Лесли Чартерис - The Saint in Trouble

“Merci, m’sieu.”

“Merci à vous. Tell me, do you have a regular base, or do you cruise around looking for passengers?”

The driver pointed to the hotel.

“This is my base.”

The Saint smiled.

“ Très bien. We shall probably be seeing more of each other.”

The driver made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Just ask for Gaby. Everyone knows Gaby, and I know everyone.”

“Alors, à bientôt,” the Saint promised, and with a wave turned and entered the hotel.

The Bellevue was a new hotel that was distinguished only by its technological amenities and total lack of character. It was part of an international chain in which each link was identical, so that once inside the door the guest could not be certain whether he was in Bombay or Buenos Aires. It had all the intimacy of an airport lounge, and the welcoming friendliness of a police station charge room. It was the last sort of hotel in which any of the Saint’s friends would have expected to find him, which was exactly why he was staying there on this occasion.

In the reflection of the glass doors he watched the driver of the Mercedes crossing from the parking area. Simon placed him in the pigeonhole the gossip writers label “playboy.” He matched the Saint for height and build and carried himself with an arrogance that showed he was accustomed to being looked at and admired. He affected a blue blazer and immaculate white slacks and was handsome in the smooth way that appeals to middle-aged countesses and wealthy widows.

The concierge looked up and smiled as the Saint approached his counter. Simon had a fleeting vision of the same man smiling the same smile behind the same desk in a dozen countries simultaneously.

“Sebastian Tombs. Room 309. Have there been any messages for me?” The Saint’s voice was deliberately clear, and he knew it would carry to the bookstall where his shadow was intent on studying the front page of the Herald Tribune.

The concierge took down his room key, checked the box under it, and informed Simon that no one had called. The Saint thanked him, and on looking around saw that the bookstall was deserted.

Once in his room, he barely had time to change his clothes and pour a small dose from the duty-free bottle he had brought from London Airport onto a pile of crushed ice before Emma knocked. He opened the door with one hand and proffered the drink with the other.

Emma accepted the glass with a smile.

“Thank you. That was quite a performance you staged this afternoon.”

Simon provisioned another glass and led the way out to the balcony.

“I must say I thought I caught the tone rather well,” he admitted modestly.

For a few moments both were silent as they tasted their drinks and gazed out across the rooftops to the sea.

“Do you think it will do any good?”

The Saint shifted his chair to get the maximum benefit from the breeze that was beginning to drift shorewards.

“It already has.”

He recounted the drive back to the hotel and described the man in the Mercedes.

Emma thought for a while but finally shook her head.

“I don’t know him, so he certainly isn’t anything to do with the conference, not officially anyway. But how do you know he was following you? He could simply have been coming to the hotel.”

“He would hardly have taken the route I chose, and he left in a hurry as soon as he had found out my name — to report back, I suppose. The question is — to whom?”

He was about to put forward some of the possible answers to that problem when a violent hammering on the door made further conversation impossible. The Saint put on his glasses and stood up. He pointed Emma towards the bathroom door: “In there, and stay quiet.”

The girl hesitated.

“What if it’s reporters who saw you at the conference?”

“Then they are going to have much better headlines if they find you in my room, so shoo.”

The banging grew louder and Simon hurried to open the door before it broke under the strain.

The moment he slipped the catch, the door was sent crashing back against the wall, and without waiting to be invited Professor Maclett strode in, planting himself in the centre of the room, legs apart, arms folded across his chest, fingers twitching as he clutched the cloth of his jacket sleeves. He was obviously fighting to control his temper, and the Saint kept a prudent arm’s length away in case he lost it.

“All right, young man, let’s hear it! You pop up in the middle of a major conference, shouting I’ve stolen yer recipe. Before I rip yer liver out I’d like t’hear just exactly what y’think yer talking about.”

The Saint raised two hands in a gesture of peace.

“Professor, I do understand you...”

“M’process is me own, and so’s me honour, y’young pup. If ever in me life I’ve stole s’much as a dram from any man’s locker I’ll be having y’tell me so t’my face right here and now in private.”

From the corner of his eye Simon saw the bathroom door open, and stood aside so that Maclett could see his daughter. A look of astonishment replaced the one of anger that had coloured the professor’s face. Simon waved his hand between them.

“Professor Maclett, Miss Maclett. Miss Maclett, Professor Maclett.”

Maclett turned on his daughter, ignoring the Saint.

“What the hell are you doing here, girl?”

“Employing me to watch you, I’m afraid,” Simon explained. “Now that we all know each other, why don’t we discuss this over a drink?”

But Maclett was not to be so easily pacified.

“I’ll be taking no drinks with you, young man!”

Emma came between them, putting her hands on her father’s shoulders, her voice softly scolding him.

“Now, Daddy, stop shouting. You know no one can understand that accent of yours when you start yelling.”

“I was not yelling,” Maclett yelled.

“You were yelling. Now why don’t you take Simon’s advice and go for a drink with him, it’ll help you to calm down.”

The big man visibly softened as he looked down into his daughter’s eyes.

“Aye, I suppose I could do with a dram at that.” He turned back to the Saint. “C’mon then, young man — but I warn ye, your story had better be a good one.”

They rode down in silence and did not speak again until the drinks had been poured and they were seated in a corner of the hotel bar.

“Your daughter’s simply afraid for you.”

“Nonsense.”

“And with good reason,” Simon continued. “You’re a very big fish with a very big secret.”

Maclett smiled grimly, more to himself than to his companion.

“It won’t be a secret for long. I came to this convention to make it so public they’ll have to recognise it. Those big oil corporations and consortiums are always stuffing independent progress on the back shelf somewhere. Well, not in this case, I can tell y’. Not in this case.”

“Yes, I can understand...” Simon began, but Maclett overrode him

“Y’know how many life-giving breakthroughs get locked away in closets every year by the big-money fellas with their vested interests and their—”

The Saint could see the conversation becoming a somewhat hackneyed diatribe on the evil machinations of big business, and cut in firmly.

“Professor, we were talking about your security.”

“Look here, now, lad, right now I just want one thing—”

“I agree, another drink.”

Simon signalled to the waiter to refill their glasses. While that was being done, he took the opportunity to put his case.

“Listen, Professor, I’m sorry about all the melodrama back in the conference hall, but at least now no one will accuse me of being concerned about your welfare.”