Catch the Saint (6 page)

She did not say anything.
She just turned and walked quickly away. But the Saint, with two strides of his
long legs, caught up
with her and went along at
her side.

“I can tell you’re
very upset,” he said soothingly, “and I know
it
must have something to do with the Leonardo Galleries. There
are certain
things in the Leonardo Galleries that upset me too,
and I don’t mean the bad paintings.” He took her arm gently but
insistently and steered her away from the middle
of the pave
ment. “Now that we
know we have something in common, shall
we sit down and decide where to go from here? There’s a nice
little cafe that looks your style.”

She finally managed to
reply with somewhat forced indignation
:
“I really don’t just…”

“Your mother warned
you about accepting sweets from
strange men?” Simon
put in. “I agree with her completely. But I’m not a strange man, and I’m
not trying to pick you up. Talk
with me for ten minutes,
and if you want to drop the whole thing,
I
won’t follow you. At the moment I’m all business.”

Just before he slipped his
fingers from her arm he felt her relax a little.

“Well, what is your
business?” she asked. “I don’t really under
stand.”

“That’s a very long
story, but I promise you I’m not a white
slaver
or any nonsense like that. Let’s have a cup of coffee or something before we go
any further into it.”

She allowed him,
uncertainly, to seat her in the open at a
round
table under an umbrella. The Saint got a purely aesthetic enjoyment out of
studying his Gainsborough girl at close quar
ters.
He was touched by her yellow summer dress: There was
something
naive and childlike about it, just as there was about
her,
quite unlike the sophistication of the women he usually met
in London. She was probably so shy because she was so unde
fended by artifice. Her eyes divided their time mainly
between
the pink tablecloth and the passing pedestrians, and
only occa
sionally flickered across his face.

Only one thing gave the
Saint some doubts about his approach:
It might account
for her reaction in the Leonardo Galleries if
she
was romantically involved with Cyril Pargit and had recognised the woman
Pargit was talking to as a rival. Into such strict personal matters, Simon
Templar would not have gratuitously intruded one centimetre. And yet, in that
case she might prove a
valuable source of
information about the man who was doing her
wrong.

“I’m sorry you’ve so
obviously had a shock,” he said. “Is there anything I can do to help
just at the moment?”

“Do you think I’ve
had a shock?”

“Haven’t you?”

“Yes. I suppose I
have.” She met his eyes suddenly and looked
away.
“Are you a policeman or a detective?”

“No. My name is
Simon Templar, and I don’t think any occupational label would fit me.”

For many people, the
mention of his name would have been explanation enough, but this girl showed no
immediate recogni
tion.

“I have what you
might call independent means, and my hobby
is
helping damsels in distress. You looked to me very much like a
distressed damsel, and that’s why I followed you. Now why
would you ask if I’m a detective or policeman?”

A waitress brought two
coffees, and strawberries and cream for
the
girl.

“It seems that
everybody I’ve met since I got to London is a de
tective
or something like that.”

“Well, I’m
definitely not,” Simon assured her. “But I think I do have the
distinction of having discovered a cafe that makes the
worst
coffee in the world. How are the strawberries?”

“Delicious, thank
you.”

“Would you like to
tell me what was bothering you when you
looked
into that art gallery, and possibly also enlighten me
about
all those detectives?”

The girl spooned up
another ripe strawberry, and ate it before
she
replied.

“I still don’t know
anything at all about you,” she said.

“I don’t even know
your name,” the Saint parried.

“Julie
Norcombe.”

“Well, before I start
telling you anything else about myself,
would
you answer one question for me: How well do you know
Cyril
Pargit?”

The girl shook her head.

“Who’s Cyril
Pargit?”

“What about Chief
Inspector Teal of Scotland Yard?” Simon
asked.
“Do you know him?”

“I’ve never heard of
him. Who are these people?”

“What about the woman
with the platinum hair and silver
dress who was in
the gallery when you came in? Do you know
her?”

“No. I never saw her
before. You certainly do ask as many
questions as a
detective.”

Simon sat back in his
chair and tapped a knuckle against his
lips
before responding.

“Well, then,” he
said, “the man who was talking to the woman with the silver dress—who is
he?”

Julie Norcombe let her
spoon remain in the half-finished bowl of strawberries. “He seemed to work
in the place, and to be sell
ing that woman a
painting.”

“Does that surprise
you?” Simon asked.

“Well, yes.”

“Why should it? After
all, he’s the owner.”

“He owns that art
gallery?”

“Yes, he does.”

She was openly
astonished.

“I don’t suppose he
has a twin brother, does he?”

“Not that I know of.

“I think the
picture’s developed enough for us to hang it up to
dry,”
said the Saint. He leaned towards her and spoke swiftly.
. “You know Cyril Pargit, but you know him under another name. An
obvious reason would be the married man trying to keep the
girlfriend from finding out he has a wife. Girlfriend comes
to
London, stumbles on him in a place he isn’t supposed
to be, et
cetera. The only trouble with that is
that Cyril doesn’t have a
wife. But he could be
trying to keep two or more girlfriends from discovering one another’s
existence. Is it anything that simple?”

