“I’ll pass it on to them when I telephone.” They were in the lobby. “It’ll be easier for me, speaking the lingo. And you don’t want to get mixed up in it, and spoil your vacation. I’ll take care of everything.”
Simon looked at him pensively.
“You’re very kind,” he said. “Is that just Swiss hospitality?”
“I don’t like visitors to have bad experiences in my country,” said Mr Kleinhaus. “Go to bed. Perhaps we shall meet again.”
He raised his round hat courteously as Simon entered the elevator.
2
The Saint never stayed awake to ask himself questions to which he could only give himself imaginary answers. He slept as if nothing had happened, as if there were no loose ends in his mind, secure in the confidence that if the incident of that night was destined to be only a beginning it would reveal the rest of itself in its own good time. Life was like that for him. He did not have to seek adventure: his problem would have been to shake off its relentless pursuit.
He had just finished breakfast in his room when there was a knock on his door.
For anyone else, he reflected as he opened the door, it would probably have been only a waiter to take away the tray. For him, it had to be a woman. She was no more than thirty, beautiful in a dark classical way, like a Florentine painting, with a full figure that nullified the discretion of an expensive black dress. The deep shadows under her eyes were not out of a jar.
She said, with very little accent, “Mr Tombs — may I talk to you? I am Mrs Ravenna.”