Лесли Чартерис - The Saint in Trouble

“I was in a hurry. I was hungry until I was fifteen. Now I play to win.”

“You certainly play hard. When do you get your black belt?”

Samantha started, and for a moment Simon thought he was going to face a blank denial, but she only lowered her head in mock shame.

“So you guessed.”

“It wasn’t exactly the greatest piece of detection work since Sherlock Holmes. And Demmell — who, or rather what, is he?”

“Demmell is a fool, but a useful one. He works for me, mainly I think because he knows I’m not attracted to him and he’s continually trying to prove himself. Male ego and all that. All the same, I couldn’t have you beating him up. One has a duty to one’s employees, you know.”

“Of course, everyone knows that.”

If Samantha caught the Saint’s sarcasm she showed no signs of being offended by it.

“Was it your idea that he should tear my room apart?” he enquired casually.

“Oh no, never. I’m afraid he’s rather impetuous.”

Somehow the conversation was not running along the lines he had sketched out for it, and he found her mixture of businesslike frankness and wide-eyed innocence rather hard to take. Simon leaned across and took her hand in his.

“Would you like to marry me?”

Samantha helped herself to some more of the Saint’s artichoke and smiled.

“I can’t wait. But we’ll have to work out how I can divorce two husbands without convicting myself of bigamy.”

The Saint toyed with the idea of proposing an ingenious double murder, but realized that this line of badinage was getting nowhere. He decided that since she must have had her own motives for accepting his invitation, he might as well play along until she was forced to take the initiative.

But in spite of his restraint, the conversation remained on a plane of sophisticated triviality, until the meal was finished and the head waiter was routinely proposing coffee and liqueurs.

“Why don’t we go back to my suite at the hotel?” Samantha said. “It’s got a balcony with a better view than this.”

“I’d love to see it,” said the Saint, and asked for his bill.

The man was concerned, he was unaccustomed to guests who ate each other’s food, drank from each other’s glass, and then left in a hurry.

“Is everything all right, monsieur?”

Simon stood, and Samantha remained seated only long enough to finish the last of the wine.

“Everything is just fine,” he replied, peeling the requisite notes from his roll and adding a large tip. “It’s just that my wife worries if I’m late for dinner.”

The maître d’hôtel smiled uncertainly, and was still trying to decipher the Saint’s meaning long after he and Samantha had left the room, finally consoling himself with the thought that, as everyone knew, all foreigners were insane.

Gaby also was somewhat surprised to see them emerge so soon, but unlike the waiter, he didn’t look for reasons. Simon glanced at his watch as he followed Samantha into the back of the car. Only about two and a half hours had elapsed since they had left the hotel, which was not long for a dinner engagement in the circumstances. But the Saint’s intuition told him that the final good nights were not racing up on him.

Samantha nestled close, her head resting on his shoulder, and they spoke sparingly as Gaby obeyed his instructions and sent the Buick speeding back to Cannes.

Samantha’s suite occupied a comer of the floor, providing a panorama of the bay town from the floodlit prison of the Man in the Iron Mask on the island of Ste. Marguérite on the left to the Suquet in the western background. She made no move to call for room service. Her arms hung loosely around the Saint’s shoulders, and he could feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek.

Her voice barely rose above a whisper.

“If you’re Sebastian Tombs of the blackboards and cobwebby laboratories, I’m Florence Nightingale.”

Simon’s lips brushed hers in a fleeting kiss.

“You minister most ably, Miss Nightingale.”

Samantha drew back slightly, looking directly into his eyes.

“Who are you really?”

“My name is Simon Templar.”

The revelation of his true identity had, in the past, been known to provoke a number of reactions — fear, anger, and disbelief being the usual ones. But rarely had he experienced the response that Samantha displayed. She laughed.

“Simon... The Saint! Thank God, I thought you might be the Law. But you are working for Maclett?”

“Yes.”

Samantha stopped laughing and looked thoughtful, moving away slightly.

“We must get together.”

Simon’s arms encircled her waist.

“I’m all for togetherness.”

She ignored that interpretation for the moment.

“Help me persuade him to go and work in Moscow, and I’ll split my fee with you.” Samantha removed herself from his embrace and sat on the arm of a sofa.

“You sell people to the Communists?”

Samantha lit a cigaret and considered the glowing end pensively.

“Only a few of the best. Listen, it’s not such a bad deal. The equivalent of two hundred thousand dollars a year, the big flat in Moscow, the dacha in the country, the box at the Bolshoi, and the big car, with no traffic jams because nobody else has one.”

The Saint laughed.

“Sam, I’m afraid you’re a cynic.”

“That’s just a name romantics call realists.” She walked slowly back to him, her arms sliding up the front of his jacket and resting on his shoulders. “Let’s talk it over.”

Her lips moved to meet his, stopping a fraction of an inch away.

“Keep talking,” Simon murmured. “I don’t make up my mind in a hurry.”

In the event, the ensuing conversation was less than verbose, but it still gave the Saint no indication of what else Samantha had hoped to gain from it. Or if, indeed, there was anything...

He was sleeping peacefully in his own room when he was awakened by an insistent knocking on the door. As he rolled out of bed, a glance at his wrist watch showed him that it was nine in the morning — a not unreasonable hour for visitation, except that he was not expecting one.

The visitor was Emma, and she confronted him furiously.

“Where were you all night? I kept calling you.”

“I was a bit late getting in. I had to go to an Arab chum’s bar mitzvah.”

She stormed in as he stood hospitably aside.

“What’s going on? My father got a message to meet you at the port at half-past nine—”

“Which port?”

“I don’t know, but it said opposite the Hôtel Méditerranée. I found the note in his room, so I thought I’d find out if you’d already left. Why—”

The Saint reversed his welcome abruptly, turning his back towards the door.

“I’m leaving now, as soon as I can get dressed. I’m afraid I overslept. Sorry, I just haven’t time to explain. I’ll see you later.”

He physically pushed her out, unceremoniously but necessarily. As he ran an electric razor over his chin, splashed cold water on his face, and threw on the nearest shirt and slacks, he was cursing himself more than Samantha.

“Very neat.” His thoughts were racing. “You keep me occupied while your people organize a snatch.”

In front of the hotel, he looked around desperately for a taxi, for in such a locality, at that hour, the world was barely coining to life. But as if in answer to his prayer, a white Buick seemed to materialise.

“Le quai St. Pierre — et gazez!”

Gaby nodded, wrenching the wheel almost full circle and sending them squealing out of the hotel grounds. Ignoring the protesting horns and flashing lights of the cars that tried to block his way, he sped the taxi along the Boulevard.