Лесли Чартерис - The Saint and the Templar Treasure

All the time his brain was flailing around for any pretext that would keep him there until Mimette returned, or give him a reason to return and see her very soon. No matter what, he was determined that their last conversation should not remain unfinished.

And then the temperature gauge on the dashboard caught his eye. The needle was hovering well inside the red danger zone. The engine coughed and misfired.

He quickly switched off the ignition and climbed out. He walked to the front of the car and opened it. One long look told him that the Hirondel would be going nowhere that evening. In the centre of the radiator was a hole the size of an apple. No stone thrown up from the road could have caused such damage.

The Saint tried not to smile as he straightened up. It was simple, crude, but very effective sabotage.

The Saint was extremely fond of his car and at any other time would have been dangerously angry with the perpetrator of such vandalism. At that moment, however, he felt only a genuine gratitude to the mysterious saboteur. No Hirondel equalled no immediate departure, and the pleasure the equation gave him was considerably increased by the anticipation of the annoyance it would cause to the two men waiting impatiently to wave him farewell.

Florian and Pichot had hurried down the steps as soon as he began to peer at the engine. He ignored them while he checked thoroughly for any other signs of damage. Finally satisfied that the radiator had been the only target, he turned to face them.

“What is wrong?” Florian demanded with a passable imitation of genuine concern.

Simon stepped aside and pointed, so that both men could see for themselves. Florian coloured slightly as the significance of the damage registered. Pichot shuffled his feet and looked uneasily from the car to the Saint and back to the car.

“It must have happened during the drive from the barn,” Simon theorized, in simulated dismay. “It seems to be an unlucky day, I’m afraid.”

“Can you mend it?” Pichot asked anxiously.

The Saint shook his head.

“Not a hope. The whole radiator will have to be replaced.”

“How inconvenient,” Florian muttered, more to himself than the Saint, but added quickly: “for you.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Simon agreed.

They looked steadily at each other, each of them blandly declining to admit that anything remained unspoken.

Sensing the latent hostility building up between them, Pichot stepped forward, speaking first to Florian and then to the Saint.

“Let us go back into the house. I will telephone the local garage and see what can be done.”

“Good idea,” Simon seconded agreeably. “You never know, they might be able to help.”

He knew that they would not, but the attempt would help prolong his leave-taking. The Hirondel was no ordinary production-line car, and he was confident that it would be impossible to fit a radiator from any other make. The nearest Hirondel agents were in Nice, but if they had a spare in stock it would take time to deliver.

Pichot ran up the steps and disappeared into the château. Florian summoned up some of his former bonhomie and even went so far as to give the Saint a reassuring pat on the back as they walked back to the drawing-room.

“I’m sure we shall be able to do something. We might even be able to hire a car while yours is being repaired.”

“I thought you said it was impossible to hire anything at vintage time,” the Saint reminded him gently.

“Yes, well, I was thinking of lorries and tractors. It might be easier to arrange a car to take you where you were going.”

“Honestly, it’s not serious,” Simon assured him. “I wasn’t going anywhere special.”

“You are being too generous. But it is our responsibility.”

Florian was clearly on edge and sounded as if he was trying to convince himself more than the Saint. As they entered the salon Simon noted with satisfaction that the clock stood at nearly 6:30. They would certainly have to pull out all the stops if they were going to shift him that evening. Henri Pichot was not there, doubtless trying his pull.

Florian opened a corner cabinet to reveal several well-stocked shelves.

“Would you care for a Scotch?”

“Thank you.”

This was the beginning of a new era when the traditional apéritifs had lost ground in fashionable French circles, and whisky had become the snob before-dinner drink among those who aspired to be up to date.

Florian poured for both of them, added soda and ice from an insulated bucket in the cupboard, and said: “Chin.”

“Chin.”

Another Anglo-American importation.

The Saint relaxed in an arm-chair and sipped his drink appreciatively. The Scotch was, as he would have expected, of the finest quality, a twelve-year-old malt.

“I understand you’ve been having a lot of trouble lately,” he said conversationally.

Florian shrugged and spread out his hands in an exaggerated gesture of resignation.

“A few misfortunes, certainly, but one must expect these things in any business. And running a vineyard is a business, even if my brother does not consider it so.”

“I should have thought that people setting fire to buildings and spraying vines with weed-killer were hardly ordinary business hazards,” Simon remarked. Anticipating a question, he added: “Mimette told me about that.”

Florian threw back half his Scotch in one go. He rotated the tumbler between his palms as he glanced furtively at the clock.

“Ah, Mimette. I see.” He made a long pause. “Poor girl, she takes life so seriously for one so young. Since her mother died last year she has had a lot of new responsibilities to cope with. My brother is not the most worldly of men. I think the English refer to such people as ‘one of the old school.’ Mimette has helped to run the château and the vineyard, and I’m afraid the strain is telling. She tends to overdramatise things. Sometimes I wonder if it is not becoming an obsession.”

It was a clever speech. Without a single disloyal word, he had managed to praise and raise doubts about his brother and his niece at the same time. Philippe Florian might be pompous but he was certainly shrewd. And he was worried, far more so than Mimette had been earlier that afternoon.

“Better to be obsessed than sit by and watch your family ruined!”

The Saint and Florian turned simultaneously as the girl’s voice cut between them. She stood framed in the doorway, her hair wind-blown from the drive and a red glow flaming her cheeks.

“Ah, vous voici,” Simon exclaimed, springing to his feet. “I was afraid I was going to miss you.”

“I apologise for having to leave you to the company of Uncle Philippe,” she said, “but there has been a lot to do. For those of us who work, that is.”

Mimette turned angrily towards her uncle, but he appeared only tolerantly amused by the barb she had flung at him.

“You’ll be sorry to hear that I’ve managed to get everything we need. Gaston worked wonders as usual. Papa is writing the cheques. He’ll be with us shortly.”

“Now, why should I be sorry, Mimette?” Florian demurred suavely. “You really must stop thinking of me as the wicked uncle in a fairy tale.”

Mimette sank into a chair and took a cigarette from the silver box on the coffee table. She lit it and inhaled deeply, letting out the smoke like a long sigh.

“Wicked half-uncle,” she corrected coldly, and Florian looked pained. “And I only wish you would stop acting like one. Whenever anything goes wrong, there’s good old Philippe lending money and patting everyone on the back and telling them not to worry, and all the time scheming to take control and kick out everyone else.”