kitchen.
Lieutenant Wendel made his entrance with the ponderous elaboration of a man who knew that he had the last ounce of authority behind him and nothing on earth to hurry for. Certainty smoothed down the buzz-saw edges of his voice and in vested him with the steam-roller impermeability of an entire government bureau on two feet.
“I’m from the Police Department, Miss Roger. I’m sure Mr Templar has told you about me. I’ve come to trouble you for Lady Offchurch’s pearl necklace.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” she said.
“Of course not.” His confidence was almost paternal. “How ever, it hasn’t gone out by the front since you came in, and I don’t think it’s gone out by the back. We’ll just make sure.”
He crossed the room heavily, opened a window, and whistled.
This was the moment that Simon Templar chose to come back.
“Why, hullo, Lieutenant,” he murmured genially. “What are you doing-rehearsing Romeo and Juliet for the Police Follies?”
Wendel waved to the night and turned back from the window.
“Ah, there you are, Mr Templar. I knew you were here, of course.” His eyes fastened on the purse that swung negligently in Simon’s hand. “This may save us a lot of trouble-excuse me.”
He grabbed the bag away, sprung the catch, and spilled the contents clattering on the dining table.
After a few seconds the Saint said: “Would anyone mind telling me what this is all about?”
“All right,” Wendel said grimly. “Where is it?”
“Where is what?”
“You know what I’m talking about. The necklace.”
“The last time I saw it,” Jeannine Roger said, “it was on Lady Offchurch’s neck.”
The detective set his jaw.
“I work regular hours, Miss Roger, and I don’t want to be kept up all night. I may as well tell you that I talked to Lady Offchurch before you met her this evening. I arranged for her to give one of my men a signal if you had been suspiciously anxious to handle the necklace at any time while you were together. She gave that signal when she said good night to you. That gives me grounds to believe that while you were handling the necklace you exchanged it for a substitute. I think the original is in this apartment now, and if it is, we’ll find it. Now if one of you hands it over and saves me a lot of trouble, I mightn’t feel quite so tough as if I had to work for it.”
“Meaning,” said the Saint, “that we mightn’t have to spend quite so much of our youth on the rock pile?”
“Maybe.”
The Saint took his time over lighting a cigarette.
“All my life,” he said, “I’ve been allergic to hard labor. And it’s especially bad”-he glanced at the girl-“for what the radio calls those soft, white, romantic hands. In fact, I can’t think of any pearls that would be worth it-particularly when you don’t even get to keep the pearls… . So-I’m afraid there ain’t going to be no poils.”
“You’re nuts!” Wendel exploded. “Don’t you know when you’re licked?”
“Not till you show me,” said the Saint peaceably. “Let’s ex amine the facts. Miss Roger handled the necklace. Tomorrow a jeweler may say that the string that Lady Offchurch still has is a phony. Well, Lady Offchurch can’t possibly swear that no body else ever touched that rope of oyster fruit. Well, the substitution might have been made anywhere, any time, by any one-even by a chiseling maharajah. What’s the only proof you could use against Jeannine? Nothing short of finding a string of genuine pink pearls in her possession. And that’s something you can never do.”
“No?” Wendel barked. “Well, if I have to put this whole building through a sieve, and the two of you with it-“
“You’ll never find a pearl,” Simon stated.
He made the statement with such relaxed confidence that a clammy hand began to caress the detective’s spine, neutralizing logic with its weird massage, and poking skeletal fingers into hypersensitive
Lieutenant Wendel made his entrance with the ponderous elaboration of a man who knew that he had the last ounce of authority behind him and nothing on earth to hurry for. Certainty smoothed down the buzz-saw edges of his voice and in vested him with the steam-roller impermeability of an entire government bureau on two feet.
“I’m from the Police Department, Miss Roger. I’m sure Mr Templar has told you about me. I’ve come to trouble you for Lady Offchurch’s pearl necklace.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” she said.
“Of course not.” His confidence was almost paternal. “How ever, it hasn’t gone out by the front since you came in, and I don’t think it’s gone out by the back. We’ll just make sure.”
He crossed the room heavily, opened a window, and whistled.
This was the moment that Simon Templar chose to come back.
“Why, hullo, Lieutenant,” he murmured genially. “What are you doing-rehearsing Romeo and Juliet for the Police Follies?”
Wendel waved to the night and turned back from the window.
“Ah, there you are, Mr Templar. I knew you were here, of course.” His eyes fastened on the purse that swung negligently in Simon’s hand. “This may save us a lot of trouble-excuse me.”
He grabbed the bag away, sprung the catch, and spilled the contents clattering on the dining table.
After a few seconds the Saint said: “Would anyone mind telling me what this is all about?”
“All right,” Wendel said grimly. “Where is it?”
“Where is what?”
“You know what I’m talking about. The necklace.”
“The last time I saw it,” Jeannine Roger said, “it was on Lady Offchurch’s neck.”
The detective set his jaw.
“I work regular hours, Miss Roger, and I don’t want to be kept up all night. I may as well tell you that I talked to Lady Offchurch before you met her this evening. I arranged for her to give one of my men a signal if you had been suspiciously anxious to handle the necklace at any time while you were together. She gave that signal when she said good night to you. That gives me grounds to believe that while you were handling the necklace you exchanged it for a substitute. I think the original is in this apartment now, and if it is, we’ll find it. Now if one of you hands it over and saves me a lot of trouble, I mightn’t feel quite so tough as if I had to work for it.”
“Meaning,” said the Saint, “that we mightn’t have to spend quite so much of our youth on the rock pile?”
“Maybe.”
The Saint took his time over lighting a cigarette.
“All my life,” he said, “I’ve been allergic to hard labor. And it’s especially bad”-he glanced at the girl-“for what the radio calls those soft, white, romantic hands. In fact, I can’t think of any pearls that would be worth it-particularly when you don’t even get to keep the pearls… . So-I’m afraid there ain’t going to be no poils.”
“You’re nuts!” Wendel exploded. “Don’t you know when you’re licked?”
“Not till you show me,” said the Saint peaceably. “Let’s ex amine the facts. Miss Roger handled the necklace. Tomorrow a jeweler may say that the string that Lady Offchurch still has is a phony. Well, Lady Offchurch can’t possibly swear that no body else ever touched that rope of oyster fruit. Well, the substitution might have been made anywhere, any time, by any one-even by a chiseling maharajah. What’s the only proof you could use against Jeannine? Nothing short of finding a string of genuine pink pearls in her possession. And that’s something you can never do.”
“No?” Wendel barked. “Well, if I have to put this whole building through a sieve, and the two of you with it-“
“You’ll never find a pearl,” Simon stated.
He made the statement with such relaxed confidence that a clammy hand began to caress the detective’s spine, neutralizing logic with its weird massage, and poking skeletal fingers into hypersensitive
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