Лесли Чартерис - The Saint in Trouble

The Saint removed the picture and tossed the rest of the contents of the folder on the table as he rose. He affected surprise at her comments.

“Oh, that? I thought that was obvious.”

“Obvious?”

“The snapshot of him in London.”

She took the photograph from him and considered it carefully.

“That is London? How can you tell?”

He pointed to a small rectangle on the far left of the frame.

“The tower at Kings Cross station.”

“Oh! We thought it was a chimney pot.”

The Saint clicked his tongue in mock reproof.

“How very... er... slap-happy of you, Captain.”

He took a large-scale map of inner London from the bureau and spread it out on the table.

“Now the Kings Cross tower is on the far left, so if we draw a line along the Euston Road we have one boundary.”

His finger stubbed at the map.

“There’s a church there, but no sign of the steeple in the photograph. Therefore we can rule out the area east of Fartingdon Street. There’s no natural third boundary, so we’ll have to join up the two extremes.”

He drew a line from Holborn Viaduct diagonally across the map to link up with the station.

“The sun is high, therefore the picture was taken from the west. And judging by the smallness of it in the picture, the tower is a fair way in the distance, which means we can eliminate these.”

He shaded in the roads immediately before Kings Cross. A small triangle of about a dozen major roads and twice as many side streets remained.

“The picture was taken somewhere within that area,” he said, “so I suggest we start looking there. The photograph is three years old, so it’s a long shot, but it’s the best lead we have at the moment.”

Leila smiled for the first time since they had met.

“Very efficient, Mr. Templar. I am impressed.”

The Saint half bowed.

“All part of the service, Captain. Now I too must make a telephone call.”

He dialled, and drummed his fingers on the desk top until his ring was answered.

“Hullo, Harry. This is the Saint. I’ve got a job for you. The mark’s a bloke called Hakim, and somebody’s doing him a ticket. I want to know who. Also he may be trying to buy a persuader. Three other sheikhs who want to talk to him might be asking questions as well. I want everything you can get, but particularly the I.D. of the inkman. A couple of ponies for starters, and I’ll raise you if it’s official. Yes, I know it’s a tall one. No, I’m not expecting miracles. Just do your best. I’ll see you in the usual at ten.”

He had been watching Leila while he talked, and had seen her expression change from admiration to suspicion.

“Who was that?”

“An acquaintance of mine, one Harry-the-Nose. Not the sort of chap one takes home to mummy, but has a lot of friends and may be able to save us some time.”

“And do you usually talk to your acquaintances in code?”

For a moment her meaning escaped him; and then, as the light dawned, he laughed.

“Code! Yes I suppose that’s really what it is when you stop to think about it. The trouble with you is that the English you’ve been taught is too perfect. Only BBC announcers ac-tu-ally speak like that,” he mimicked. “That wasn’t code I was speaking in — it was jargon. In his own field Harry is a professional, and just like any other professional — lawyers, stockbrokers, doctors, or whatever — he uses a different language. All I told him was that Hakim was looking for someone to forge him a passport. I asked him to find out who, and I also mentioned that he might be trying to obtain a firearm and that three other Arabs were enquiring as to his whereabouts.”

“And the horse?”

“The horse? Oh, you mean the ponies, that’s his fee. Fifty pounds.”

“I’m sorry I doubted you,” Leila said, almost sheepishly.

“Think nothing of it,” Simon said cheerfully.

He folded the map and slipped it into his pocket. From a corner cabinet he took a powerful pair of binoculars.

“Okay, let’s go.”

“Go?” she echoed. “Go where?”

The Saint smiled.

“I’m taking you to church,” he said.

Leaving Yakovitz to take any calls, the Saint and Leila drove back towards Hyde Park Comer, turning down Constitution Hill and onto the broad red carpet of the Mall.

The rain had stopped, and a watery afternoon sun was managing to break through the clouds. Leila’s head was turned towards the Saint, but her gaze travelled past him as she took in the splendour of Buckingham Palace and its scarlet-tunicked guardsmen, and the elegant lines of the Mall’s Georgian terraces with their tall windows and stately white columns. Ahead of them, Admiralty Arch straddled the road, and through its gateway she could see the lions and fountains grouped at the foot of Nelson’s Column.

As they became enmeshed in the traffic clogging Trafalgar Square, she turned to the Saint and smiled.

“You live in a beautiful city, Simon.”

There was a new warmth to her voice, and he was glad to note that another barrier had been broken down by the use of his first name.

“Yes, it is beautiful. But London isn’t just imposing buildings and monuments, it’s people. I hope you get the chance to meet some of them.”

“So do I. Now please, Simon, just where are we going?”

They were cruising past the Law Courts and entering Fleet Street and he pointed straight ahead.

“There,” he said. “St. Paul’s Cathedral.”

For a while she was silent as she looked up at the black dome with its golden cross that soared above the surrounding offices and shops.

“But why?”

“For the finest view in London. We’ve narrowed the location of that picture down to a fairly small area, but it’s still big enough for a person like Hakim to lose himself in. We can’t simply wander around the streets hoping he’s going to pop out for a packet of cigarets just as we drive by. I’m hoping that by getting a bird’s-eye view we can draw a finer bead on that rooftop.”

He left the car near Ludgate Hill, and as they walked up towards the cathedral he pointed out the balconies that encircle the bottom and top of the dome.

“We’ll start at the Golden Gallery, that’s the one immediately below the cross, and try to get a general fix with the binoculars,” he said. “Then we can go down to the Stone Gallery and use the telescopes there to try and pinpoint it more exactly.”

Side by side they climbed the sweeping flight of stone steps and entered through the main doors. Leila stopped as she passed beyond the shadows of the portico and was suddenly confronted by the spacious grandeur of the white and gold interior.

“It’s magnificent!” she said.

Simon took her arm and led her past the tombs and monuments until they reached the foot of a curving stone staircase cut into the south wall.

“The view is even better from the Whispering Gallery,” he said. “But I’m afraid we really can’t spend too long looking around.”

Leila nodded, but there was genuine regret in her voice.

“No, I suppose not.”

St. Paul’s is 365 feet high and there are 528 steps to the top. The Saint took them two at a time as far as the Whispering Gallery. From there the spiral stone stairway becomes narrower at each turn, and he was forced to bend almost double under the low ceiling. When they finally emerged into the sunlight, even his superbly trained muscles were beginning to protest.

Far below them the streets of London stretched into the distance like the strands of a giant spider’s web. The Saint walked slowly around the north side and leant on the stone balustrade as he adjusted the focus of the binoculars. Leila held out the map and photograph so that he could see them without moving the glasses.