Leslie Charteris - Send for the Saint

“Mr. Templar. Yes, of course.”

“Well, this is the other Patroclos.”

“You are supposed to be Ariadne ?” queried Patroclos Two.

“But of course I am Ariadne,” said the girl slowly, looking in amazement first at Patroclos Two and then at her own double.

“Don’t try to work it out,” advised the Saint. “Just tell us where he is.”

“But you... I mean he... well, you just left, Mr Patroclos.

“How long ago?” asked Simon quickly.

“Just two minutes.”

“Where’s he going?”

“He didn’t say. He got a phone call.”

“Where from?” barked Patroclos Two.

The girl looked uncomfortable under the double-barrelled cross-examination.

“From the airport. He collected his briefcase — and rushed out.”

“How come we didn’t pass him on our way in here?” asked the Saint.

“He went out the back way to the car.”

Simon crossed swiftly to one of the windows; and then he uttered sotto voce a fluent string of extremely unsaintly observations as he saw the purple Rolls disappearing from the parking lot behind the building.

“Come on!” called the Saint, rushing for the door. “Let’s get after him. The airport’s a safe bet. Ariadne One” — and he pointed at the girl to leave her in no doubt as to which of them was meant—” get us a car at the front — gregora!”

Patroclos Two told the driver, in Greek, to go like the wind; and the resulting ride lived even in the Saint’s memory for years afterwards. But when they arrived at the airport Patroclos’ plane in which they had recently flown from London was just taking off, and the purple Rolls was being driven back off the runway.

Patroclos Two shook his fist in impotent rage at the dwindling aircraft.

“Now you believe who is real?” he demanded, stabbing the air with his finger. “ I arrive — he runs!”

“You do seem to be ahead on points,” Simon admitted. “But it’s still anybody’s game.”

Suddenly Patroclos flicked his fingers.

“Of course. The police. They must warn Interpol. Wherever he lands he must be caught!”

“We needn’t trouble Interpol,” said the Saint.

Patroclos Two looked impatient.

“So? What is your suggestion?”

“That plane was practically out of gas when we got here. It’s hardly had time to refuel.”

Patroclos Two’s eyes widened with realisation.

“You mean — he cannot be going far?”

“It should be easy to check on whatever other airports there are within range,” said the Saint. “Probably he would have to land somewhere in Greece — or else he crashes!”

“Look,” expostulated Ariadne One, “for the fourth time, all I know is that I work for Diogenes Patroclos — the Patroclos. He must be genuine.”

“She’s lying” said Ariadne Two tersely.

“I’m not!” Ariadne One protested indignantly.

“Then why pretend to be me?”

“Why should I pretend to be you?”

“What’s your full name?”

“Ariadne Kyriakides.”

“I’m Ariadne Kyriakides.”

“You’re lying!”

“Girls, girls!” the Saint interrupted. “Now, Ariadne One — that’s you — how long have you been working for the man you know as Patroclos?”

“Five years.”

“Ariadne Two?”

“Five years.”

“Well, the fake can’t have been going that long,” said the Saint slowly. “So one of you must be lying. Can either of you prove you’ve been working for him that long?”

Ariadne One replied at once.

“Yes. You can check with the Bannerman Bureau in London.”

“But I was employed through Bannermans!” put in Ariadne Two indignantly.

The Saint sighed.

“So unless Bannermans carry photos of the girls they find work for — which they won’t — we’re up against a brick wall.”

The telephone in Patroclos’ outer office, where the three were talking, rang at that moment, and Ariadne One answered it.

“Yes... This is Mr Patroclos’ personal secretary... Yes.” As she listened, her eyes widened with horror. “Yes, I will tell him.”

She put down the phone and turned.

“The plane crashed. Into the sea, near Andros.”

She was on her way to the inner office, where Patroclos Two had been rooting through papers left by his other half, but he met her at the door.

“I heard that,” he said. “Did anyone survive?”

“The plane was smashed to pieces and sank at once. They say that no one could have been alive,”

“And they may never even find a body,” Patroclos said. “It would have been interesting to see this man who looked so much like me. That telephone call just before he left — he must have had an accomplice at the airport who warned him when we arrived.”

Patroclos had a grim expression which boded ill for the traitor when he was discovered. He looked at the Saint.

“So... it is over.”

Ariadne One gave a sudden choking cry and slumped down at the desk, burying her face in her arms. After a while she looked up, red-eyed.

“I had to go on pretending,” she said with unsteady quiet in her voice, “while there was still hope.”

“Then he was the fake?” said Ariadne Two.

“Yes.” She nodded sadly. “I didn’t know at first. I... I’ve only been with him a year, but he had been playing the part for some while before that. Then he offered me a lot of money to play along... and he persuaded me to change my name.”

“And do you realise,” snapped Patroclos, “what trouble you have caused me?”

“I... I’m sorry, Mr Patroclos. But you see, he was my boss. He was the man who employed me, and my loyalty was to him. And when he took me on, I thought he was you...”

Patroclos looked at the Saint.

“Satisfied, Templar?”

“Hm, well, there are still a couple of things I don’t understand.”

“Then we’ll discuss them later. Also your own position — even your fee. Yes, Templar, I think I understand the position in which you found yourself. You were working for him first, yes? You believed that he was the real Patroclos. And then I employed you. So, it was difficult for you. Whom to trust? But you have done what I asked. You have played your part in ridding me of this nuisance. So we will talk later. For the moment, this young lady and I” — he indicated Ariadne One — “are going to the police!” Ariadne One flinched.

“Oh no, please.”

Patroclos spread his hands reassuringly.

“Your position too was difficult. I will not make any charges. But you must give a full statement of all this. I must dissociate myself from the damage this man has done.”

“You don’t waste a second, do you?” said the Saint. “You’re the real Patroclos all right.”

Patroclos smiled.

“We will see you presently,” he said, taking Ariadne One by the arm and steering her out.

Ariadne Two — who after all was the real Ariadne — still looking bemused, watched them go.

“Well, that’s that.”

“Is it?” asked the Saint, with that bantering lift to the eyebrows that she had come to know.

“Well...” The girl hesitated. “Well, isn’t it?”

“End of story? Everything neatly wrapped up and explained? Not in my book, sweetheart. Not by a long shot.” Simon had begun searching through the desk drawers, tossing papers out and carelessly stuffing them back. “What about the pilot?”

“He was killed with the impostor.”

“But he must have known that the plane was low on fuel. After all, he’d just flown it here from London. So why did he take off?”