Лесли Чартерис - The Saint and the Templar Treasure

It was then that he heard the voices. They were so faint that had it not been for the complete stillness that surrounded him and his own finely tuned hearing he would never have noticed them. At first he thought they must be coming from a long way off, but then he realised that the walls were too thick to admit any outside noise short of a trumpet call. He walked into the centre of the hall and stood completely motionless as he strained to locate the source of the sound. He tried putting a hand over each ear in turn. The noise was completely blotted out when he covered his right ear. With a smile he turned towards the smaller of the two doors.

The voices grew slightly stronger as he approached, but they were still far too muffled for him to distinguish any words. In vain he tried pressing his ear against the door. Following the only course left, he turned the iron ring handle. The door was still immovable. Keeping hold of the handle, he rapped it against the woodwork. Instantly the voices ceased.

The thickness of the door allowed only the vaguest sounds of movement to penetrate its stout timbers. He knocked again and waited impatiently until a bolt scraped in its channel and the door creaked open six inches to reveal the frowning countenance of Professor Norbert.

“Oh, it’s you,” said the Saint pleasantly, but he received no answering smile from the scholar.

“What do you want?” Norbert asked curtly.

The Saint disliked conversations carried on through furtively half-opened doors.

“I’m lost,” he informed the professor innocently, and pushed the door wider.

The question of whether the little man wanted the Saint to enter was as academic as one of his own textbooks. Simon intended to gain admission, and simply applied the necessary pressure to the object that impeded his progress. Norbert took a startled step backwards, and the Saint smiled apologetically.

“I hope I’m not disturbing your devotions.”

“My devotions? Oh yes, I see what you mean,” stammered the flustered professor as he followed the Saint’s gaze.

Simon took in the details of his surroundings quickly and expertly. He noted the whitewashed walls and the fluted stone pillars that supported the vaulted ceiling. He took account of the rows of elaborately carved pews and the impressive brass eagle lectern. He admired the stained glass of the windows, the workmanship that had gone into the silver cross and candlesticks on the altar, and the delicate carving of the effigies of a knight and his lady who lay on top of an ornate tomb in the alcove beside it. And he came to the conclusion that the only people now in the chapel were himself and Norbert.

“This isn’t Vosges, is it?” he inquired.

“I’m sorry, I do not understand.”

“Like St. Joan, I kept hearing voices,” Simon explained.

The professor managed a hesitant smile.

“Another of your jokes, Monsieur Templar? All you can have heard is me.”

“Talking to yourself? Do you do that a lot?”

“I was reading the inscription on the tomb. I often read aloud. It helps me remember,” said the professor testily, “Would you like to look at it?”

The Saint shook his head.

“Not right now, but I would like to look at the salon. As I said, I’m lost.”

Norbert walked past him and beckoned him to follow.

“Come, I will show you the way.”

“Do forgive me for disturbing you,” Simon drawled.

He walked through the hall behind his guide. Norbert led the way to the larger door, which opened into the reception area, across to a small anteroom, and through that into the salon.

As the Saint entered, two men rose to greet him. There was no sign of Mimette.

Norbert performed the introductions.

“Monsieur Templar, Philippe Florian, Henri Pichot.”

The Saint shook hands with each in turn as he proffered the conventional greetings. Norbert mumbled an excuse and left.

Florian was a tall sturdily built man in his early forties who looked as if he had once been an athlete but had allowed the muscles of youth to become the flab of middle age. He wore a grey lounge suit that was a shade too sharply tailored. His black hair was pomaded straight back and he sported a thin moustache that did not reach the corners of his mouth. Despite the firmness of his handshake and the direct appraising look that he bestowed on his guest, there was something about him that reminded the Saint of an overfed lizard.

His companion was a good fifteen years younger and a head shorter, and whereas Florian radiated an aura of authority, Pichot seemed continually nervous and ill at ease. The frankness of his clean-shaven features seemed to conceal an inner uncertainty, which also characterised his clothes. He wore a tweed sports coat and flannels but combined them with a stiff-collared white shirt and staid dark blue tie.

Simon addressed himself to Florian.

“You must be Mimette’s father.”

“Her uncle,” Florian corrected him. “And you are the hero of the day, I understand.”

“Am I?” said the Saint deprecatingly.

“Indeed you are,” Florian boomed.

He seemed to be incapable of saying anything quietly or of not beaming when he talked. The Saint found neither mannerism as friendly or as reassuring as it was intended.

“I’ve heard all about your efforts to save the barn, and I can’t tell you how grateful we are,” Florian continued. “To lose the equipment is an inconvenience, but had we lost the truck it would have been a catastrophe.”

“Where is Mimette?” Simon asked in an attempt to steer the conversation away from his heroism.

Florian appeared irritated at having his speech interrupted.

“She apologizes for not being here. She has gone to see what can be bought or borrowed from the neighbouring farms to make good what we lost this afternoon. One hopes she will be able to get what is needed.”

“Baskets and hand-carts are not impossible to replace,” Pichot explained, “but there is never a vehicle to be hired around here at harvest time. Our récolte begins tomorrow, so you see how important it is.”

“Mimette tells me you won’t hear of a reward, but I want you to know we shall never forget your help. Any time you are in the district you must come and see us. I’m so sorry that our troubles have delayed your journey.” Florian crossed to the bell-pull and operated it vigorously.

“Oh, it livened up the afternoon,” Simon remarked carelessly, and had hardly finished speaking before the door opened and the major-domo carried in his valise.

“When Charles found that you had left your room, he took the liberty of packing your things. I hope you don’t mind.”

The Saint kept his face serenely impassive and awarded the match to Florian on points. He appreciated expertise in any field, and he could not have faulted the way Florian was performing the smoothest and most genteel example of the bum’s rush.

“How kind of him,” he replied coldly, but made no move to pick up the suitcase.

“Charles will carry it to your car,” Pichot said hastily, in some embarrassment. “We are desolated to have delayed your journey for so long.”

The butler picked up the valise, and the Saint followed him out through the marble hall and down the steps outside to the Hirondel. Pichot and Florian walked a pace behind him. Had they been carrying a brace of .38s they could not have made a slicker job of marching him out.

The Saint opened the rear lid and got into the driving seat. He fired the engine keeping his foot on the accelerator while he re-adjusted the seat which Mimette had pushed forward when she drove. Then he got out again, leaving the engine to warm up while he verified the stowage of his suitcase. He thanked Charles, closed the hatch, and got in again behind the wheel.