He perceived that he had fallen into the error of attaching himself too much to the viewpoint of his bereaved victims.
“The questions may come later,” he said. “We burglars aren’t easily startled.”
She let a trail of smoke rise and disintegrate towards the ceiling.
“I’m going to talk to you, stranger,” she said quietly. “A girl likes to talk, and nothing about this evening is real. We never met before and we shan’t meet again. This is an interlude that doesn’t count, except for remembrance.”
“Is there a dragon in it?”
“There’s a Robber Baron. Have you ever heard of Burt Northwade?”
Simon had. His knowledge of unlovable characters, in and out of prison, was very nearly unique.
He knew Northwade for one of the more unpleasant products of World War I, a man who had successfully conceived the notion of selling inferior bootlaces to the Allied armies for three times their cost, and had gained for himself much wealth by that patriotic service. The Northwade business, subsequently built up to almost monopolistic proportions, was still welding together the uppers of half the world, but Northwade himself had retired a couple of years ago to his native Canada and a mansion in Westmount, leaving the female part of his family to pursue its strenuous climb through the social gradings of New York.
“Yes, I’ve heard of Northwade. One of these monuments of other people’s industry, isn’t he?”
“He’s also my uncle,” said the girl. “I’m Judith Northwade.” Simon Templar hadn’t blushed since he was eight years old. Also he considered that his remark was very nearly a compliment compared with what he would probably have said to Burt Northwade’s face, had that undesirable industrialist been present.