Лесли Чартерис - The Saint and the Templar Treasure

The light that had caught his attention came from a small oil lamp hanging from the centre of the joist beside the pillar. Sitting around a table in its dim pool of light were Philippe, Henri, and Louis Norbert. In front of them lay a circle of cards bearing the letters of the alphabet, together with others on which had been scrawled the numbers from one to nine. The words oui and non had been written on two larger cards placed at opposite sides of the circle. An upturned wine-glass was in the center of the cards and the three men were staring intently at it as they rested the tips of their index fingers on its base.

The worldly Philippe Florian, the pedantic professor, and the diffident young lawyer were solemnly invoking the spirits...

With the sort of portentous gravity that politicians adopt when declaring war or raising taxes, Henri Pichot began to speak.

“Is anybody there?”

The Saint had to compress his lips to prevent the laughter escaping. He had always wondered what would happen at a séance if the medium’s first question was answered in the negative.

The glass shivered and jerkily moved across the table to oui and then slid more smoothly back to the centre.

“Identify yourself,” Henri commanded, and the glass began to glide around the circle of cards, making a series of brief stops.

The professor read out the letters it visited:

“J.A.C.Q.U.E.S. D.E. M.O.L.A.Y.”

A sudden stillness descended on the group as the name registered. It lasted no more than a few seconds, but to the three men at the table it might as well have been an hour. They stared at the glass, and even in the half light the Saint could see Philippe stiffen and Norbert’s eyes open wide in astonishment.

The movement of the glass back to the middle of the table broke the spell.

Philippe snatched his hand away as quickly as if the glass had become red hot, exclaiming: “Mon Dieu!”

Pichot looked nervously at the professor and his voice shook as he asked: “Don’t you think this has gone far enough?”

Norbert glared angrily at them.

“Silence!” he hissed. “Do not break the circle. We are making a contact. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

Unconvinced but obviously unwilling to admit to fear, Philippe again laid his finger on the glass. Beads of sweat glistened on Norbert’s temple, and he stared at the glass as if hypnotised.

The Saint turned away from the window towards the low door that led into the garden. It was half open and he moved silently towards it. As he did so he heard Norbert intone: “When did you die?”

Cautiously the Saint peered in. The stone pillar stood between him and the three men, and the light of the oil lamp was too weak to spread beyond the table. Their whole attention was concentrated on the glass as the professor again read its answer out loud.

“1... 3... 1... 4.”

The Saint slid through the narrow opening and side-stepped until he was directly in line with the pillar. He waited until the glass had returned to the centre of the table and the professor had asked for a message before moving. Three long swift strides brought him directly behind the pillar so that it completely hid him from the three men but so close that he could have reached out and touched Henri’s shoulder. The glass was moving again, faster this time as if whoever, or whatever, controlled it was becoming more confident.

“T.H.O.S.E. W.H.O. H.A.V.E. T.H.E. C.O.U.R.A.G.E. T.O. S.E.E.K. S.H.A.L.L. W.I.N. T.H.E. R.E.W.A.R.D.S. O.F. T.H.E. B.R.A.V.E.” Norbert spelt out.

“What does it mean?” Philippe asked defiantly, but the professor again told him to be silent

“Look, there is more,” said Henri.

The Saint edged round the pillar so that he could see what was happening.

The glass was sliding back and forth across the table, moving so rapidly that it was soon impossible to read out its message. First Philippe and then Norbert lost contact with it. Henri stayed with it for a few more seconds and then he too lost his touch. The glass was moving on its own. The colour drained from Philippe’s face and Norbert was visibly shaking.

The glass shot towards Henri. The young man threw himself aside at the last moment as it flew off the table and shattered against the pillar an inch from the Saint’s hand.

The Saint had never had cause to worry about the steadiness of his nerves, but the sight of the glass moving of its own accord and then seemingly heading straight at him had tested them to the full. He could not check the involuntary sideways movement that would have dodged a direct hit, any more than he could deny the eerie tingle he felt in the nape of his neck.

The three men jerked around as the glass splintered, and then he was sure enough of his self-control to step calmly into the lamplight. He smiled broadly into their startled faces.

“It didn’t by any chance happen to mention the winner of tomorrow’s big race at Chantilly?” he inquired.

Gradually the others recovered from the shock caused by the flight of the glass and his own sudden materialisation. Philippe’s chair crashed backwards as he stood up. He steadied himself with one hand against the table as he raised the other and pointed accusingly at the Saint.

“A trick! He’s been making fools of us,” he shouted as the color flooded back into his cheeks.

Simon’s smile never wavered but his eyes were wary as he realised that Philippe was not only scared but also drunk, a combination that could be dangerous.

“Look, no hands,” he murmured, and raised his arms to emphasise the point.

Florian lurched towards him and there was no mistaking his intention. The Saint walked around the other side of the table to place its width between them. He had no wish to become involved in a brawl at that stage of the proceedings. Henri jumped up and placed a restraining hand on Philippe’s shoulder.

“I think we should hear what Monsieur Templar has to say,” he said gently but firmly. Florian muttered something under his breath and leant back against the pillar glaring malevolently at the Saint.

Norbert still sat at the table. He looked up at the Saint and spoke as if questioning a student at a tutorial.

“Well, Monsieur Templar? What are you doing here?”

“I came out for a breath of fresh air. I saw the light and wondered what was happening,” Simon replied easily. “By the way, what is happening?”

“A scientific experiment,” the professor answered just as glibly.

“Funny, I thought you were prospecting.”

The Saint had not intended to say it. The words had simply formed themselves of their own accord and he had spoken them. Mimette’s explanation for Norbert’s late arrival at dinner and the amusement it caused must, he decided, have been playing on his subconscious which had duly produced an unexpected flash of insight.

Whatever its origin, his remark elicited an illuminating response. Philippe swore, and it was only Henri’s grip on his shoulder that prevented him from trying to get close to the Saint again. For his part, Henri seemed suddenly very tense. But it was Norbert who provided the most surprising reaction. He simply smiled and rose slowly to his feet.

“So you are interested in the treasure?” he observed benignly.

Simon looked down into eyes as warm and welcoming as a pair of icebergs, and something he saw in their chill depths told him that the little professor was not just the comical gnome he appeared to be.

“Of course,” said the Saint guardedly.

“Why are you interested?” Florian snarled, but Norbert waved him to silence.

There was a new air of miniaturised authority about the professor which the Saint found fascinating.

“People have talked about the Templar treasure for hundreds of years, Monsieur Philippe. It is hardly a secret. The question is — how much does Monsieur Templar know?”