“No,” she said
almost indignantly. “I’m not an absolute idiot. But you’re right about the
part where I know that man by a dif
ferent name.
Except of course that it just isn’t possible.”

“Tell me why.”

“I can’t.”

“Apparently you think
there’s some danger involved if you
tell me?”

“I
…
Yes.”

“Well, suppose we make a trade. I’m going
to tell you some
thing which you could use
to spoil everything I’m trying to do at the moment. All you have to do is tip
Pargit off and I’m licked
before I
start. But I can’t expect you to stick your neck out if I
don’t.” He pushed his almost untasted coffee
aside and rested his
forearms on the
table. “I believe that dear Cyril is a con-man and
a fraud. In fact I know he is, but perhaps not in
a way that makes him liable to arrest just at the moment. I’ve taken an interest
in it
because he cheated an old lady who’s a friendly neighbour of
mine. Does that help?” Julie Norcombe nodded.
“Well, then,
how about telling
me why you’re interested.”

“I don’t know what
to tell you,” she said tensely. “I’ve been
told
that I’ll be breaking the law if I say anything. Let me see
how I can
put it
…
Something happened. Some
people who
said they were with the Special
Branch came to where I live and
told me not to say anything to anybody,
but to see a man at Whitehall who would explain it all to me. I went to
Whitehall
and saw the man, and
he
told
me not to say anything to any
body.
He even told me not to tell anybody I’d seen him, so you see, I’m already
getting into trouble. Except—the man I saw at Whitehall is the same man I just
saw at that gallery…”

“Cyril Pargit,”
the Saint said.

“That’s right.”

“Very strange indeed. What department was
this Whitehall
man in?”

“Something to do with
the Official Secrets Acts. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but his name was
Fawkes.”

“And you saw him in
Whitehall?”

“Yes. In an office
there.”

“And you won’t tell me
what it was that happened that got
you sent to see
this Guy Fawkes in the first place?”

She was very subdued, very
nervous about what she had told
him already and the fact
that she desperately wanted to tell him
more.

“My brother was
arrested. He didn’t come home the night before last, and they came and told me
he’d been arrested.”

“In connection with
the Official Secrets Act?” Simon filled in.
“What
does your brother do that involves him with official se
crets?”

Julie spread her hands
helplessly.

“Nothing! Nothing at
all that I know of. He’s an artist. I don’t
think
he’d know an official secret if he found it on his dinner
plate.”

Noting she had finished her strawberries and
drunk all her
coffee, Simon asked her if
she would like anything more. When
she
said no, he signalled the waitress for the bill.

“What are your plans
for the rest of the afternoon?” he asked
her.

“I don’t have any,
now,” she said. “I really …” Suddenly,
like a cloud crossing the sun, tears filmed her eyes.
“I think I’ll
just go home.”

“I’ll see that you
get there safely,” Simon told her. “It sounds
as if you’re up against a conspiracy of some kind. We may just
have to form a little conspiracy of our own.”

CHAPTER 5

On the taxi ride to
Chelsea, the Saint pieced together the chips
and
splinters of information that Julie Norcombe reluctantly,
fearfully divulged. By the time they reached her brother’s flat he
knew all about her coming to London, her brother’s
profession
and personality, and everything that
had passed since that evening when Adrian had gone out and not returned. Simon
was
playing with those scanty details in his head,
trying not to rush
his conclusions, but angling for
different patterns, searching for
possibilities that
might be overlooked if he let his attention be
come
fixed on one interpretation. Whatever storm was brewing,
with Cyril Pargit near or at its centre, gave fascinating
new di
mensions to the problem he had set out to explore earlier that
same day. Here was something even more intriguing
than an en
counter with a mere
unctuous opportunist of the art trade who
was technically guilty of
little more than being too imaginative in
his
sales talks.

The Saint helped Julie out
of the taxi and she was surprised
when he paid the driver instead of
getting back into the cab him
self.

“I don’t mean to push myself on you,”
he said, still very careful
of this jumpy
girl’s apprehensions. “But I don’t think we’ve quite
finished our
business yet.”

His approach to her was hampered by the
knowledge that she
had a lot less reason to
trust him than she had Mr Fawkes or the
Special Branch officers who had called on the night of her
brother’s disappearance. Simon’s biggest trump was
the force of
his own sincerity. With
people who deserved no better, or in circumstances that demanded it, he was
capable of the most outrageously convincing pretences, and of feats of
simulation that
would have aroused the envy of many a seasoned actor.
But now,
when he was being himself, and
totally honest, his persuasiveness
was
really overwhelming. It helped to be as handsome as he was,
to speak and dress as he did (people always seem to
trust the
educated rich), and to have
such an air of self-confidence that
you
could not imagine him ever needing to do anything under
handed. But at the root of his power to draw
people to him and
inspire their trust
was something intangible, an invisible aura
which surrounded his body and flowed from his incredible eyes which was
practically irresistible.