Michael Avallone - The Saint Magazine. January 1967. Volume 24, No. 5.

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 arm-chairs 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 ten 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 child. 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 women 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 that 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 after 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 say. She stood up, and he walked beside her back to the ball-room. 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 absentmindedly.

“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?”