Лесли Чартерис - The Saint and the Templar Treasure

The Saint rose and paid the bill, leaving a generous tip, thanked and congratulated the patron, and sauntered out into the early afternoon sunshine. After the pleasant temperature of the restaurant the fierce dry heat of the valley seemed even more intense than it had done during the drive from Avignon that morning. He walked slowly to where the Hirondel was parked. The flamboyant cream and red roadster was surrounded by the sedate black sedans of the townsmen. A car like the Hirondel in such company looked like a Derby winner stabled in a donkey shed.

He eased in behind the wheel, being careful to touch as little of the searing-hot coachwork as possible. From the rear seat he retrieved a battered grey fedora that would have made Mr. Lock pale, and snapped the brim down to shade his eyes from the sun’s glare. The motor turned at the first touch and the purr of the perfectly tuned engine changed to a muted roar as he swung the big car around and headed towards the road.

The entrance to the parking space was partly hidden from the lane by a clump of trees, and half the bonnet of the Hirondel had passed them before the strident blare of a Klaxon and a screech of tyres made him stamp on the brake. A small blue Renault convertible swerved violently across his front fender before the driver brought it back under control and, with an angry glare at the Saint, lurched on and disappeared at speed around the next bend.

The Saint smiled. Such a driver could, he decided, glare angrily at him anytime, preferably when she was not in so great a hurry and at even closer quarters. Long black hair riding the slipstream, a small oval face that might almost have been plain had it not been made beautiful by a pair of dark flashing eyes, plus the upper contours of a figure that promised much for those areas of anatomy hidden by the car’s own bodywork.

He carried the image with him as he threaded the Hirondel gently through the spider’s web of meandering lanes which he hoped would eventually bring him back on to some adequately sign-posted highway on which he could set a course in the general direction of Aix-en-Provence. He was in no hurry, and the tranquillizing effect of his lunch made him decide against pursuing the Renault and telling its owner his thoughts about women drivers. Which, he later reflected, was just as well, for it would have closed the story before it opened.

The road he was on ended in a T junction. A sign-post stated that Avignon was now somewhere to his right but gave no indication of what lay to the left. Being reasonably sure that at least he should not head back towards Avignon, even though the other way might be leading north, he gambled and swung the wheel to port. It was a decision that brought him one step closer to the start of the adventure.

The vine is an amazingly stubborn vegetable that seems to flourish best in the worst conditions. In Portugal’s High Douro they are stuck into holes drilled in solid rock, while beside the Mosel they prosper on precipitous slopes of almost pure slate. Beside the road along which the Saint finally found himself driving, the ground seemed capable of producing only stones, but it was patterned with neat rows of low-growing vines. In the distance, a low line of hills had been terraced to provide a root hold for still more plants, giving the appearance of a huge overgrown staircase. The lower slopes and terraces were littered with bleached boulders from fist to head size that absorbed the sun’s rays during the day and slowly released their stored heat through the night, providing the plants with natural central heating.

It was late September and the vines were bending under the weight of their dark purple fruit. To the layman’s eye they all looked the same, but up to fourteen varieties might be blended to create such a beverage as the Saint had enjoyed at lunch. The harvest would begin any day, and the now deserted landscape would be alive with workers gathering the grapes and carting it back to the presses for the start of the time-honoured process of making the wine.

Simon was musing idly on the years it could take to produce a great wine compared to the minutes it takes to drink one, when he spotted the two hikers. Even from a distance they seemed an oddly mismatched pair. One was tall and blond with broad shoulders that made light of the heavy haversack he carried. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt, faded khaki shorts, and tough walking boots, and strode steadily along at an even pace. A step behind and struggling to keep up limped his companion. He was smaller and fatter and his clothes seemed more suitable for city shopping than for hiking. His back was bowed beneath a small pack and a blue jacket was slung over one shoulder that matched the serge of his tight-fitting trousers and complemented his equally tight-fitting shoes. As he heard the Hirondel approaching he turned, and the pleading look on his face was more eloquent than his raised thumb.

The Saint normally had little sympathy for hitch-hikers, holding that the hyphenation was itself a contradiction in terms, and feeling no obligation to provide free transport for those who were too lazy to walk or too imprudent to provide themselves with even a bicycle. But that afternoon caught him in a relaxed and mellow mood.

He brought the Hirondel to a gliding halt, and said in fluent French: “You seem ready to melt. Where are you going?”

Simon Templar was at ease in all the major languages of Europe and could make himself understood in most of the remainder. He spoke French as well as any native of that country and possibly better than many. Unlike so many English speakers he did not suffer from the arrogance which expects that everyone else should know the language which once ruled an empire and believes that if they don’t the way to make them understand it is to shout.

The blond youth — both of them looked to be in their late teens or earliest twenties — answered: “To Carpentras, then towards Beaumes-de-Venise.”

“And where the devil would that be?” Simon inquired cautiously.

“Not very far. I can show you the way.”

The Saint shrugged. Having made the stop, he might as well take the consequences.

“Well, that may be useful. Hop in.”

They heaved their packs into the narrow back seat where the smaller hitch-hiker also wedged himself, while his blond companion settled more comfortably in the front. Simon released the handbrake and as the car moved forward asked: “Where are you from?”

“The University of Grenoble. We are students. My name is Pascal, and he is Jules.”

In his driving mirror the Saint had a picture of Jules dabbing at his sweating face with a handkerchief and flapping the open front of his shirt to allow the breeze to circulate.

“Your friend doesn’t seem in training for a route march,” he observed dryly.

Pascal smiled.

“He is from Paris,” he explained in a condescending tone. “He thinks a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne is exhausting.”

“And you’re a country boy, is that it?”

“I was born at Châteauneuf and my family lived here until four years ago when we moved to Lyons. Since then I have come back every year to help with the harvest and to see my old friends. Jules thought he would come along this year to earn some money.”

“From what I know of work in the vineyards he is likely to lose more kilos than he gains francs,” said the Saint.

Pascal laughed but the object of their conversation either had not heard or was too tired to object.

They drove in silence for a few minutes before Simon asked: “Where exactly will you be working?”

“At Château Ingare. It is only a small vineyard and they do not pay as well as some of the larger ones, but all my friends will be there.”