Chapter nine
The Saint had expected Mrs Laura Wingate’s penthouse on Lake Shore Drive to be fairly palatial, but he was not quite prepared for the rococo perspectives that opened before him as he followed Monica Varing out of the elevator and the cocktail party exploded around them like a startled barnyard.
“My God,” he said in a dazed undertone, as he fought their way through the seething throngs. “Monica, are you sure this is the right place?”
“I think so. We could have crashed the gate without any trouble. Everybody’s here.”
This seemed fairly correct. Across the broad acres of terrace, tables were set up, beach umbrellas made gay patterns, and trays of cocktails were levitated towards thirsty throats. The Saint seized two passing Martinis and shared his loot with Monica.
“Let’s cruise around,” he suggested. “I don’t know exactly what we’re looking for, but there’s one way to find out. If you stumble on a clue, such as a rigid body with a knife-hilt protruding from its back, whistle three times.”
“I wouldn’t be too hopeful,” she said. “The servants must be too well trained to leave rubbish cluttering up the lawn. Still, there may be some rigid bodies around here before the day’s over,” Monica pondered, watching a sleek young socialite tossing off drink after drink with the desperation of a fire-breathing dragon trying to put itself out.
They drifted through the yammer of high-pitched voices, conveniently allowing an eddy among the other guests to cut them off from their sponsors, the Kennedys. The Saint’s casually roving eyes inventoried the crowd without finding in it anything to give direction to his unformed questions. It seemed to be composed of fairly standard ingredients — playboys old and young, business men, and politicians, blended with their wives, mistresses, and prospectives. He sought and failed exasperatingly to find a single sinister aroma in the brew.
Then through a gap in the crowd he glimpsed a white head that looked like Stephen Elliott, and started to steer Monica towards it. Before they had made much progress the throng parted in another quarter, spilling away like a bow wave before the onrush of a monumental figure that bore down upon them like an ocean liner. Simon had only a moment to hope that it could stop in time before it rammed them with its monstrous bosom. “I thought I recognised you,” Mrs Wingate cried, ignoring Simon to concentrate on his companion. “It must be Monica Varing. Imagine!”
Monica smiled and said, “I’m afraid I wasn’t invited, Mrs Wingate, but I was with the Kennedys this afternoon, and they insisted I come along with them. I do hope you won’t mind.”