Лесли Чартерис - The Saint and the Templar Treasure

Inch by inch he hoisted his body higher, and as he did so he heard the footsteps again. They had been only a few yards behind when the battlements had collapsed, but now the sound came from farther away and was growing fainter with every step.

The Saint smiled grimly.

“Going to pick up the pieces, are we?” he murmured as his waist came level with the top of the wall. “Well, we’ll see.”

He kicked out, at the same time pushing down on the palms of his hands and throwing himself forward, and tumbled over on to the safety of the parapet.

The dusk was rapidly deepening into night, but the moon and stars were still too low in the sky to help him as he peered into the gloom below. He could just make out a figure nearing the bottom of the stairs, but the darkness and the distance between them made identification impossible.

Crouched low to avoid being silhouetted against the sky, he reached the top of the staircase and went down with the speed and sure-footedness of a mountain cat. He hardly glanced at the steps as he watched the figure reach the floor and begin to walk towards the door.

The Saint increased his speed, and as he gained the final flight he saw the figure stop and look up.

He covered the remaining steps three at a time, jumping the last half dozen, and landed within arm’s length of Louis Nor-bert.

“Bon soir,” said the Saint with rigid politeness, and Norbert reeled back as if he had been struck.

His face was as pale as wax and he stared incredulously at Simon.

“But I thought...”

His voice trailed away as the Saint took a step nearer.

“Yes?” prompted the Saint coldly. “You thought?”

“That... that you had fallen. I saw you. I was going to see... that is... if you were...” Again the words died in Norbert’s throat as he stood and gaped at the Saint.

“If I’d saved you the trouble of pushing me?”

Simon took another pace forward, and Norbert retreated until he felt the column at his back and was forced to stop and continue to face the Saint.

The professor shook his head vigorously and stammered: “No, no, you’re wrong! I wasn’t... why should I... you can’t think that—”

“Why can’t I?” Simon inquired reasonably, and Norbert flinched at the mockery in his voice. “I didn’t see you rushing to the rescue.”

Norbert wiped his hand across a forehead that was suddenly cold and damp.

“But I thought you had fallen. How could I know? You must believe me,” he whined.

“Must I? You took your time getting down.”

“I was confused. Scared. I waited. I did not know what to do. Then I decided I had better come down to see if you were... if there was anything I could do. To get help.”

“Of course, you just happened to be around. You weren’t following me, were you? Until I fell, you probably didn’t even notice me. Right?”

“No. I mean yes — that is, I saw you go into the tower and I came after you. The police want to talk to all of us. I came to tell you. That is all. I swear it. It is the truth. That was the only reason.”

The Saint regarded the twitching scholar without pity. He put out a hand and gently patted the other’s glistening dome, and Norbert cringed as if he had expected a punch.

“I hope so, Professor,” said the Saint softly. “You see, I have this dislike for characters who try to murder me. And I’m not much fonder of people who’d let me have a nasty accident without making any attempt to help me. I’d hate to think that of you, Louis.”

Once again Norbert began to babble his protestations of innocence and good intention, but Simon stopped him.

“You said the police wanted to see us. Well, we had better not keep the good gendarmes waiting.”

With Norbert in tow he cut across the lawn towards the house. Down by the outbuildings a uniformed man was talking to some workers, and he saw that an ambulance had arrived at the chai and a stretcher was being slid into it.

“Where?” asked the Saint as they entered the château, and Norbert mumbled, “The salon.”

The gendarme leaning against the wall outside the salon eyed them disinterestedly as they approached from the main hall. As they drew closer he reluctantly levered himself upright and opened the door. The opening let out Philippe Florian’s indignant voice:

“I object to being questioned as if we had something to hide. I shall...”

The protest tailed off as Philippe realised that he had lost the attention of his audience. The Saint took one step into the room and paused to survey the scene. It made him think of a still displayed outside a cinema.

Yves was standing in front of the fireplace with his hands clasped behind his back. Philippe and Mimette sat at opposite ends of the sofa while Henri stood by the window. Jeanne Corday was lounging with practised poise against the wall beside her fiancé, watching the spiralling smoke from her cigarette with affected boredom.

“So good of you to join us,” said Philippe.

“You make me feel like one of the family,” the Saint replied sweetly.

He strolled composedly across to the collection of bottles and glasses on a side table. Jeanne’s welcome was warmer. She smiled and almost mouthed a kiss as he passed, and the Saint winked back. Henri scowled at both of them.

“Simon, where have you been?” asked Mimette, with puzzled concern in her voice.

He glanced down at himself, and tried to dust off some of the traces of his desperate scramble back to the battlements before pouring himself a stiff measure of malt and perching himself on the edge of the table.

“Just hanging about,” he said lightly. “And where is the local Lecoq? Gone home already, or is he disguised as that sentry at the door?”

“Sergeant Olivet wanted to see my uncle’s cottage. Charles has taken him,” supplied Henri.

The Saint looked inquiringly at Mimette, and the slight shake of her head told him that their visit had not been discussed.

“Exactly where have you been, Monsieur Templar?” Yves asked temperately. “Surely you knew the police would want to see you?”

The Saint smiled.

“The police always want to see me. Actually I went to the tower to admire the view, only I nearly became part of it.”

In clipped undramatic sentences he told them the basics of what had happened.

“The professor was on his way to tell you the good news, but unfortunately I spoiled his moment of glory,” he concluded.

Norbert had stayed by the door but he still could not avoid the Saint’s searching gaze. He squirmed uncomfortably in the focus of the eyes turned towards him.

“A shocking accident — a miraculous escape,” he mumbled. “Really, there should be signs warning people away from some parts of these ancient buildings.”

“Oh, Simon! You could have been killed,” breathed Mimette.

The Saint shrugged deprecatingly. The incident was already fading from his mind, crowded out by more immediate concerns. Risks were part and parcel of his vocation, and he dismissed them as quickly as most men would have forgotten a slight slip on an icy sidewalk.

“What sort of cop is this Sergeant Olivet?” he asked, when the subject of his escape from a squishy death had been briefly exhausted.

“Olivet? He seems efficient enough,” answered Yves neutrally.

Mimette was more forthcoming.

“He is ambitious, I think. I’ve talked to him several times, he has always come himself when we have had any trouble. The last time was just after the fire at the barn.”

Philippe looked at his watch and asked irritably: “What’s keeping the damn man? Does he expect us to sit around here all night?”

Almost as if he had been waiting for his cue, the door opened to admit the subject of Philippe’s annoyance.