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from here? There’s a nice little cafe that looks your style.”
    She finally managed to
reply with somewhat forced indignation :
“I really don’t just…”
    “Your mother warned
you about accepting sweets from strange men?” Simon
put in. “I agree with her completely. But I’m not a strange man, and I’m
not trying to pick you up. Talk with me for ten minutes,
and if you want to drop the whole thing, I
won’t follow you. At the moment I’m all business.”
    Just before he slipped his
fingers from her arm he felt her relax a little.
    “Well, what is your
business?” she asked. “I don’t really under stand.”
    “That’s a very long
story, but I promise you I’m not a white slaver
or any nonsense like that. Let’s have a cup of coffee or something before we go
any further into it.”
    She allowed him,
uncertainly, to seat her in the open at a round
table under an umbrella. The Saint got a purely aesthetic enjoyment out of
studying his Gainsborough girl at close quar ters.
He was touched by her yellow summer dress: There was something
naive and childlike about it, just as there was about her,
quite unlike the sophistication of the women he usually met in London. She was probably so shy because she was so unde fended by artifice. Her eyes divided their time mainly
between the pink tablecloth and the passing pedestrians, and
only occa sionally flickered across his face.
    Only one thing gave the
Saint some doubts about his approach: It might account
for her reaction in the Leonardo Galleries if she
was romantically involved with Cyril Pargit and had recognised the woman
Pargit was talking to as a rival. Into such strict personal matters, Simon
Templar would not have gratuitously intruded one centimetre. And yet, in that
case she might prove a valuable source of
information about the man who was doing her wrong.
    “I’m sorry you’ve so
obviously had a shock,” he said. “Is there anything I can do to help
just at the moment?”
    “Do you think I’ve
had a shock?”
    “Haven’t you?”
    “Yes. I suppose I
have.” She met his eyes suddenly and looked away.
“Are you a policeman or a detective?”
    “No. My name is
Simon Templar, and I don’t think any occupational label would fit me.”
    For many people, the
mention of his name would have been explanation enough, but this girl showed no
immediate recogni tion.
    “I have what you
might call independent means, and my hobby is
helping damsels in distress. You looked to me very much like a distressed damsel, and that’s why I followed you. Now why would you ask if I’m a detective or policeman?”
    A waitress brought two
coffees, and strawberries and cream for the
girl.
    “It seems that
everybody I’ve met since I got to London is a de tective
or something like that.”
    “Well, I’m
definitely not,” Simon assured her. “But I think I do have the
distinction of having discovered a cafe that makes the worst
coffee in the world. How are the strawberries?”
    “Delicious, thank
you.”
    “Would you like to
tell me what was bothering you when you looked
into that art gallery, and possibly also enlighten me about
all those detectives?”
    The girl spooned up
another ripe strawberry, and ate it before she
replied.
    “I still don’t know
anything at all about you,” she said.
    “I don’t even know
your name,” the Saint parried.
    “Julie
Norcombe.”
    “Well, before I start
telling you anything else about myself, would
you answer one question for me: How well do you know Cyril
Pargit?”
    The girl shook her head.
    “Who’s Cyril
Pargit?”
    “What about Chief
Inspector Teal of Scotland Yard?” Simon asked.
“Do you know him?”
    “I’ve never heard of
him. Who are these people?”
    “What about the woman
with the platinum hair and silver dress who was in
the gallery when you came in? Do you know her?”
    “No. I never saw her
before. You certainly do ask as many questions as a
detective.”
    Simon sat back in his
chair and tapped