Leslie Charteris - Send for the Saint

Patroclos inclined his head slightly and studied the Saint for a few moments longer.

“So you are the famous Simon Templar,” he said, baring his teeth in a mechanical half-smile. “I am very pleased to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s all yours,” said the Saint evenly. “I never liked very much of what I’d heard of you, Dio, and now I’ve seen you I like you even less.”

“Naturally you are angry,” said Patroclos in a conciliatory tone. “Your journey has been interrupted. You have been brought here against your will. You have been threatened. I too, in your place, would be angry — very angry.” He made a pantomime gesture of expanding his chest and throwing his arms wide as if breaking out of bondage. “But...”

“I am much more than very angry,” the Saint cut in. “If there’s one species of humanity I abhor above all others it’s a bloated plutocratic string-puller who calmly assumes that there’s nothing and nobody on earth his money can’t buy. I am so angry that I’m on the point of taking you apart piece by piece and scattering the bits in the Aegean — except that I’d have a conscience about poisoning the fish. Afterwards I might just start on your maritime operations. There have been nasty whispers lately about some of your cargoes and their destinations, and I’m enough of an old-fashioned puritan to get hot under the collar about such things. All in all, from where I sit, your future looks distinctly less than rosy.”

The black eyes flashed and the heavy brows swooped. Diogenes Patroclos controlled himself with difficulty.

“Yes, yes,” he said hurriedly, “you are a remarkable man. I have heard many tales of your exploits. I do not doubt that you could do me damage. But I do not desire your enmity. Templar, you are a man I admire. Yes — I, Diogenes Patroclos! I possess money, power, organisations, everything. But you — you are a man of daring... we would say a klephtes — a robber-hero—”

Simon interrupted.

“Now get this straight. Whatever I may be — or may have been in the past — I was just now on my way to London. I was taking a well-earned holiday. Which you have had the temerity, the super-heterodyne gall, to interrupt with your—”

“Yes, yes. It will all be made good. But please — you are here now. Listen to me. I need help — and you are the best man in the world to give it. I will pay a lot of money.”

“Dio, you’re up a gum-tree. Your information is faulty. I work for myself. I don’t take commissions under pressure.”

“The pressure was regrettable — but a temporary expedient only. I give you my word, Templar — if you reject my proposition you will be free to leave at once and no harm will be done to you.”

“Goodbye, then,” said the Saint, getting up from Patroclos’ chair.

“Wait! You will change your mind when you hear. This must interest you, a man of your experience, your abilities. I am being impersonated, Templar! No, a better word, duplicated!”

“Disgusting!” said the Saint with feeling.

“Think of a carbon copy, a photograph, so accurate in every detail as to be identical. There are two of me, Templar, two!”

“The thought quite turns my stomach,” said the Saint, with an elaborate shudder.

For a few moments the bullet eyes smouldered and the muscles tensed and untensed around Patroclos’ prominent jaw.

“That is your only comment?”

The Saint sighed.

“Apart from the obvious — that it’s impossible.”

“So we agree. Impossible.”

“Those old fairy-tales about perfect doubles are factual baloney.”

“Yes, yes — to imitate clothes, that is simple. Mannerisms, even. But beneath them is the man — me!”

“Quite,” said the Saint, becoming bored.

“Me! Unique. Unrepeatable! These lines—” Patroclos thrust his jaw forward and outlined its contour with a hairy hand. “No man can have these things without being me.”

“Right. Case solved. You can put my cheque in the post.”

Patroclos moved up very close to Simon and took a deep breath. The black eyes bulged.

“But, Templar, though we both know it is impossible, there is such a man.”

The Saint cocked an eyebrow.

“You’ve seen him, of course?”

“No. But friends say to me ‘I saw you last week in Paris.’ But I tell them I have not been in Paris. I have been here in Athens.”

The Saint’s interest, against his will, was beginning to be aroused. He meant exactly what he had said about the proposition that any man could have a “perfect double”. The variability of humankind, in behaviour, voice, and appearance, was so infinitely manifold that two people in practice rarely turned out to be even approximate doubles. And yet, here was a man seriously claiming such an impersonation.

“I find entries in my bank statements,” Patroclos continued, “showing I have made purchase of a new car, a piece of jewellery, when I have made no such purchase!”

“Did you ask to see the cheques?”

“Of course. My own signature! Indistinguishable! But I did not sign them... Now, listen. I have houses, apartments, offices. All over the world. This man uses them! Wherever I am not, he is! He knows my every movement.”

“Interesting,” the Saint mused.

“And for every suit I possess, it seems he has had made another, identical!” Patroclos was becoming emotional: the voice rose and fell excitedly: the words came out in clusters, a few at a time, under immense pressure. “I tell the London Police, I am being impersonated. They must find the man quick. A week later they arrest me!”

Simon laughed.

“Yes.... ha ha!” Patroclos went on. “But I am proceeding to a big meeting. I tell the police this. But no. I must go first to Scotland Yard. They see my passport... all the things. At last they are convinced. I am the real Patroclos. I may go. So I precipitate myself to this meeting. But what is this? It is finished without me.”

“You’re not telling me,” Simon said in amazement, “that he—”

“Yes! This masquerader has been there! I was then to learn that he had blocked a deal I was planning. In place of it he had negotiated another.”

“Now that really is interesting,” said the Saint softly.

“So, the impossible happens. But Templar, even that was just the beginning. Since then there have been many such deals.”

The Saintly blue eyes searched the mogul’s face.

“What kind of deals?”

Patroclos hesitated.

“Shipping. All shipping.”

“Your favourite game...” Simon said slowly, his brain struggling to make a connection. “Were the deals successful?”

“Very successful. But not deals I would have made. Unprincipled deals.”

“In what way?” asked the Saint, without much doubt about the answer.

Patrocles hesitated again.

“Heroin to the United States. Arms to... certain powers, supplies and aid to others. Earlier, Templar, you spoke of your heat under the collar at these things. You had heard rumours — yes? But no proof...”

“The American authorities are pretty certain that your ships have been carrying these cargoes. Admittedly they’ve yet to catch you red-handed.”

“But that is the point! It is not me. My ships are being used — yes... but only under the direction of this — this double!”

The Saint smiled.

“And you want me to catch him?”

“I will pay you twenty thousand pounds if you do.”

“Well, I won’t,” said the Saint firmly. “I’m on holiday. I told you.”

Patroclos looked crestfallen.

“But Templar, the matter does interest you. Obviously. And twenty thousand pounds — that is a lot of money. Then why—”