As a matter of strict fact, it went a little further than colored balloons — Simon, who had attended these events before, had expected it and balanced the factor into his plans. There were rag dolls, for instance — those long-legged sophisticated puppets with which some women love to clutter up their most comfortable chairs. Simon was also able to add a large bouquet of flowers, an enormous box of chocolates, and three of the aforesaid colored balloons to the bag. When at last he escorted a supremely contented Mrs Nussberg home, he looked rather like an amateur Santa Claus.
Therefore he had a sound excuse for going into the hotel with her, and when she asked for her key at the desk he deftly added that also to his burden.
“You don’t want to lug all this stuff upstairs,” he said. “Let me take them for you.”
She was studying his face again, with that watchful half-suspicious wonderment, as they rode up in the elevator. The elevator boy thought his own cynical thoughts, and under cover of the trophies with which he was laden the Saint pressed Mrs Nussberg’s key carefully into a plaque of soft wax, and wrapped the wax delicately in his handkerchief before he put it away.
He went just inside the sitting-room of her suite, and decanted the souvenirs on a side table.
“Won’t you have a drink?” she asked.
“Thanks,” said the Saint, “but I think it’s past my bedtime.”
She must have been pretty once, it occurred to him as she put down her bag with unaccustomed hesitancy. Pretty in a flashy common way that had turned only too easily into the obese overblown frowsiness that amused Walmar and his satellites so much.
She held out her hand.
‘Thank you so much,” she said, with a queer simplicity that had to struggle through the brassy roughness of her voice.