Leslie Charteris - Señor Saint

He had had plans to go prowling in search of distraction later that evening, whenever he got rid of Xavier, but now the drive had evaporated. Opportunity had already knocked as often as it was likely to do in one night.

“ Al Hotel Comee,” he said.

The Comee is not the plushest hotel in Mexico City, being a few minutes’ drive from the fashionable centre of town, but its entirely relative remoteness makes it quieter than the more publicized caravanserais, and the Saint preferred it for that reason.

He sat on his bed and turned the pages of the telephone directory.

Would Carlos Xavier have an unlisted number? But Xavier was sure to be still tied up with a burgled politico, in any case. And the Saint was far from obsessed with the idea of talking to Xavier again — just yet.

What kind of hotel would the Inklers be staying at? There could only be a limited number of possibilities.

He picked up the telephone.

“The Reforma Hotel, please,” he said.

After the usual routine of sound effects, the connection was made.

“Mr Inkler, please,” he said. “Mr Sherman Inkler. I-n-k-l-e-r.”

“One moment, please.”

It was longer than that. Then the Reforma operator said, “I’m sorry, there is no Mr Inkler here.”

“Thank you,” said the Saint.

He lighted a cigarette and stretched himself out more comfortably on the bed while he jiggled the telephone bracket. This method of search might take some time. But it was bound to succeed eventually. When he got the Comee operator back, he said, “Get me the Del Prado.”

He drew another blank there. But all it would take was patience.

He was starting to recall his own operator again when there was a knock on the door. He hung up with a frown, and stood up and opened it.

Doris Inkler stood outside.

“You don’t have to try any longer, unless you particularly want to,” she said. “May I come in?”

The Saint was not given to exaggerated reactions. He did not fall over backwards in an explosion of sparks and stars like a character in the funny papers, with his eyebrows shooting up through his hair. He may have felt rather like it, but he was able to resist the inclination. In his memoirs, he would probably list it among the finest jobs of resisting he ever did.

He waved his cigarette with an aplomb that had no counterpart in his internal sensations.

“But of course,” he said cordially. “This proves that telepathy is still better than telephones.”

She stepped in just as calmly, and he closed the door.

“I could have let you work a lot longer, if I’d wanted to make it tough for you,” she said. “But I got tired of standing outside.”

Her head and eyes made an indicative movement back and upwards, and he followed their direction to the open transom above the door. He shut it.

“You must have a very big kind heart,” he said.

“It’s a pretty tedious way to track anyone down,” she said. “I know. That’s how I located you.”

“Did you make a deal or wash out with the Enriquez brothers so quickly?”

“They dropped me off first, and just took Sherman along. I think they have an old-world prejudice against having wives sit in on business conferences. So I was probably able to start calling sooner than you did. Besides, I was lucky.”

“Where, as a matter of interest, are you staying?”

“In Room 611.”

The Saint sighed.

“And this is probably the last hotel I’d have tried. It would have seemed too easy. Whereas you, being a simple-minded woman, probably tried it first.”

“Correct. But let’s change that ‘simple-minded’ to ‘economical.’ This was the one place I could try before I started to run up a telephone bill.”

He cleared some things from a chair, and she sat down. He gave her a cigarette, lighted it, and sat on the end of the bed. At last he was actually as relaxed and at ease as he had contrived to seem from the beginning. He wondered why he had ever allowed himself to get in a stew about the apparent dead end he had run into. He should have known that such a fantastically pat and promising beginning could not possibly peter out, so long as there was such an obviously plot-conscious genius at work. Inevitably the thread would have been brought back to him even if he had done nothing but sit and wait for it.

But underneath his coolly interested repose he was as wary as if he had been closeted with a coy young tigress. Perhaps everything would remain cosy and kitteny, but he had no illusions about the basic hazards of the situation.

“It’s nice to feel that our hearts are so in tune,” he remarked. “I was determined to find you again, regardless of cost. You were a little thriftier about it, but no less determined. And so we meet. Fate failed to keep us apart, and at this moment is probably gnashing the few teeth it can have left. However, there’s still one small point. I had plenty of opportunities to hear your name. But how did you know mine?”

“I recognized you, Mr Templar — as I think you knew.”

“We haven’t met before.”

“No.”

“So you’ve seen my picture and read about me.”

“Right. And now it’s time you let me ask a question. Why were you so anxious to find me?”

Simon considered his reply.

“Any mirror would tell you better than I can. But let’s say that when I first saw you alone, I was hoping you’d stay that way for long enough for us to get acquainted. I was sort of tied up at the moment, if you remember. Then, when your husband showed up, I could see you were much too good for him. After thinking it over, I decided that he’s the dull type that it’s almost a public duty to cuckold. I was planning to find out if you agreed.”

Her eyes widened a fraction but did not blink. They were a darker blue than his own, and there were smoky shadows in their depths. Blue is conventionally a cool colour, but he realized that her shade could have the heat potential of a blowtorch flame.

“You don’t try very hard to be subtle, do you?” she said, and said it without any indignation.

“Not always. Especially when a gal seems to have similar ideas of her own. You didn’t track me down just to ask for my autograph, did you?”

“No. My turn again. What do you know about the Enriquez brothers?”

“That they’re big tycoons down here, and tough babies. That they’ve specialized in robbing the Mexican public through government contracts obtained by graft and corruption. That they were recently investigated and exposed by the present administration, and are temporarily out of business and facing a possible rest period in the hoosegow. That they would therefore like to see a fast change in the régime. That they are backing a fast-changer named José Jalisco, who has the necessary wind to rouse the rabble, and would love to buy some toys that go bang for his followers. That this makes them ideal customers for a homeless shipload of arms and ammunition.”

“You seem to have found out a lot.”

“It was poured into my ear, on what I believe to be excellent authority. Shouldn’t that make it my turn next? Why were you looking for me, if it wasn’t just to tell me how wonderful you think I am?”

“I wanted to ask how you felt about that gun deal.”

The Saint grinned.

“That’s a neat reverse,” he said appreciatively.

“Well?”

She was not smiling. The dusky warmth in her eyes was stilled and held back, perhaps like a force in reserve.

Simon gazed at her directly for several seconds while he made a decision. He stubbed out his cigarette gently in an ashtray.

“I don’t like it,” he answered.

“Do you really care whether they have one more revolution here?”