worth some new silver foxes to you.”
A dumb look came into Esther’s beautifully sculptured face. She gazed foggily out at the landscape as the Saint cinched her saddle and thrust the reins into her limp hands.
She said: “Simon.”
“Yes?”
“Didn’t you say something last night about-about being sure it was someone in the house?”
“I did.”
“Then … then just now-you were with Ginny, so she couldn’t have done anything. And Lissa isn’t here. But you know I couldn’t-you know I couldn’t have hidden a gun anyнwhere, don’t you?”
“I don’t know you well enough,” said the Saint.
But it was another confusion that twisted around in his mind all the way home. It was true that he himself was an alibi for Ginny-unless she had planted one of those colosнsally elaborate remote-control gun-firing devices beloved of mystery writers. And Esther couldn’t have concealed a gun, or anything else, in her costume-unless she had previously planted it somewhere up the stream. But both those theories would have required them to know in advance where they were going, and the Saint had chosen the place himself … It was true he had mentioned it before they started, but mentioning it and finding it were different matters. He would have sworn that not more than a handful of people besides himself had ever discovered it, and he remembered sections of the trail that had seemed to be completely overgrown since they had last been trodden. Of course, with all his watchfulнness, they might have been followed. A good hunter might have stayed out of sight and circled over the hills-he could have done it himself…
Yet in all those speculations there was something that didn’t connect, something that didn’t make sense. If the theнoretical sniper in the hills had been good enough to get there at all, for instance, why hadn’t he been good enough to try a second shot before they got away? He could surely have had at least one more try, from a different angle, with no more risk than the first … It was like the abortive attack on Lissa -it made sense, but not absolute sense. And to the Saint’s delicately tuned reception that was a more nagging obstacle than no sense at all…
They got back to the stables, and Freddie said: “I need a drink. Let’s beat up the Tennis Club before we go home.”
For once, the Saint was not altogether out of sympathy with the exigencies of Freddie’s thirst.
They drove out to the club, and sat on the balcony terrace looking down over the beautifully terraced gardens, the palm-shaded oval pool and the artificial brook where imнported trout lurked under spreading willows and politely awaited the attention of pampered anglers. The rest of them sipped Daiquiris, while Freddie restored himself with three double brandies in quick succession. And then, sauntering over from the tennis courts with a racquet in her hand, Lissa O’Neill herself came up to them. She looked as cool and dainty as she always seemed to look, in one of those abbreviated sun suits that she always seemed to wear which some clairvoyant designer must have invented exclusively for her slim waist and for long tapered legs like hers, in pasнtel shades that would set off her clear golden skin. But it seemed as if all of them drew back behind a common barrier that made them look at her in the same way, not in admiraнtion, but guardedly, waiting for what she would say.
She said: “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Fancy meeting you,” said the Saint. “Did you get bored with your book?”
“I finished it, so I thought I’d get some exercise. But the pro has been all booked up for hours.”
It was as if all of them had the same question on their lips, but only the Saint could handle his voice easily enough to say, quite lazily: “Hours?”
“Well, it must have been two hours or more. Anyway, I asked for a lesson as soon as I got here, and he was all booked up. He said he’d fit me in if anybody cancelled,
A dumb look came into Esther’s beautifully sculptured face. She gazed foggily out at the landscape as the Saint cinched her saddle and thrust the reins into her limp hands.
She said: “Simon.”
“Yes?”
“Didn’t you say something last night about-about being sure it was someone in the house?”
“I did.”
“Then … then just now-you were with Ginny, so she couldn’t have done anything. And Lissa isn’t here. But you know I couldn’t-you know I couldn’t have hidden a gun anyнwhere, don’t you?”
“I don’t know you well enough,” said the Saint.
But it was another confusion that twisted around in his mind all the way home. It was true that he himself was an alibi for Ginny-unless she had planted one of those colosнsally elaborate remote-control gun-firing devices beloved of mystery writers. And Esther couldn’t have concealed a gun, or anything else, in her costume-unless she had previously planted it somewhere up the stream. But both those theories would have required them to know in advance where they were going, and the Saint had chosen the place himself … It was true he had mentioned it before they started, but mentioning it and finding it were different matters. He would have sworn that not more than a handful of people besides himself had ever discovered it, and he remembered sections of the trail that had seemed to be completely overgrown since they had last been trodden. Of course, with all his watchfulнness, they might have been followed. A good hunter might have stayed out of sight and circled over the hills-he could have done it himself…
Yet in all those speculations there was something that didn’t connect, something that didn’t make sense. If the theнoretical sniper in the hills had been good enough to get there at all, for instance, why hadn’t he been good enough to try a second shot before they got away? He could surely have had at least one more try, from a different angle, with no more risk than the first … It was like the abortive attack on Lissa -it made sense, but not absolute sense. And to the Saint’s delicately tuned reception that was a more nagging obstacle than no sense at all…
They got back to the stables, and Freddie said: “I need a drink. Let’s beat up the Tennis Club before we go home.”
For once, the Saint was not altogether out of sympathy with the exigencies of Freddie’s thirst.
They drove out to the club, and sat on the balcony terrace looking down over the beautifully terraced gardens, the palm-shaded oval pool and the artificial brook where imнported trout lurked under spreading willows and politely awaited the attention of pampered anglers. The rest of them sipped Daiquiris, while Freddie restored himself with three double brandies in quick succession. And then, sauntering over from the tennis courts with a racquet in her hand, Lissa O’Neill herself came up to them. She looked as cool and dainty as she always seemed to look, in one of those abbreviated sun suits that she always seemed to wear which some clairvoyant designer must have invented exclusively for her slim waist and for long tapered legs like hers, in pasнtel shades that would set off her clear golden skin. But it seemed as if all of them drew back behind a common barrier that made them look at her in the same way, not in admiraнtion, but guardedly, waiting for what she would say.
She said: “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Fancy meeting you,” said the Saint. “Did you get bored with your book?”
“I finished it, so I thought I’d get some exercise. But the pro has been all booked up for hours.”
It was as if all of them had the same question on their lips, but only the Saint could handle his voice easily enough to say, quite lazily: “Hours?”
“Well, it must have been two hours or more. Anyway, I asked for a lesson as soon as I got here, and he was all booked up. He said he’d fit me in if anybody cancelled,
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