Лесли Чартерис - The Saint and the Templar Treasure

The labourers whom he had seen at the barn were lounging outside. They appeared to ignore him as he passed, but continued to talk heatedly among themselves in hoarse patois, pitched too low for him to distinguish any words. Whatever the argument was about, there was evidently a clash of strongly held opinions.

It was almost dark inside the storehouse and the Saint switched on his flashlight and allowed the beam to roam along the tiers of barrels stacked against the walls before turning it down into the hole that Gaston’s fall had made. The underground chamber was empty — the professor had either finished for the day or was busy elsewhere. He was not expecting any trouble at that stage, and the sounds of movement behind him did not register as a threat until it was almost too late.

It nearly proved a painful lapse. The attack was swift and unexpected. Two powerful arms closed around his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs and almost lifting him clear off the ground.

Simon Templar’s response was equally rapid and far more effective. The bear hug is a crude hold and easily broken by anyone not inhibited by a devotion to fair play, and when attacked without warning from behind, the Saint considered himself absolved from the code of gentlemanly conduct.

His left heel lashed back in three drum-beat mule-kicks played on his attacker’s left shin. The man yelped with pain and involuntarily let him down, enough to enable the Saint to stamp his full weight on to the assailant’s right instep and grind it in. The reflex yelp hiccuped into a most satisfactory scream of real agony, and as the encircling pressure on him slackened, the Saint sent both elbows driving back into the other’s ribs. The restraining arms burst outwards like broken springs and he took one step forward and turned. The workman’s chin could not have been better posed to receive the full impact of the Saint’s uppercut.

Simon did not wait to watch him fall but sidestepped to meet the comrade who should by then have been using his body as a static punch bag. The man came in with an axe handle flailing in a wide swing that even the most amateur of self-defenders would have treated with contempt. The Saint ducked low to let it swipe over him, and sprang up again to reward the unbalanced wielder with a chop of the back of the neck that put him down like the proverbial pole-axed ox.

From beginning to end that phase of the exercise had lasted no more than twenty-five seconds.

The Saint eyed the two remaining members of the hospitality committee speculatively. He stood completely at ease, legs slightly apart, hands hanging loosely at waist height as they closed in from either side. It would have taken more than two men to unsettle him at any time, even had they been experienced fighters. He knew that odds of two to one sound more frightening than they actually are, for the advantage is frequently with the one: He only has to look out for himself, while the two have to be careful not to hamper each other.

These two who had not taken part in the original attack now looked less than eager to launch a second one. Only loyalty to their fallen colleagues drove them nearer, and they might have seemed almost relieved when Mimette’s shrill cry brought all the action to a sudden halt.

“Arretez! Stop it!”

Mimette ran between the two men and the Saint. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes blazed with anger as she faced the workmen.

“Dubois. Arnould. Vous êtes fous? What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded harshly.

Her arrival drained the last of the fight from them as effectively as if the Saint had drawn a gun. They looked sheepishly at her without answering.

“They may only have been trying to teach me some steps in the harvest festival dance,” Simon hazarded.

He stepped aside so that Mimette could clearly see the other sleeping duo behind him. She stared at the crumpled bodies and her voice shook as she asked: “They’re not—?”

The Saint laughed.

“No, just taking a short rest... Attendez vous deux!”

His voice cracked like a whip with authority, and the two workmen who were still on their feet stopped their furtive attempt to back away to the door.

Mimette faced them coldly.

“Pourquoi?”

The one called Dubois pointed rancorously at the Saint.

“Because he killed Gaston.”

“Really? So you know more than the police, do you?” she said sarcastically.

“Everything has gone wrong since he came here,” said the other sullenly. “The men are saying he has re-animated the curse of the Templars.”

“You mean you are saying it, Arnould,” Mimette retorted. “That is just superstitious nonsense. And Monsieur Templar did not kill Gaston.”

“Did you think that up all by yourselves, or did someone give you lessons?” Simon inquired of the men. “And who suggested dealing with me on your own?”

The two men looked warily at each other and each understood something that was not spoken. Dubois indicated the big man who had tried to bear-hug the Saint and was now beginning to stir back to an awareness of the world.

“It was his idea,” Dubois state flatly.

“Louis?” Mimette scoffed. “He’s an ox. He never had an idea in his life.”

“Let it ride, Mimette,” said the Saint. “They’re not going to tell us unless we beat it out of them and I don’t have the time.”

Both fallen warriors were now starting to climb back to the vertical. They glared murderously at the Saint but made no move to restart the battle.

“Take your friends and get out,” Simon told the deflated quartet, and they hurried to obey.

He waited until they had left before turning to Mimette.

“And what brought you to the rescue?” he asked as he retrieved his flashlight from where it had fallen during the scuffle.

“I was looking for you. When you told me about the car and Philippe, it made me forget that I’d remembered.”

“You’re getting confusing.”

“Pardon. What I meant was that while you were away I realised where I’d seen that drawing on the parchment before. There’s something like it on the stone in the hall.”

“Interesting.”

She pouted.

“You don’t seem very excited. I thought you’d be pleased.”

The Saint grinned mischievously.

“Allow me to upstage you.”

He moved over to the hole in the floor, switching on the flashlight as he began to descend the steps. The generator had been turned off, and except for the beam of his torch centred on the statue the chamber was in total darkness. Mimette joined him and shuddered as she gazed at the hideous figure.

“This is my party piece,” he said grandly. “Watch carefully.”

He stepped over to the statue and operated the hidden mechanism. Slowly the section of wall swung back.

“Voilà! How about that?”

Mimette was fascinated. The Saint shone his torch through the opening to show the passage beyond.

“How did you find it?” she asked at last.

“Luck,” Simon admitted candidly. “To be honest, I didn’t pay much attention to it at first. After all, there must be quite a few other tunnels and cellars under the château. Then I remembered something Louis Norbert had said, and it all fitted into place.”

“What was that?”

“When he was telling me about the Templars a few days ago, he mentioned that ‘Ingare’ was an anagram of ‘Regina.’ It didn’t seem to mean much to him either — then. Later, Gaston fell into this chamber, complete with statue of Hecate. Still no significance, until you know that she was supposed to be Queen of the Underworld and the ‘guardian of the crossroads.’ ” He tied a graphic knot in the air with his empty hand. “Then it all slots together. She is the Regina the Templars referred to, and she’s at a crossroads, albeit a hidden one. The parchment showed the tower and some squiggly lines underneath. I kept thinking it was a river, but it was a tunnel.”