Лесли Чартерис - The Saint in Trouble

As he recovered some semblance of vertical balance, he saw that the launch was resuming its course, unchecked, and with the clearest intention of declining to be detained. Three silhouettes against the now glaring sunlight looked back, it seemed with callous derision.

The Saint seldom lost his temper, but something about that exercise in nautical boorishness got under his skin. With something akin to the conditioned response of a Western gunfighter, he snatched up the Very pistol from the ledge in front of him and fired. The flare sped across the water like a coloured comet and exploded as it landed in the open stern of the launch.

Billows of smoke engulfed the launch, and with great satisfaction he heard the engine splutter and die. He loaded another cartridge into the pistol and held it at the ready as he brought the speedboat alongside.

As he did so he realised he had been fooled, beautifully lured and brilliantly snared.

There were three men in the launch. They wore the rough denims of fishermen, and their language was as colourful as the flare that one of them was busy stamping out. But Professor Maclett was definitely not one of them.

The Saint did not stop to join an altercation but simply gunned the speedboat around and headed back out of the channel.

It had been a very slick operation, and he had outsmarted himself with his own clever maneuver to help it to succeed. While out of his sight behind the island, the launch had simply drawn alongside one of the big yachts anchored there and stopped to allow one of the fishermen he had seen to replace Maclett. Which testified to an impressive degree of organisation.

He would have dearly loved to have cruised on through the channel in the hope of identifying the boat that now had Maclett aboard, but he could not have done that without blatantly exposing himself. But as he circled back towards Cannes, his mind was racing back to the ridiculous theory that had been hatched during his return from the Port Canto that afternoon, which began to seem a great deal more sane and logical.

He nudged the speedboat alongside the wharf from which he had taken it, and had scarcely picked up the mooring when he became aware of a reception committee on the quayside.

A small dapper figure stepped forward.

“Monsieur Templar, I am Inspector Lebeau. You are under arrest for the kidnapping of Professor Andrew Maclett.”

It was a little different from what the Saint had expected, but he accompanied Lebeau to the waiting car and allowed himself to be driven to the police station without protest.

He demanded a lawyer, and was told that he would have that privilege at the proper time. He asked for a consul to be contacted, and was assured that every formality would be ob served. A request or permission to collect some things from his hotel was politely refused.

He could imagine how hot the telephone lines would soon become as the news of his arrest reached Paris and then London in time for the first editions of the evening papers, “SAINT ARRESTED!” He could almost see the headlines.

Lebeau was obviously pleased with his catch, for he personally conducted the Saint to his cell, even apologising for the quality of the accommodation and expressing a hypocritical hope that the unfortunate situation would soon be sorted out and all the truths established.

In France, under the still sacred Code Napoleon, a man is guilty until proven innocent, and therefore there is no reason why the amenities supplied while he awaits confirmation of that assumption should be anything above the minimum as far as comfort is concerned. The cells of the average city police station in Britain would rate as starred hotels compared with their counterparts across the Channel.

The Saint found himself in a room barely ten feet square, with rough concrete walls and a flagstone floor. Air came via a small barred window set high up in the wall opposite the door, and light from an unshaded bulb which, despite the smallness of the room, still managed to leave the corners in shadow. Two bunks hung couchettelike from one wall. A plain deal table and a couple of chairs, and a slop pail, were the only other furnishings.

Both bunks were occupied, and a third inmate sat huddled in a comer, head on knees and snoring loudly. The cuts and bruises on the faces of all three, and the stale smell of cheap wine, were silent evidence of the reasons for their presence.

Simon settled himself in the comer opposite the snorer. He took off his jacket and folded it to make a headrest. He had never before tasted the official hospitality of the Republic, but he possessed an almost mystical ability to relax completely in any situation where sound and fury would achieve nothing, conserving his energy for the moment when it could be exploded with the maximum effect.

The grating of a key in the lock interrupted his inventing of transcendental meditation, and he stood up and stretched his limbs hopefully. The visit, however, was not for him: the agent who came in ungently roused his cellmates and herded them into the corridor outside, where two more officers waited.

Simon watched as they were marched away, and protested: “If this is lunchtime, why am I left out?”

The warder, who had cautiously kept a safe distance from the Saint, replied with ponderous joviality: “This is not the Hotel Negresco, but I will ask the room service waiter not to forget you.”

The door slammed, and another half hour passed before it was opened again.

It was the same agent, with the same sense of humour.

“If you have a moment, the management would like a word with you.”

“I have been saving a word for them,” said the Saint pleasantly. “But I shall not sully your delicate ears with it.”

With the reinforcement of two more agents, the Saint was delivered to Lebeau’s office.

Sir William Curdon sat on Lebeau’s right. He glared as Simon entered and coolly seated himself in the vacant chair opposite the inspector.

Lebeau smiled.

“Good morning again, Monsieur Templar, I hope you have found our facilities comfortable.”

“Fabulous,” said the Saint. “I shall be writing about them to the Guide Michelin.”

Curdon’s fist thudded against the desktop and his voice shook.

“Damn this nonsense! Where is Maclett, Templar? What was that little boat ride ail about?”

“Well, Willie, the fact is that swimming often damages the clothing, so I thought perhaps using a boat might—”

Lebeau cut him short.

“Your personal differences aside, Monsieur Templar, you were in the suspected vicinity. You arrived back, Professor Maclett did not.”

The Saint shrugged.

“Inspector, I deeply regret arriving back.”

“Lebeau, I want this man safe and sound in a jail cell until he tells us where he’s got Maclett stashed!”

Curdon seemed about to turn into a cloud of steam, and Lebeau turned to the Saint with an apologetic gesture.

“I regret, but I am obliged to feel in favour of British intelligence.”

“And I regret,” said the Saint honestly, “that I haven’t the faintest idea where Professor Maclett is now. Why doesn’t British Intelligence know?”

“Lock him up again!” Curdon bellowed. “We’ll get the truth out of him soon enough, however we have to do it. Let’s talk again privately, Lebeau.”

At a sign from Lebeau, the two escorting agents stepped forward, and the Saint stood up.

“I must let you into a state secret, Inspector,” he said. “Where British Intelligence ought to be, there is apparently a boiled potato.”

He tapped his head. Lebeau stared at him stonily. Simon smiled into Curdon’s face.

“See you later, Willie.”

The policeman held the Saint’s arms as they walked back down the stairs towards the cells. The Saint offered no resistance until they reached the ground floor and were nearing the junction of two corridors. Ahead of them, a window ran from the floor almost to the ceiling. He had had a good look at it on his way up to the interview with Curdon and Lebeau and knew exactly what he had to do.