Лесли Чартерис - The Saint and the Templar Treasure

Simon’s first view of the said mechanic was the soles of a pair of very large boots protruding from under the front of the Hirondel. He wished them good morning and was rewarded with the appearance of a pair of grease-stained hands that curled out and gripped the bumper. Gradually the rest of the mechanic hauled itself into view.

“What a beautiful car, monsieur,” the man enthused. “Such an engine! Such workmanship! Such elegance!”

“I’m glad you approve,” said the Saint. “Can you fix it?”

The mechanic shook his head.

“No. It will need a new radiator.”

“Can you get a new radiator?”

The mechanic considered the question carefully as if the idea had not occurred to him before. Finally he nodded.

“There is a dealer in Nice. I will send for one straightaway and have it express-delivered,” he replied, plainly looking forward to the prospect of closer contact with the car’s intestines.

“How long will that take?”

“With luck I could get one here by midday tomorrow.”

The Saint looked around to make quite sure that there was no one within earshot, before he peeled a couple of notes from his wad and pressed them into the hands of the startled mechanic.

“Why not run out of luck until Friday?” he suggested.

“But that is several days, monsieur,” the man exclaimed.

Simon added a third note to the man’s collection.

“So it is,” he agreed as the argument disappeared into the mechanic’s pocket. “Look, I’m in no great hurry so why don’t you get the radiator delivered and wait till I call and ask you how much longer the job will take?”

“But, monsieur...?” the man began; but the Saint clapped him on the shoulder and propelled him gently towards the break-down truck that had brought him.

“Just give me the name of your garage and be on your way.”

He took the greasy card that the mechanic offered, and watched while the Hirondel was hitched up to the tow crane. A fourth and conclusive sample of the Banque de France’s elegant art work found its way into the mechanic’s possession as he climbed into his truck.

“This is of course strictly between ourselves,” Simon whispered conspiratorially.

“Of course, monsieur,” the man agreed, and drove quickly away in case the mad foreigner should change his mind and demand his money back.

The Saint smiled to himself at the ease with which the problem of extending his stay had been overcome. He hoped that the unknown saboteur, whoever it was, would appreciate his co-operation.

He strolled back into the château and again stopped to listen to the noise of Norbert’s industry. The violent pounding he had first heard had changed to a rhythmic tap-tap-tap of metal on stone. As he stood deciding whether or not to interrupt the professor’s labours he heard the door of the salon open.

He turned expecting to see Charles or his wife, but instead found himself looking at a girl who might have walked straight out of the pages of a movie magazine.

She was a platinum blonde with the sort of figure that makes an hour-glass look tubular. She wore a silky white dress that was long at the hem and low at the top and tight in between. She had the long-lashed bedroom eyes and full red lips that are more usually seen smiling out of glossy magazines in the cause of selling anything from deodorants to dog food. It was standardized beauty which the Saint could appreciate without being swept off his feet. She was not so much standing in the doorway as posing there, with one hand resting lightly on her hip and the other holding an unlit cigarette an inch from her lips.

Her voice held exactly the right note of practised allure he would have expected.

“Do you have a light?”

“I’m afraid not. They told me that smoking would stunt my growth.”

The girl eyed him shamelessly and smiled.

“You seem big enough already.”

“I lead a very pure life,” he informed her solemnly. “They also told me never to speak to strange ladies until we’d been introduced.”

The girl turned away and walked back into the salon. The Saint followed, picked up the table lighter, and lit her cigarette without bothering to ask why she had been unable to perform the task for herself.

“Thanks. I am Jeanne Corday.”

“Simon Templar. Et enchanté.”

“The Saint!”

In her surprise the girl’s accent slipped from Parisian pointu to the twang of Marseille. Simon noticed the lapse but it was quickly corrected.

“The famous Simon Templar! What brings you to a mortuary like this? No one’s been murdered, have they?”

“Not yet, to my knowledge, but you never know your luck,” he said. “And you? I wouldn’t say this was your natural ambiance.”

“I’m here for the harvest.”

“Picking or grape treading?” he asked politely.

She laughed.

“Hardly. I’m here to be presented to the powers that be for approval. I’m Henri Pichot’s fiancée.”

The Saint blinked in surprise. Philippe’s mistress he could have believed. A school friend of Mimette’s, lured away by the bright lights even. But the prospective spouse of the timid lawyer? It seemed a laughable combination.

“Well, well, well. Happy Henri,” he said thoughtfully.

Jeanne Corday interpreted it as a compliment, and smiled to display a set of expensively white teeth.

“Have you just arrived?” he asked, mainly because he could think of little else to say.

“This morning. I came down on the sleeper from Paris. Henri collected me from Avignon and here I am.”

“Where is the lucky man?”

She sighed with affected boredom. “Off playing the peasant somewhere, I suppose, and leaving me all alone to amuse myself. What does one do all day in a place like this?”

“I’m not sure,” the saint admitted. “But I’m going to go and join the peasants. Fancy a walk? It’s only a kilometre or so to the battlefields.”

“Walk!” the girl grimaced in disgust. “Do you mind?”

“Not in the least. See you later, then.”

She scowled as if he had insulted her. She was obviously unaccustomed to being rejected so easily but said nothing as he left her.

The Saint sauntered leisurely out of the château grounds following the track he had been driven along the previous day. It was a beautiful morning with a light breeze tempering the heat of the sun. The fields bordering the path were full of workers picking the grapes and piling them into huge wicker baskets. The air hummed with their chatter and the rattle of the handcarts as they were trundled up the hill towards the cluster of buildings below the château. Everything around him seemed light-years away from long-dead knights, family curses, saboteurs, and seances, and it was an effort to think about such things.

But the idea of hidden treasure intrigued him, and certainly seemed to provide the basis of a motive for Philippe’s interest in buying the château and even for trying to ruin the business so that Yves Florian would be forced into selling. But he was also a successful businessman and such men do not become rich by chasing legends. Norbert’s position was easier to understand. The professor was concerned with the historic importance of the treasure as well as its possible financial value. The kudos he could earn as its finder would be as sweet as any material reward he might claim. Only Henri’s role was vague, and the arrival of his fiancée made it even cloudier. To attract such a woman he must have more to offer than the average undistinguished lawyer.

The Saint was so absorbed in his thoughts as he climbed the second hill towards the barn that he did not immediately recognise an approaching figure, but as they drew closer he waved a greeting and the other stopped and waited for him.