“Why must you?”
“Because when I woke up, there was this girl in bed with me, with nothing on. And I hadn’t heard her come in, or get undressed, or anything.”
The Saint’s blue eyes became slightly wider.
“Wow!.. I mean, that must have been disappointing. You probably missed the best strip-tease of the evening.”
“I give you my word, sir, I’m not used to anything like that. At least, not at such close quarters.”
“Don’t be discouraged, chum. It may grow on you yet. The savoir faire comes with practice. What did you do — offer her some Yummigum?”
“I think I woke up when the lights suddenly went on. Or when she leaned over and put her arms around me. Both things seemed to happen together. I was completely fuddled, of course. And then, before I could really get my bearings at all, the light blinded me. I think there was someone else in the room, but I was too dazzled to have anything more than an impression. And then, something hit me on the head, and it hurt terribly, and everything went black. It all seems like a bad dream now, except...”
The little man took off his prim felt hat and gingerly touched the upper side of his cranium. The mousy hair had ebbed far enough from that region for the Saint without even coming closer to authenticate a swelling that was already making its first experiments with the palette of color effects.
“What happened when you woke up again?” Simon asked.
“There wasn’t anyone there. Except me, of course. And as soon as I could think it out, I knew I’d been framed. That blinding light — obviously, a flash bulb. Somebody had taken a picture of me, in that awful situation.”
“Was this doll really gruesome?”
“No. No, not at all. That’s what makes it so dreadful. In fact, she was... well, er...”
“Stacked?”
Mr Fennick winced, his pallor taking on a definite tint of rose.
“I don’t particularly like such vulgar expressions. But, yes, if someone was planning to blackmail me, I suppose she’d be the type they’d use.”
“Then all may not be lost,” said the Saint consolingly. “If some prankster in this Convention is trying to sabotage your bid to be elected Supreme Lollipop by charging you with dissolute habits, the foul conspiracy may yet boomerang. With your new reputation as the Confectionery Casanova, you might become the hero of the Convention. Think what a few shots like that did for Brigitte Bardot.”
“I am hardly in the same category,” said Mr Fennick severely. “And in my case, that’d be all my wife would need.”
Simon Templar nodded.
“Aha. Now it starts to make sense. I gather that Mrs Fennick isn’t here with you.”
“No, she’s home in New York.”
“Enjoying the Theatre, the Ballet, and the Mink, no doubt.”
“Yes, she likes all those things. And she thinks conventions are just an excuse for a lot of men to cut loose and... well, you know...”
“Get into the sort of mischief you were photographed in?”
“Exactly.”
“So that if you tried to explain that snapshot the way you’ve told it to me, you’d expect a fairly hilarious reception.”
“I wouldn’t have the least chance of convincing her.”
“I see.” The Saint produced a thoughtful aureole of smoke. “But at the risk of seeming to harp on the subject, chum, I’m still trying to find out why you were cavorting on the fire escape.”
Mr Fennick wrung his hands — it was the first time Simon had seen that well-worn cliché actually performed, and it corrected his lifelong delusion that it was merely a slightly archaic figure of speech.
“As I told you, I went into a funk. The only thing I could think of was to find the young woman and try to persuade her that whatever she’d been paid for playing her part, I could make it a little more worth her while to testify to the truth.”
“Because that’d certainly be less than half what the photographer or his boss would be expecting to collect. Not bad thinking, for a guy who just came out of a conk on the noggin. But what made you think she’d be hanging on the wall outside?”
“Nothing. But I had an idea where to begin looking.”
The Saint’s eves narrowed fractionally.
“So you did know her, after all.”
“I had seen her once before,” Mr Fennick said precisely. “As a matter of fact, that’s what made it seem so specially shocking and like a dream when I woke up and saw her without — um — the way I described her. She works in the bar downstairs, in the hotel, with one of those flashlight cameras, getting customers to have souvenir pictures taken.”
“Then why didn’t you go down in the elevator, like any respectably indignant customer, and start yelling for the manager?”
“Because I felt certain that somebody on the staff must have been in on the plot. I’m always very careful about locking my door in hotels. Somebody must have given those people a key, or let them into my room. It might have been the elevator boy, or the night clerk—”
“Why couldn’t they have used the fire escape, too?”
“My window was only open a few inches, and there’s a safety chain on the inside. I expect yours has one, too, because of the fire escape being so close. I remembered to make sure the chain was fastened before I went to bed — I don’t carry an excessive amount of cash with me, but I don’t believe in taking unnecessary chances... Well, I thought, if any of the other accomplices sees me looking for the girl, they’ll know I recognized her, and they’d do anything to keep us apart.”
“Didn’t you think anyone would see you talking to her in the bar?”
“That’s why I had to take such extreme steps to avoid the lobby. I intended to wait outside, hoping to follow her when she went home.”
Simon regarded Mr. Fennick with increasing respect. It was becoming indisputably manifest that in spite of his somewhat dehydrated aspect, prissy personality, and fluttering agitation, this bonbon baron had something more active than nougat in his noodle.
“I couldn’t have figured it any better myself if I’d had all the facts,” he murmured, picking up his recently discarded shirt and sliding an idle arm into a sleeve. “But by the same logic, Otis, old bean, I think this is where I’ll have to take over.”
The little man stared.
“You?”
“There’s nothing wrong with your analysis except that it stops short. Never mind about being seen talking to this chick — you can’t even afford to let her hear you. Suppose she doesn’t go for your bid, which could happen for a whole flock of reasons. You’d only have told the Ungodly how scared they’ve got you, and bang goes any chance of bluffing them out of a showdown. Whereas someone else could move in as your representative, proving you’re not all alone in the world, and talking tough, and maybe give ’em some worries they weren’t expecting.”
Mr Fennick pursed his lips, with commendable acuteness for a man in his disconcerting predicament.
“Quite possibly, but why should you, Mr—”
“Templar. Simon Templar.”
In those later days of the Saint’s career, it was no longer such a potentially interesting moment when he gave his real name to a stranger for the first time. The range of possible reactions had become rather standardized. Still, there was always the hope of evoking some absolutely novel response.
Mr Fennick inclined his head with mechanical politeness.
“—Mr Templar,” he continued, with hardly a break. “I’ve already imposed on you enough—”
“But I insist,” said the Saint genially. “And if you give me any trouble, I might have to call the house detective, if this roach farm has such a person, and turn you in as a captured burglar.”
He had tucked in his shirt tails and almost absent-mindedly knotted a tie while this part of the conversation went on, and now by simply shrugging into a coat he was suddenly so completely dressed and ready for any eventuality that his uninvited guest could only open and shut his mouth ineffectually.