Leslie Charteris: Send for the Saint

“Sold the company. And him along with it — bound by contract for the next five years. Sold it to a firm of East End bookmakers, if you please!”

“Ha! Sold him into slavery, eh?”

“Exactly!”

“Marvellous!” put in the large operatic contralto who was part of the same group.

“Good old Dio,” said a younger, very decorative woman in the group. “Never changes, does he?”

The cue was too perfect for the Saint to resist.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he remarked. “Wouldn’t you say he’d changed a bit recently?”

Six pairs of eyes turned to look at the newcomer; and one of the financiers asked, “How d’you mean?”

Simon hesitated.

“I’m not exactly sure. I can’t put my finger on it somehow. There’s something... Maybe his appearance. Haven’t you noticed?”

“Well, none of us gets any younger,” suggested the more ornamental of the women, with an appreciatively appraising glance at the Saint’s youthfully lean and elegant form.

“I don’t mean he’s aged, exactly,” he explained. “Just... changed.”

“Well, I haven’t noticed it,” put in the large contralto decisively, as if that must be the end of the matter.

The Saint shrugged.

“Oh well, it was just an impression. Perhaps I’m wrong.” And then, as Ariadne Two appeared at his side and touched him on the arm, he added, “Will you excuse me?” and followed the girl through the far doorway.

“Mr Patroclos would like to talk to you privately,” she explained, as they passed through a small communicating room into the library beyond.

The room was fully pine-panelled, its walls lined with sunken bookshelves stuffed full of leather-bound volumes. Two big showcases full of choice glassware dominated one side of the room; and from a solid compact mahogany desk in one corner, the double of Diogenes Patroclos stared at Simon Templar with piercing interest.

Ariadne Two closed the door softly, leaving them alone.

The likeness was incredible. To any ordinary observation this was the same Diogenes Patroclos as the Saint had met in Athens: the same heavy figure, the same powerful set to the head and jaw, and the same sallow Greek complexion, the same bushy black brows and musketball eyes. And yet, to the Saint’s acutely perceptive scrutiny, there were minute, infinitesimal differences, which were well-nigh impossible to analyse — perhaps a fractional discrepancy here in the sweep of the hair, or there in a line or two of the face — but which nevertheless added up to just enough of an identifiable distinction to make the Saint feel fairly sure he would now be able to tell Patroclos One and Patroclos Two apart.

He went straight to Patroclos Two, hand extended.

“Dio. Good to see you!”

“Templar! What brings you here at this hour?”

The voice and handshake were noncommittal; Patroclos Two was not refusing to recognise the Saint, as the girl had done, but neither was he playing it up to the hilt. He was waiting and watching. But Simon marvelled at the double’s achievement with the voice, as much as with the appearance: again the difference from the man in Athens was so slight and elusive that no one would have detected it who was not listening for it — and listening with an ear as acute as the Saint’s.

“I was just passing,” Simon replied. “There seemed to be a party going on, so I thought you wouldn’t mind if I dropped in and said hullo. How was Athens?”

“Not good. You know — the political situation.” Patroclos made a seesaw movement in the air with one hand. “Anyhow, you are welcome. You look well.”

“I hope so. But I was beginning to wonder. Ariadne gave me the cold shoulder just now. She didn’t seem to recognise me at all.”

Patroclos Two shrugged.

“Ariadne meets a lot of people... Now, will you have a drink? A cigar?”

The Saint accepted a Peter Dawson, declined a jumbosize cigar, and settled into a deep leather chair. The Patroclos double watched.

“What have you been doing with yourself, Templar?” he asked casually. “Since Monte Carlo?”

And he blew a cloud of heavy cigar smoke into the room. Evidently this copy-Patroclos was in no hurry. For the present he could afford to bide his time, waiting for the Saint to explain his presence. But still the black bullet eyes watched.

“Oh, I’ve been scouting around — you know, finding a good piece here and there. Nothing very energetic. But as a matter of fact” — here Simon adopted a confidential tone — “and this is actually the reason I wanted to see you, I may have found you another Millefiori.”

Patroclos Two’s eyebrows swooped in a sharp reaction.

“Have you really?”

Simon nodded. He had begun with the idea of getting into the impostor’s house and then playing it by ear from there; and now the imps of devilry were urging him on to see how far he could get this impostor out on a limb.

“A matching piece to the one I sold you in Monte Carlo,” he said, wondering if he was overreaching himself. “You have still got it, I hope?”

Patroclos Two hesitated for a moment, and then the hint of a crafty smile crossed his features as he beckoned the Saint over to one of the glass-cabinets.

“See for yourself.” He indicated the cabinet.

“Ah, yes...” Simon began, seeing no easy way out of the trap that he himself had set; and Patroclos Two’s voice cut in suddenly.

“Which one?”

Simon made a last attempt to carry it off.

“I’m hardly likely to forget!” he laughed.

“Which one?” repeated Patroclos, watching him, hawklike.

With an air of supreme confidence, the Saint pointed.

“That one.”

Patroclos Two nodded thoughtfully, as if to say that matters stood much as he had expected, and he moved back to sit behind the desk again.

“I am glad to see that you have done some homework, Templar. But... not... quite... enough. That piece came from the Andersen collection. I bought it in Copenhagen two years ago.”

“Well, I never,” said the Saint, scratching his head. “You know, Dio, I could have sworn...”

“Enough games!” The voice cut across the room like a whiplash. “We have never met before, and you never sold me anything. Now what do you want?”

And the Saint knew that the masks were off. The bluff had failed.

“You should be able to guess what I want,” he said in a level voice.

Patroclos Two regarded him scowlingly from under the bushy black brows.

“You think I might make a deal with you, is that it?”

“Possibly,” said the Saint slowly. “It might just save your bacon.”

The double eyed him impassively for a few moments.

“Sit down, Templar,” he invited.

Simon sat down again in the leather chair; and the dancing blue eyes under his quizzically tilted brows looked more innocent than ever.

“When Ariadne says you are here,” Patroclos Two began, “I say to myself, what is the famous, the notorious Saint doing in my house? It was very puzzling to me. At first.”

“At first?” queried the Saint.

“My dear Templar.” Patroclos Two beamed. “It is very clear. You have heard that I am being impersonated. It has been kept out of the newspapers, yes — but you have your own contacts, your own sources of information — perhaps even in Scotland Yard. So — you know about this masquerader. As an adventurer, naturally you are intrigued. And you resolve to investigate on my behalf!”

If Simon Templar’s self-control had been less than impeccable, his jaw would undoubtedly have dropped as soon as he realised the trend of Patroclos Two’s words. But long training had equipped the Saint for an automatic, reflex kind of facial dissemblance which operated in almost any circumstances as the need arose. His jaw therefore on this occasion maintained an unperturbed outline, although beneath the surface air of conversational attention he was gripped by an amazement of such stupendous proportions that it could have sent a hundred jaws plummeting to the centre of the earth.