Лесли Чартерис - The Saint and the Templar Treasure

The Saint turned, to find Philippe the first to arrive beside him, followed by three or four of the château workers, while the rest of the harvest party were crowding in on the floor below. Simon spoke to them all.

“C’est vrai,” he said. “Gaston est mort.”

At first, a numbness of shocked disbelief seemed to make them refuse to accept that such a thing could happen there. The silence was stifling in its intensity as the assemblage stood staring, unable to drive their minds past the news they had been given.

Simon looked down again at the limp figure that was half submerged in the blood-coloured wine. He had developed a genuine affection and respect for the old man, but there would be a time for sadness later, just as there would be a time for retribution. It was the unemotional practicalities that had to be dealt with now, and Philippe set the process in motion while Yves was still climbing up to the catwalk.

“Mimette, go with Jeanne to the château and telephone the gendarmerie. Someone give me a hand to get Gaston out.”

The sharp authority of his voice re-awakened the others as suddenly as if a switch had been thrown.

The two women hurried out together, relieved that they would not have to watch the grisly scene of the body being moved. Without bothering to remove his jacket, Philippe himself leaned into the vat and grabbed Gaston by the lapels of his coat. Simon gripped his ankles, and together they lifted him out and carried Mm down to the floor, where someone had spread a tarpaulin.

Philippe allowed no flicker of emotion to show on his face and betray his feelings. He gave the impression of knowing what had to be done and getting on with it however distasteful it might be. After putting Gaston down, he simply turned away in search of a rag to dry his hands.

The Saint was well aware of the dictum that nothing should be touched until the police have inspected the scene of the crime, but it was not for him to argue with Philippe’s orders. He was also aware that the local gendarme would be unlikely to have much experience in examining murder victims. Since the body had been moved anyway, he took the further liberty of feeling around its head and testing the stiffness of the joints, and understood what his fingers told him. He looked at the soles of the old man’s boots and at the dirt under his fingernails. At last he folded the ends of the tarpaulin over the body and straightened up.

“Pauvre Gaston!” Yves was muttering, literally wringing his hands. “How could it have happened? If he slipped and fell in—”

“He wouldn’t have drowned so peacefully,” said the Saint.

“Perhaps a heart attack?”

“Caused by a clout on the head,” Simon said grimly. “There’s a dent in his skull you could stick your thumb into.”

Yves’s face was white and his lips trembled as he gazed at the makeshift shroud.

“But who would do that?” he asked brokenly.

“We’ll find out,” said the Saint, injecting his voice with an assurance that made it a promise. “But there’s nothing more I can do here for the moment. Will you excuse me for a few minutes?”

Without waiting for formal permission, he eased his way out of the building through the throng of employees, who had now split into small groups and were chattering excitedly in hushed tones.

Heading back towards the château, he met Mimette returning towards the chai.

“Jeanne is waiting to meet the police,” she told him before he had time to ask.

“Good. I was scheming to get you away. Come with me.”

“Where to?”

“Gaston’s house.”

They took Mimette’s Renault. The Saint drove, throwing the car down the rutted track towards the foreman’s cottage as if he begrudged every second’s delay.

“Why Gaston’s?” shouted Mimette, trying to make her voice heard above the roar of the engine as she clung to the edge of the door to save being hurled clear as they bounced over the washboard road.

“Because that was where Gaston was probably murdered,” Simon answered.

“But it was some accident,” Mimette protested uncertainly.

The Saint shook his head. He pulled the car to a skidding stop outside the cottage and jumped out.

“He was dead long before he was dumped into the vat,” he said brutally. “Someone hit him very hard on the back of the head with what the police like to call a blunt instrument. It was meant to look like an accident, but very crudely done. I hate amateur murderers — they are an insult to the craft.”

The door was unlocked, and the Saint pushed it wide with his foot while holding Mimette back.

It was not booby-trapped, but the room was a shambles. The mattress and cushions from the bed had been ripped open and their stuffings scattered across the floor; even the stove had been emptied and the ashes sifted through. While Mimette stood in the doorway and surveyed the chaos, Simon went around the room checking on the details.

Beside the bed, in a sea of papers, photographs, and torn books, lay an upturned trunk. Simon picked up a handful of papers and glanced through them. They were the ephemera of a long life — a discharge certificate from the first war and a ration book from the second, letters and greeting cards from relatives and friends, an insurance policy that had long since lapsed.

Mimette took a few hesitant steps into the room and stood watching him.

“What are you looking for?”

Simon tossed the papers back on to the floor.

“I’m not quite sure, but I think it’s what detectives call a clue.” He regarded his surroundings wryly. “But I think our villain has been too thorough, messy but effective.”

Mimette nodded towards the fireplace. In the bottom right-hand corner four bricks had been removed. In the grate lay a small leather sachet.

“Even Gaston’s cubbyhole,” she sighed, and picked up the wallet.

She gasped as she lifted the flap, and the Saint reached over and took it from her. Inside were bundles of notes, many so old that they were no longer legal tender.

“How did you know where Gaston hid his money?” he asked.

“I didn’t, at least I didn’t know it was money he kept there. Once, when I was a child, I ran in and he was putting the sachet into that hole. He was very cross that I’d seen him. He said it was a secret place, and made me swear never to tell anyone.”

“And did you?”

Mimette sighed.

“Oh, I don’t remember. It was so long ago. I’d forgotten all about it until now. Don’t you think it’s strange that the murderer should have left the money behind?”

“It just means that not only is he an amateur but he’s a very amateurish amateur,” Simon replied as he replaced the wallet in the grate. “If he’d had any sense he would have at least made it look like a robbery.”

She waved her hand over the litter around them.

“But if he wasn’t looking for money, what did he want?”

Simon was about to turn away from the fireplace when a scrap of yellow among the grey ashes caught his eye. He brushed them aside and retrieved a tiny piece of parchment.

“I should think,” he said slowly, “that he wanted the rest of this.”

It was made from the same material as the scraps he had seen in the casket under the statue of Hecate. Its triangular shape suggested that it had once been a corner of a page. On it were drawn two vertical, parallel lines behind which was a circle. A third line zigzagged beneath them.

Mimette peered over his shoulder as he studied his find.

“But what is it?” she asked.

“It’s why Gaston was killed,” he answered, and forestalled the inevitable questions by heading for the car. “I’ll explain on the way back to the château.”