that was perfectly steady now.
"No," he answered judiciously. "I couldn't. So this is goodnight."
"Where are you going?"
"Back to the hotel, probably, for a start."
"No," she said. "Please."
For the first time he had really caught her. Her face had a strained frightened look as she lifted herself on one elbow. He stood at the foot of the bed and thrust ruthlessly at the faltering of her guard.
"Why not?" he asked. "Is that another job you had to do for your father? — to keep me here when I ought to be somewhere else?"
"No," she said again. "This is just me. Please."
"I'm sorry," he said.
He started to turn away.
She said helplessly: "I happened to hear them talking…
He turned again, and his eyes were level and remorseless.
"Who are 'they,' and what were 'they' talking about?"
"I don't know what it was about. I don't know! It was just something I happened to overhear. But I was afraid for you. I know you shouldn't go back to the hotel. That's why I wanted you here. I don't want you to go away. It isn't safe for you!"
"That's too bad," he said curtly. "But it doesn't work."
He started towards the door.
There was silence behind him for a moment, and then a wild flurry. He heard her bare feet on the rug; and then she was all around him, shameless and clinging and striving, pressing herself desperately against him with all her wanton temptations, her face reaching up to him and moist from her eyes.
"No, please, you mustn't — don't go!"
"Why?"
"I can't tell you. I don't know. I don't know anything. I just know you shouldn't. Darling, I love you. You've got me. You can stay here. Stay here all night. Stay with me. I'll tell Daddy I'm not going to drive him home. He can get a train. He won't mind. I won't say you're with me. I don't care. I want you here. Darling, darling."
He stood without moving, like a statue, keeping his hands away from her.
"And then," she was babbling, "in the morning, I'll fix breakfast for you, whatever you like best; and if you still want to go back to Connecticut you can drive up with me, the trains are horrible anyhow; and you can have dinner with us tomorrow night and really meet Daddy, and I know you'll get along as soon as you talk to him, you've got so much in common, and—"
It came over him like a wave, like a tide turning back, swamping and stifling him and dragging him down, and he had to strike out and fight it and be clear. He put his hands up and seized her wrists and tore them away from around his neck. He was spurred with an anger that blended his own uncertainty and her stupidity, or the reverse of both; and it was more than he could channel into the requisites of scheming and play. He threw her off him so roughly that the bed caught her behind the knees and she sat down foolishly, her liquid eyes still fastened on him and her hair a disordered cloud of spun honey around her face.
"Goodnight," he said, "and give Daddy my regards."
He went out, crossing the living-room quickly, and closing the door behind him on the landing.
He went down the stairs, not wanting to wait for the elevator, and out to the street. A taxi came by just as he emerged, and he caught it thankfully. They crawled past the green convertible as he said "The Savoy Plaza." It was like an escape.
It was an escape.
He had a momentary vision of her again, her face and her eyes, and the lovely symmetry and infinite promise of her; and he blotted it out in a sharp cloud of smoke.
The point was what he was escaping to.
No one had called him or asked for him at the hotel. He took his key and went up to the tenth floor, and approached his door with a queer tingling in his spine. His imagination whirled out wild pictures of booby traps, infernal machines with intricate wiring that fired guns when a key was put in the lock or started time fuses to mature when he was well into the room. But he couldn't immobilize himself with nightmares like that. He opened the door and went in, feeling a little suicidal and mildly surprised when he continued to live. Nothing happened suddenly with a loud noise. He examined his dubious refuge inch by inch. Everything was as he had left it, except that the night maid had been in and turned down the bed. The emptiness of the bathroom gave him his first smile. At least he didn't have to concern himself with such exotic refinements as cyanide in the tooth powder or curare on the edge of a razor blade. But it was much too easy to be killed, if anyone wanted it badly enough — as he knew only too well from both sides.
He set the night latch on the door and went back to peer out of the windows. The bare flat walls of the building extended safely around his outlook. There were none of those balconies that he had wished for before, and no thoughtfully planted fire escapes. Of course, a hook ladder could get up or a rope could get down; but either of those expedients would be risking an upward glance from the street. The Saint drew his head back from the rising grumble of traffic, lowered the sash to within a few inches of the sill, and balanced a glass and a couple of ashtrays precariously on top of it, which would give ample warning of any uninvited guests from that direction.
He went back to the table and mixed himself a highball. The ice in the pitcher had melted, but the water was still cold. He sipped the drink at his leisure. It tasted refreshing after the heavy brandy; The atmosphere was refreshing too, even with its thin keen bite of suspense, after the febrile maelstrom that he had just salvaged himself from.
He forced that recollection out of his head again.
If there was nothing here, where else wouldn't either Andrea or the Ungodly want him to be. The only place he could think of was Stamford. Late as it was, he made a phone call there. A male voice that he hadn't heard before answered.
"Miss Gray? She isn't here."
"This is Simon Templar," he said.
The voice said: "Oh."
There was a longish pause, and then her voice came on the line — a little sleepy and breathless, but perfectly natural and unforced.
"I just wanted to be sure you were all right," he said.
"Of course I am. Has anything happened?"
"Nothing worth telling, I'm afraid. Have you had any news?"
"No."
"Are you being well looked after?"
"Oh, yes. Mr. Wayvern left the nicest man here — he's as big as a house and his hobby is collecting butterflies."
"Good. Tell him to be sure and stay awake so he can go on adding to his collection."
She hesitated a moment.
"Why… are you — expecting anything?"
"I'm always expecting things. But don't worry. I just want to be sure he's taking his job seriously."
"Are you staying in New York tonight?"
"I guess I'll have to. It's probably a bit late for a train. Anyhow, remember the story I've been giving out is that you're in New York, so it'll look more convincing if I stay here. By the way, I'm at the Savoy. I hope they're cursing the joint already, wishing they could find out what name I've got you registered under."
There was another brief pause.
"Simon — do you think this'll go on very long?"