She said: "Yes."
"Mr. Templar's right. He's not home. I happen to know that because Mr. Quennel's been trying to get in touch with him himself."
"Just how did you get this appointment?" Simon asked.
"I'd been trying to see him at his office," she said, "but I hadn't gotten anywhere. I'd left my name and address, and they were supposed to get in touch with me. Then I got a phone call this afternoon to go to his house."
"Someone was pulling your leg," said the Saint quietly.
She looked at him with wide startled eyes.
Simon's arm lay along the back of the seat behind her. His left hand moved on her shoulder with a firm significant pressure. Until he knew much more about everything, now, he was in no hurry to talk before any strangers.
Especially this man who called himself Walter Devan.
Because, unless he was very much mistaken, Devan had been the round stocky man who had jostled him in the Shoreham cocktail lounge. And the eyes of the taller of the two self-asserted FBI agents looked very much like those of one of the group that had followed Frank Imberline into the dining room later — when he had received his second jostling.
3
Devan seemed quite unconscious of any suppression. He said conversationally: "By the way, Miss Gray, how is your father getting on with his new synthetic process?"
"The process is fine," she said frankly, "but we're still trying to put it over."
Devan shook his head sympathetically.
"These things take a lot of time. Imberline may be able to help you," he said. "It's too bad our company couldn't do anything about it." He turned towards Simon and added in explanation: "Mr. Gray has a very promising angle on the synthetic rubber problem. He brought it to Mr. Quennel, but unfortunately it wasn't in our line."
"I suppose," said the Saint, "I should know — but what exactly is our line?"
"Quennel Chemical Corporation. Quenco Products. You've probably seen the name somewhere. It's rather a well-known name."
His voice reflected quiet pride. Yes, Simon had seen the name, right enough. When he had first heard it mentioned it had sounded familiar, but he hadn't been able to place it.
"What do you think of Mr. Gray's formula?" he asked.
"I'm afraid I'm not a chemist," Devan said apologetically. "I'm just the personnel manager. It sounds very hopeful, from what I've heard of it. But Quennel already has an enormous contract with the Government for buna, and we've already invested more than two million dollars in a plant that's being built now, so our hands are tied. That's probably our bad luck."
The Saint dragged at his cigarette thoughtfully.
"But if Mr. Gray's invention is successful and put into production, it would mean his method would be in competition with yours, wouldn't it?" he asked.
Devan gave a short laugh.
"I suppose it would be, theoretically," he admitted. "But with the world howling for rubber, all the rubber it can get, it would be hard to call it competition. Rather, it would be like two firms turning out different makes of life preservers — there'd be no pick and choose involved when a drowning man was being thrown one."
The Saint finished his cigarette in silence, with thoughtful leisuredness. There was, after all, some justice in the world. That violent and accidental meeting had its own unexpected compensation for the loss of two possibly unimportant muscle men. If he still needed it, he had the clinching confirmation that the story which had sounded so preposterous was true — that after all Madeline Gray was not just a silly sensation-hunter and celebrity-nuisance, but that the invention of Calvin Gray might indeed be one of those rare fuses from which could explode a fiesta of fun and games of the real original vintage that he loved. He felt a little foolish now for some of his facile incredulity; and yet, glancing again at the profile of the girl beside him, he couldn't feel very deeply sorry. It was worth much more than a little transient egotism for her to be real…
They were at the Shoreham, and Walter Devan said: "I hope I'll see you again."
"I'm staying here," said the Saint.
"So am I," said the girl.
The Saint looked at her and began to raise a quizzical eyebrow at himself, and she laughed and said: "I suppose I'd do better if I could act more like a starving inventor's daughter, but the trouble is we just aren't starving yet."
He looked at the Scottish tweed suit that covered her perfection, at the hat that just missed ridiculousness, and silently estimated their cost. No, Madeline Gray looked as though she was far removed from starvation.
"Let me know if I can help," said Devan. "I might be able to do something for you. Maybe Mr. Quennel can reach Imberline and fix some kind of a conference. I'm at the Raleigh if you should want to reach me for any reason."
He drove off after a brief word to Templar. Simon gazed after the ruby tail light for a moment, and then took the girl's arm, steering her into the lobby. She started to turn towards the cocktail lounge, but he guided her towards the elevators.
"Let's go to my apartment," he said. "Funny things seem to happen in cocktail lounges and dining rooms."
He felt her eyes switch to him quickly, but his face was as impersonal as the way he had spoken. She stepped into the elevator without speaking, and was silent until they were in his living room.
At a time when a closet and a blanket could be rented in Washington as a fairly luxurious bedroom, it was still only natural that Simon Templar should have achieved a commodious suite all to himself. He had a profound appreciation of the more expensive refinements of living when he could get them, and he had ways of getting them that would have been quite incomprehensible to less enterprising men. He took off his coat and went to a side table to pour Peter Dawson into two tall glasses, and added ice from a thermos bucket.
"Now," she said, "will you tell me exactly what you mean by funny things happen in cocktail lounges and dining rooms?"
He gave her one of the drinks he had mixed, and then with his freed hand he showed her the note he had found in his pocket.
"I found it just after you'd left," he explained. "That's why I went after you. I'm sorry. I take it all back. I was stupid enough to think you were stupid. I've tried to make up for a little. Now can we start again?"
She smiled at him with a straightforward friendliness that he should have been able to expect. Yet it was still good to see it.
"Of course," she said. "Will you really help me with Imberline when I get in touch with him?"
He sipped his drink casually and looked at her over the rim of his glass. When he took down the drink, he asked:
"Have you ever met this phantom Imberline who everybody seems to be trying to get in touch with?"
She nodded.
"I've seen him a couple of times," she said briefly.
"What's he like, and what does he do?"
She waved her hands expressively.
"He's — oh, he's a Babbitty sort of person, nice but dull and I suspect not too brilliant. Honest, politically ambitious perhaps, a joiner, likes to make friends—"
"Just what is his position?" asked the Saint.
"He's with the WPB, as I told you. A dollar-a-year man in the synthetic rubber branch. Not the biggest man in that branch, but still fairly important. He has quite a bit of say about what money is going to be spent for the development of which processes."
The ice in Simon's glass tinkled as he drank again.
"And what did he do before he became a dollar-a-year man?" he asked.
Her eyes widened a trifle as she gazed back at him.
"Surely, you must have heard of Frank Imberline!" she exclaimed. "Imberline, of Consolidated Rubber. Of course, it was his father who built up the rubber combine, but at least this Imberline hasn't done anything to weaken that combine. There are hints, rumors—"