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

“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 ever been in England before. 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 ball-room 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.” He 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 in 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 that 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.

“What’s the trouble, madam?”

“My pendant—”

She was helped out by a chorus of bystanders whose information, taken in the mass, was somewhat confusing. The sergeant sorted it out phlegmatically; and at the end he shrugged.

“Since these gentlemen are all accusing each other, I take it you don’t wish to make any particular charges?”

“I cannot accuse my guests of being thieves,” said Mrs. Dempster-Craven imperially. “I only want my diamond.”

The sergeant nodded. He had spent twelve years in C Division, and had learned that Berkeley Square is a region where even policemen have to be tactful.

“In that case,” he said, “I think it would help us if the gentlemen agreed to be searched.”

The Saint straightened up.

It had been a good evening; and he had no regrets. The game was worth playing for its own sake, to him: the prizes came welcomely, but they weren’t everything. And no one knew better than he that you couldn’t win all the time. There were chances that couldn’t be reckoned with in advance; and the duplicity of Mr. Watkins was one of those. But for that, he would have played his hand faultlessly, out-bluffed and out-manoeuvred the Carney-Runce combination in a fair field, and made as clean a job of it as anything else he had done. But that single unexpected factor had turned the scale just enough to bring the bluff to a show-down, as unexpected factors always would. And yet Peter Quentin saw that the Saint was smiling.

“I think that’s a good idea,” said the Saint.

Between Philip Carney and George Runce flashed one blank glance; but their mouths remained closed.

“Perhaps there’s another room we could go to,” said the sergeant, almost genially; and Mrs. Dempster-Craven I inclined her head like a queen dismissing a distasteful odour.