Leslie Charteris - The Saint in Pursuit

“I would if I could, Vicky. Unfortunately you have more followers than Moses did when the going was easy — and I was set upon by a couple of rude fans who were ready to go to any extremes to get a souvenir.”

“Who? Where?”

“A couple of unsavory types who were disfiguring the corridor when I came out — I would guess with ideas of combing out your room themselves. I tried to start a false scent by marching straight on out of the hotel, but they followed me up the street with the notion of finding out whether I’d brought anything valuable with me. I managed to discourage them somewhat, but during the short but merry tussle your letter still managed to disappear. I searched all around while the cops chased my playmates, and I checked with the cops after the chase was over, and all I can deduce is that some other ardent admirer of yours — some fourth party — picked it up and ran off with it while the rest of us were getting our exercise at the other end of the alley.”

“Brilliant!” commented Vicky. “Now nobody has it!”

“Not nobody — just somebody unknown. Maybe you have a clue as to who it might be — and it’s certainly important now for you to tell me what was in that letter.”

The girl’s temper was at the flash-point.

“Well, if that doesn’t take the blue ribbon! You’d think it was your letter or something. You haven’t even started to explain what you’re up to!”

“All right,” he said in a business-like voice, “I can’t prove to you — or even risk telling you in a room that may be bugged — just how legitimately I found out why you’re here in Lisbon. But if you want proof in the morning I’ll supply it. In the meantime, I’ll just say that I know in a general way what you’re after, and I know that there are some pretty vicious parties on the same trail.” He studied her keenly. “It occurs to me that you may not even realize how much danger you’re in — and what kind of rough characters are in this paper chase with you.”

“Why, no, I didn’t,” she answered in honeyed tones. “You’re the first one I’ve met.”

“Think it out for yourself,” Simon urged her, unabashed. “This other character has the letter now, anyway — and his methods prove that he’s up to no good.”

“Of course, your methods are perfectly normal and prove that anyone ought to trust you,” she responded.

“As I said, I can’t prove much of anything at this hour of the night,” he admitted patiently. “Maybe we should concentrate on the point that you now know that your father’s secret isn’t completely secret, and that the hounds of the Ungodly are even now sniffing at your threshold.”

Vicky glanced fearfully towards the door of her room.

“At my threshold?” she breathed.

“Figuratively speaking. And when they come after you in some dark alley, you may be very glad to have somebody on your side who knows at least as much about these sorts of shenanigans as they do.”

The girl’s distracting mouth hardened.

“Shenanigans is right,” she said brusquely. “And you, I suppose, are the knight in shining armour who’s going to defend me through thick and thin.”

“In two easy cliches, that’s it,” Simon said.

“Well, I’ll tell you what’s going on,” she said belligerently. “You stole my letter, found out that the most important part was missing, and now you’re giving me this nice saintly story to get me to tell you what was in it!”

Simon rose and faced her.

“I’ve told you the truth. I’d only just started to read the letter when—”

“A nice trick, but it’s not going to work, Mr Templar,” she interrupted. “I memorized the part that had the important instructions in it, and destroyed it so nobody else could find it — and it’s going to stay that way!”

She had to admit to herself that the Saint looked genuinely concerned.

“But don’t you see, if that’s true you’re in even more danger,” he said urgently. “If the other side knows you did that, they’ll go to any lengths to find out from you what was in it. Don’t forget what happened to your father...”

“Nobody knows,” she said, wanting to contradict him in any way she could.

“Exactly,” said the Saint. “You, too, could disappear.”

She was determined not to give in.

“And so could you — if you could take a fortune with you! I think I’ve heard a few things about the Saint’s affinity for loot.” She stalked to the door and threw it open. “And now will you kindly leave, or have I got to call for help? There’s no reason on earth why you should be so anxious to save my skin. You’re just trying to get your hands on something that doesn’t belong to you.”

“And that may not belong to you either,” he pointed out.

“The difference is that I know more about it than you do, and you won’t fool me into giving up that advantage.”

Simon took a very deep breath, and finally walked past her into the hall. He turned again after he had assured himself that it was deserted and that no other doors seemed to be ajar.

“I can’t say I don’t admire your nerve,” he said. “I just wonder if you’ve got the muscle to back it up. Well, if things start to look too tough, just let out a reasonably loud scream, and I’ll try to be within range.”

“I don’t believe your story about some other gang being after the same thing at all,” she returned defiantly. “I think you’re just trying to scare me!”

She closed the door hurriedly, turned the key in the lock, and leaned against the varnished woodwork with one hand over her pounding heart as her lips added soundlessly:

“... and you’ve done quite a job of it!”

The Saint was awakened next morning by the ringing of the telephone beside his bed.

“Good morning!” said a booming baritone.

“Is it?” inquired the Saint, with reasonable curiosity.

“This is Jim Wade — Embassy. Just thought I’d check in and see how it’s going.”

Simon looked at his wristwatch and the almost horizontal rays of sunlight which slipped between the drawn curtains that covered the French windows.

“You boys must have a long working day,” he remarked. “Do you always hit the desk by seven-thirty in the morning?”

“Not always, but I’ve got big brass breathing down my neck on this thing. Any luck yet?”

“No more than usual, but I had a couple of middle-aged delinquents with full-grown switch knives breathing down my neck in an alley last night.”

“You mean there’s somebody else in on this too?”

“In brief, Colonel, we are not alone. There are more bloodhounds on Vicky Ionian’s trail than you could shake a steak at. I wouldn’t be surprised to see TV cameras being set up down in the lobby for live coverage.”

He quickly filled in the intelligence officer on the events of the night before.

“So you see,” he concluded, “it’s something of a standoff so far — but that was only the first round.”

“These men who jumped you — could you figure anything else about them? Ill check with the local police, of course.”

Simon, already sitting up in bed, punched a second pillow behind his back to make himself more comfortable.

“They were local talent, I’d say, from their looks and accent, but hoof-and-knife men only. They were obviously recruited by somebody who knew what to tell them to look for.”

“And with the only one who was caught dead, nobody’s likely to get much information out of him,” the colonel reasoned unimpressively.

“I could make two guesses about their employer, and they could both be right,” Simon said. “Obviously there were Nazis who knew what Major Kinian was trying to find out — and they, or some of them, may still be around.”