Brighter Buccaneer (20 page)

“Call him Lord Kenya,” said the Saint. “She won’t look him up in Debrett while you’re there. I’ll say we were dining together and I couldn’t shake you off.”

At that point it all looked almost tediously straightforward, a commonplace exploit with nothing but the size of the prize to make it memorable. And when Simon arrived in Berkeley Square on the date of his invitation it seemed easier still; for Mrs. Dempster-Craven, as he had expected, was proudly sporting the Star of Mandalay on her swelling bosom, set in the centre of a pattern of square-cut sapphires in a platinum pendant that looked more like an illuminated sky-sign than anything else. True, there was a large-footed man in badly fitting dress clothes who trailed her around like a devoted wolfhound; but private detectives of any grade the Saint felt competent to deal with. Professionals likewise, given a fair warning -although he was anticipating no professional surveillance that night. But he had not been in the house twenty minutes before he found himself confronting a dark slender girl with merry brown eyes whose face appeared before him like the Nemesis of one of his most innocent flirtations-and even then he did not guess what Fate had in store for him.

At his side he heard the voice of Mrs. Dempster-Craven cooing like a contralto dove:
“This is Miss Rosamund Armitage-a cousin of the Duke of Trayall.” And then, as she saw their eyes fixed on each other: “But have you met before?”

“Yes-we have met,” said the Saint, recovering himself easily. “Wasn’t it that day when you were just off to Ostend?”

“I think so,” said the girl gravely.

A plaintive baronet in search of an introduction accosted Mrs. Dempster-Craven from the other side, and Simon took the girl in his arms as the second orchestra muted its saxophones for a waltz.

“This is a very happy reunion, Kate,” he murmured. “I must congratulate you.”

“Why?” she asked suspiciously.

“When we last met-in that famous little argument about the Kellman necklace-you weren’t so closely related to the Duke of Trayall.”

They made a circuit of the floor-she danced perfectly, as he would have expected-and then she said, bluntly: “What are you doing here, Saint?”

“Treading the light fantastic, drinking free champagne, and watching little monkeys scrambling up the social ladder,” he answered airily. “And you?”

“I’m here for exactly the same reason as you are-my old age pension.”

“I can’t imagine you getting old, Kate.”

“Let’s sit out somewhere,” she said suddenly.

They left the ballroom and went in search of a secluded corner of the conservatory, where there were armchairs and sheltering palm trees providing discreet alcoves for romantic couples. Simon noticed that the girl was quite sure of her way around, and said so.

“Of course I’ve been here before,” she said. “I expect you have, too.”

“On the contrary-this is my first visit. I never take two bites at a cherry.”

“Not even a five thousand pound one?”

“Not even that.”

She produced a packet of cigarettes from her bag and offered him one. Simon smiled, and shook his head.

“There are funny things about your cigarettes that don’t make me laugh out loud, Kate,” he said cheerfully. “Have one of mine instead.”

“Look here,” she said. “Let’s put our cards on the table. You’re after that pendant, and so am I. Everything on our side is planned out, and you’ve just told me this is your first visit. You can’t possibly get in front of us this time. You took the Kellman necklace away under our noses, but you couldn’t do it again. Why not retire gracefully?”

He gazed at her thoughtfully for a few seconds; and she touched his hand.

“Won’t you do that-and save trouble?”

“You know, Kate,” said the Saint, “you’re a lovely gal. Would you mind very much if I kissed you?”

“I could make it worth a hundred pounds to you-for nothing-if you gave us a clear field.”

Simon wrinkled his nose.

“Are there forty-nine of you?” he drawled. “It seems a very small share-out to me.”

“I might be able to make it two hundred. They wouldn’t agree to any more.”

The Saint blew smoke-rings towards the ceiling.

“If you could make it two thousand I don’t think you’d be able to buy me off, darling. Being bought off is so dull. So what’s the alternative? Am I slugged with another sandbag and locked up in the pantry?”

Suddenly he found that she was gripping his arm, looking straight into his face.

“I’m not thinking about your health, Saint,” she said quietly. “I want that pendant. I want it more than I’d expect you to believe. I’ve never asked any other man a favour in my life. I know that in our racket men don’t do favours-without getting paid for it. But you’re supposed to be different, aren’t you?”

