“Of course not.”
“So it’s just a coincidence that she happens to be here.”
Simon raised unhurried eyebrows.
“Behind you, on your left,” Wendel said, trap-mouthed.
The Saint drank some wine, put down his glass, and looked casually over his shoulder.
He did not need to have Lady Offchurch more specifically pointed out to him, for her picture had been in the papers not long before, and the story with it was the sort of thing that made him remember faces. The late Lord Offchurch had, until his recent demise, been the British Government’s official “adviser” to a certain maharajah, and this maharajah had bestowed upon the departing widow, as a trivial token of his esteem, a necklace of matched pink pearls valued at a mere $100,000. Lady Offchurch had provided good copy on this to receptive reporters in Hollywood, where she had been suitably entertained by the English Colony on what was supposed to be her way “home.” She had also expressed her concern over the fate of an Independent India, abandoned to the self-government of a mob of natives which even the most altruistic efforts of the British raj had been unable in two centuries of rule to lift above the level of a herd of cattle — except, of course, for such distinguished types as the dear maharajah.
She was a thin, bony, tight-lipped woman with a face like a well-bred horse, and Simon could construct the rest of her character without an interview. There was no need even to look at her for long, and as a matter of fact, he didn’t.
What kept his head turned for quite a few seconds more than identification called for was Lady Offchurch’s companion — a girl half her age, with golden hair and gray eyes and a face that must have launched a thousand clichés.
“Well?” Lieutenant Wendel’s voice intruded harshly, and Simon turned back. “Beautiful,” he said.
“Yeah,” Wendel said. “For a hundred grand, they should be.”