Лесли Чартерис - The Saint in Trouble

“No! No, he wouldn’t—”

The girl was sobbing, the tears running freely down her face, and the Saint realised that she was very close to hysteria.

“Who is he?” Leila pushed the girl’s head back and held it so that she could not look away.

“He was no one. Rashid, a Mend from Amman.”

“That is Abdul Hakim. He is somewhere in London, and you know where. You will tell us.”

The girl knocked Leila’s arm aside and struggled to her feet. She swayed, and had to grip the back of a chair to save herself from falling.

“I don’t care what you say about him! You have no right to question me like this. First those men, and now you. I am getting out of here!”

She crossed to the wardrobe, pulled out a battered suitcase, and began throwing her clothes into it.

Without moving, Leila said: “It doesn’t interest you that your friend is a terrorist and a murderer?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Listen,” Leila said unemotionally, “this is a dangerous game you’re playing. Your friend has killed a lot of innocent people. He’ll kill a lot more unless he’s stopped.” The girl closed her case and made for the door, but Leila barred her way. “Think carefully. Talk to us, and we’ll protect you. If we don’t those men will track you down.”

“They won’t find me.”

The Saint stepped forward and gently moved Leila aside. He stood in front of the girl and rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. His voice was soft and understanding.

“I’m afraid they will, Yasmina,” he said. “My name is Simon Templar. If you change your mind or need help, call me at this number.”

He took a card from his wallet and handed it to her. She stared at the name.

“The Saint!”

He smiled and held the door open for her.

“The same. Go away and think about it when you’ve calmed down.”

He waited until the sound of her footsteps had died away before closing the door and turning to confront Leila. He could sense her fury, and he held up his hands in a gesture of peace.

“Before you sound off, think about it,” he said. “She wasn’t going to tell us now, and beating it out of her isn’t in our line. There’s been enough uproar around this neighbourhood for one day, and I have a nasty feeling that the lads in blue may arrive before too long — which is the last thing we want.”

Leila relaxed fractionally and nodded.

“Yes, I suppose you are right,” she admitted grudgingly. “But how did you know her name? She wouldn’t tell me.”

“It’s written inside her books. Now there is something very important to do next.”

“What? Follow her?”

“No. Eat. I haven’t had a bite since breakfast, and that seems an eternity ago.”

“But what about the girl?” Leila objected.

“I know where to find her if we need her. Now come on, or we’ll have half the Metropolitan Police banging on the door, and I feel like something more substantial than porridge.”

Despite her protests they drove back to the Saint’s house, where Yakovitz informed them that no one had telephoned. Simon waved his hand in the general direction of the kitchen.

“The larder and the fridge are fully stocked, though I’m not sure how much of it is kosher,” the Saint told him. “Or you can phone the local chop suey parlour and have them send something around. I’m taking your boss out to dinner.” He winked at Leila. “Whether she likes it or not.”

They dined in a small restaurant near Beauchamp Place. It was one of the Saint’s favourite eating houses and had the added advantage of catering mainly to the nightclub trade, so that at that early hour of the evening it was almost deserted. They sat in a shadowed corner eating by the light of discreetly shaded candles. He remembered what his intention had been on leaving the plane from Nice, and was not dissatisfied with the way in which it had materialised.

The Saint attacked a rare entrecote of noble proportions, while Leila picked at and toyed with her salmon. She initiated very little conversation, and he was content to carry most of the burden until the plates had been cleared away and they sat facing each other across coffee and cognac.

“Don’t look so worried, Captain,” he said at length. “We haven’t made bad progress for just half a day’s work. There’s nothing more you can do tonight.”

Leila stirred her coffee, looking down into the black liquid as if it possessed the same properties as a crystal ball.

“In our army we have a saying that to do nothing is to do something positively wrong. Don’t you think perhaps we should be out looking for the girl Yasmina?”

The Saint sighed and sipped his brandy.

“You’re a workotic, you know that?” Despite the mockery of his words his voice was sympathetic. “You’re a one-track-minded object lesson of what goes wrong when you’re brought up in a kibbutz.”

He had expected a reaction, but nothing quite as heated as the one he evoked. Leila looked up, her face flushed, and she almost bit out her reply through clenched white teeth.

“How dare you!”

“I dare because I’m not afraid to face facts, even if you are,” he said imperturbably. “You’ve been so long with the boys that you’ve forgotten they’re boys and that you’re a beautiful woman.”

He watched the anger drain away from her face, but her voice was still sharp.

“I’ve forgotten nothing. What I look like... what I am — boy, girl, or mutant — is unimportant. I am...”

“I know, you’re a soldier,” he said. “And it’s a shame that that’s all there is to your life.”

He waited for another angry outburst, but it never came. Leila stared at the tablecloth for a long time, and when she raised her head and looked at him he saw that there were tears in her eyes.

“There is something else to it, Simon. Something more important than dining in a fine restaurant and a night in bed with you. There’s my family and the memory of how they died. Mowed down with machine guns at Fiumicino airport. Father, mother, brother. I was eighteen.”

Her voice had sunk to a whisper and was on the verge of breaking. He was angry with himself for having forced the declaration out of her when he had already half guessed her background that afternoon at the cathedral.

Simon reached across and gently took her hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Forgive me. But I had to know. If we’re to work well together, it was important to know.”

She drank her coffee and smiled back at him across the rim of the empty cup.

“It’s all right. Perhaps I should have told you straight away. And you are right, there is nothing more we can do until the morning.”

He called for the bill and paid it and did not speak again until they were back in the car.

“Actually, you misheard me,” he said. “I didn’t say there was nothing more we could do tonight. I said there was nothing more you could do. As fax as I’m concerned, the night is still young.”

“What do you mean?”

Simon smiled as he engaged the gears and turned the Hirondel towards Knightsbridge.

“Remember my friend who talks in code? Well, I have an appointment with him at ten of the clock, which is in precisely half an hour’s time.”

“And you don’t intend to take me with you?”

“I didn’t intend to,” answered the Saint carefully. “I don’t want to be specially noticed, and a gal with your looks is about as inconspicuous as a baked ham at a bar mitzvah.”

He sensed that she was trying to be angry with him again but somehow couldn’t quite take him seriously enough.

“You will take me with you,” she commanded, with a delightful assumption of authority. “I refuse to be left behind.”