“This is a new act, Kate,” murmured the Saint interestedly. “Do go on-I want to hear what the climax is.”

“Do you think this is an act?”

“I don’t want to be actually rude, darling, especially after all the dramatic fervour you put into it, but —”

“You’ve got every right to think so,” she said; and he saw that the merriment was gone from her great brown eyes. “I should think the same way if I were in your place. I’ll try to keep the dramatic fervour out of it. Can I tell you-that the pendant means the way out of the racket for me? I’m going straight after this.” She was twisting her handkerchief, turning away from him now. “I’m going to get married-on the level. Funny, isn’t it?”

He glanced at her doubtfully, with that mocking curve still lingering on his lips. For some reason he refrained from asking whether her other husbands had been informed of this plan: he knew nothing about her private life. But even with the best intentions a modern Robin Hood must get that way; and he did not know why he was silent.

And then, quite clearly, he heard the tread of leisurely feet on the other side of the clump of imported vegetation behind which they were concealed. Instinctively they glanced at one another, listening, and heard a man’s fat chuckle beyond the palms.

“I guess this new plan makes it a lot easier than the way we were going to work it.”

Simon saw the girl half rising from the settee. In a flash, he had flung one arm round her, pinning her down, and clapped his other hand over her mouth.

“Maybe it’ll save a little trouble, anyway,” spoke the second man. There came the scratch of a match, and then: “What are you doing about the girl?”

“I don’t know … She’s a pretty little piece, but she’s getting too serious. I’ll have to ditch her in Paris.”

“She’ll be sore.”

“Well, she ought to know how to take the breaks. I had to keep her going to get us in here, but it ain’t my fault if she wants to make it a permanency.”

“What about her share?”

“Aw, I might send her a coupla hundred, just for conscience money. She ain’t a bad kid. Too sentimental, that’s all.”

A short pause, and then the second man again: “Well, that’s your business. It’s just a quarter past eleven. Guess I better see Watkins and make sure he’s ready to fix those lights.”

The leisured feet receded again; and Simon released the girl slowly. He saw that she was as white as a sheet, and there were strange tears in her eyes. He lighted a cigarette methodically. It was a tough life for women-always had been. They had to know how to take the breaks.

“Did you hear?” she asked, and he looked at her again.

“I couldn’t very well help it. I’m sorry, kid … That was your prospective husband, I suppose?”

She nodded.

“Anyway, you’ll know it wasn’t an act.”

There was nothing he could do. She stood up, and he walked beside her back to the ballroom. She left him there, with a smile that never trembled; and the Saint turned and found Peter Quentin beside him.

“Must you keep all the fun to yourself, old boy?” pleaded Peter forlornly. “I’ve been treading on the toes of the fattest dowager in the world. Who’s your girl friend? She looks a stunner.”

“She stunned me once,” said the Saint reminiscently. “Or some pals of hers did. She’s passing here as Rosamund Armitage; but the police know her best as Kate Allfield, and her nickname is The Mug.”

Peter’s eyes were following the girl yearningly across the room.

“There ought to be some hideous punishment for bestowing names like that,” he declared; and the Saint grinned absent-mindedly.

“I know. In a story-book she’d be Isabelle de la Fontaine; but her parents weren’t thinking about her career when they christened her. That’s real life in our low profession-and so is the nickname.”

“Does that mean there’s competition in the field?”

“It means just that.” Simon’s gaze was sweeping systematically over the other guests; and at that moment he saw the men he was looking for. “You see that dark bird who looks as if he might be a gigolo? Face like a pretty boy, till you see it’s just a mask cut in granite… . That’s Philip Carney. And the big fellow beside him-just offering the Dempster-Craven a cigarette. That’s George Runce. They’re two of the slickest jewel thieves in the business. Mostly they work the Riviera-I don’t think they’ve been in England for years. Kate was talking in the plural all the time, and I wondered who she meant.”

Peter’s mouth shaped a silent whistle.

“What’s going to happen?”

“I don’t know definitely; but I should like to prophesy that at any moment the lights will go out —”

And as he spoke, with a promptness that seemed almost uncanny, the three enormous cut-glass chandeliers which illuminated the ballroom simultaneously flicked out as if a magic wand had conjured them out of existence; and the room was plunged into inky blackness.

The buzz of conversation rose louder, mingled with sporadic laughter. After trying valiantly to carry on for a couple of bars, the orchestra faded out irregularly, and the dancers shuffled to a standstill. Over in one corner, a facetious party started singing, in unison: “Where-was-moses-when-the-lights- went-out?” … And then, rising above every other sound, came Mrs. Dempster-Craven’s hysterical shriek:
“Help!”

There was a momentary silence, broken by a few uncertain titters. And Mrs. Dempster-Craven’s voice rang wildly through the room again.

“My pendant! My pendant! Put on the lights!”

Then came the sharp vicious smash of a fist against flesh and bone, a coughing grunt, and the thud of a fall. Peter Quentin felt around him, but the Saint had gone. He started across the room, plunging blindly among the crowd that was heaving helplessly in the darkness. Then one or two matches flared up, and the light grew as other matches and Lighters were struck to augment the illumination. And just as suddenly as they had gone out, the great chandeliers lighted up again.

Peter Quentin looked at the scene from the front rank of the circle of guests. George Runce was lying on the floor, with blood trickling from a cut in his chin; and a couple of yards from him sat Simon Templar, holding his jaw tenderly. Between them lay Mrs. Dempster-Craven’s priceless pendant, with the chain broken; and while Peter looked she snatched it up with a sob, and he saw that the Star of Mandalay was missing from its centre.

“My diamond!” she wailed. “It’s gone!”

Her private detective came elbowing through from the back of the crowd, pushing Peter aside, and grabbed the Saint’s shoulder.

“Come on you!” he barked. “What happened?”

“There’s your man,” said the Saint, pointing to the unconscious figure beside him. “As soon as the lights went out, he grabbed the pendant —”

“That’s a lie!”

Philip Carney had fallen on his knees beside Runce, and was loosening the man’s collar. He turned round and yapped the denial indignantly enough; but Peter saw that his face had gone pale.

“I was standing beside Mr. Runce.” Carney pointed to the Saint. “That man snatched the pendant, and Mr. Runce tried to stop him getting away.”

“Why weren’t you here, Watkins?” wailed Mrs. Dempster-Craven, shaking the detective wildly by the arm. “Why weren’t you watching? I shall never see my diamond again —”

“I’m sorry, madam,” said the detective. “I just left the room for one minute to find a glass of water. But I think we’ve got the man all right.” He bent down and hauled the Saint to his feet. “We’d better search this fellow, and one of the footmen can go for the police while we’re doing it.”

Peter saw that the Saint’s face had gone hard as polished teak. In Simon’s right hand was the Star of Mandalay, pressed against his jaw as he was holding it. As soon as the lights had gone out he had guessed what was going to happen: he had crossed the floor like a cat, grasped it neatly as Runce tore it out of its setting, and sent the big man flying with one well-directed left. All that he had been prepared for; but there were wheels turning that he had never reckoned with.

He looked the detective in the eyes.

“The less you talk about the police the better,” he said quietly. “I was in the conservatory a few minutes ago, and I happened to hear Mr. Carney say: ‘I’d better see Watkins and make sure he’s ready to fix those lights.’ I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but this looks like an explanation.”

There was an instant’s deadly silence; and then Philip Carney laughed.

“That’s one of the cleverest tricks I’ve ever heard of,” he remarked. “But it’s a bit libellous, isn’t it?”

“Not very,” said a girl’s clear voice.

Again the murmur of talk was stifled as if a blanket had been dropped on it; and in the hush Kate Allfield came into the front of the crowd. George Runce was rising on his elbows, and his jaw dropped as he heard her voice. She gave him one contemptuous glance, and faced Mrs. Dempster-Craven with her head erect.

“It’s perfectly true,” she said. “I was with Mr. Templar in the conservatory, and I heard it as well.”

Carney’s face had gone grey.

“The girl’s raving,” he said; but his voice was a little shaky. “I haven’t been in the conservatory this evening.”

“Neither have I,” said Runce, wiping the frozen incredulity off his features with an effort. “I’ll tell you what it is —”

But he did not tell them what it was, for at this point a fresh authoritative voice interrupted the debate with a curt “Make way, please,” and the crowd opened to let through the burly figure of a detective-sergeant in plain clothes. Simon looked round, and saw that he had posted a constable at the door as he came in. The sergeant scanned the faces of the group, and addressed Mrs. Dempster-Craven.