Leslie Charteris - The Saint in Pursuit

“I think I can help you with that, Inspector,” she said.

The Saint could stop a man’s fist with comparative ease, but the problem of stopping a woman’s tongue was another matter, beside which the raising of the Tower of Babel to stratospheric levels would have seemed a casual recreation.

His face, however, betrayed none of the unhappy thoughts which flashfired through his brain when Vicky announced to Inspector Edval her intention of making a statement. He looked at her with the mild resignation of a disinterested teacher to some weakwitted pupil.

Then someone knocked at the door.

“Party-crashers,” Simon said with very genuine cheerfulness.

He went to the door and opened it, revealing an excited-looking policeman — not the one he had first seen, who was still standing guard nearby — with a folded piece of paper in his hand.

“A message on the car radio, Inspector!” he said in rapid French. “It concerns the identification of the dead man.”

The policeman knew the message, and as he handed the paper to Inspector Edval he babbled a resume of its contents. Vicky, who did not understand French, looked blank, while the Saint felt — if he did not actually look — positively beatified.

“Would you mind letting us foreigners in on the secret, Inspector?” Simon asked with halting humility. “After all, you’re using my rather expensive room for your festivities.”

Edval thought for a few seconds before answering. It was already obvious from a scorching glare he had shot at his uniformed subordinate that he had no faith whatever in the Saint’s supposed lack of linguistic ability.

“Jaeger is not Jaeger,” he said, seeming to take an unofficial poetic pleasure in the lilt of the words. Perhaps he was the sort of man who read Baudelaire secretly in bed. “Or perhaps I should say, he was both Jaeger and someone else — a former Gestapo agent named Norden who operated secretly in this country during the ’39 war. We have rather complete files on such people, including dental charts and scars.”

A transformation was taking place in Vicky’s expression that was subtle but movingly complete. She met the police inspector’s probing eyes directly as he turned to her.

“But you were about to tell me something, mademoiselle,” he said. “And this further identification of the victim certainly does not decrease the chance that he might have been pushed out of a window.”

“I can tell you that he wasn’t pushed out of this window,” Vicky replied in a completely confident voice. “At least not by Mr Templar. Mr Templar and I went out together, and there certainly wasn’t any sign then that anybody had fallen anywhere.”

“And when was that, mademoiselle?” Edval inquired.

“About a quarter to eight,” Simon answered helpfully.

“I would prefer that the lady answer my questions,” Edval said.

“About a quarter to eight,” said Vicky.

Edval sighed.

“May I see your passport, please?”

Vicky opened her purse and produced the booklet. Edval bowed slightly as he took it. He looked at each page closely before speaking again.

“Very good, Mademoiselle Kinian. I suppose you are a good friend of Monsieur Templar?”

“I’ve only seen him once before in my life. We met in Lisbon when I first got there and found out we were both coming here — so we made a date.”

She paused, and the Saint nodded acknowledgement.

“I’m a very lucky man, as you can see, Inspector,” he said gallantly.

“I have heard of your remarkable luck,” the inspector replied with some irony. “And this absence of yours this evening — this was because of your date?”

He spoke “date” with quotation marks around it, as a foreign word he found faintly distasteful and amusing.

“That’s right,” said Vicky.

Edval looked at his watch.

“It was not a very long date, was it?”

There was an edge of sarcasm on Simon’s voice as he interrupted.

“I was aware of Swiss efficiency,” he said, “but I never knew that it extended to timing the social engagements of tourists.”

Inspector Edval compressed his lips and exercised self-control.

“My excuses if I have offended anyone.” He handed the passport back to Vicky. “Thank you, mademoiselle. I do not see how I can doubt the testimony of a young lady with such a fresh new passport and such a charming and honest face.”

“Thank you,” she said, a little uncomfortably.

“I hope you will forgive me, too, for any insinuations, Monsieur Templar, but when the Saint is in the vicinity of any unusual happening it must be routine to make sure he is not connected with it.”

“You are absolved,” said the Saint benevolently. “Go, and my blessings be with you.”

The inspector almost smiled, but covered his embarrassment at that near slip by mumbling a few final words about Jaeger as he went to the door.

“It is possible,” he said, “that he was attempting to steal something, and fell to his death while trying to climb from one room to another outside the hotel.”

“Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?” Simon said with admiration. “I’m sure that if you follow up that theory you’ll have the case closed in no time.”

“Merci,” said Inspector Edval, and left.

Vicky collapsed into a chair and closed her eyes as Simon moved back from closing the door.

“Wonderful to watch the professional police mind at work, isn’t it?” he commented.

“To think you’ve been going through this all your life,” Vicky said. “I couldn’t even take another day of it.”

“And now I suppose you expect to be paid off for your part in this little drama we’ve just been through,” the Saint said.

Vicky looked up at him.

“You don’t have to be nasty about it,” she said.

“I’m not being nasty,” he replied. “I’m being practical.”

Vicky got up from the chair, and as she talked she meandered with conspicuous inconspicuousness to the general area of the door through which Edval had made his exit.

“You think nobody does anything without an angle, don’t you?” she asked huffily.

“Well, darling,” Simon answered, “I’m much too modest to kid myself that you lied to that rather trusting Swiss Sherlock because you just suddenly fell in love with me.”

“I should say not!” Vicky responded indignantly. “I guess it wouldn’t occur to you that I might have felt an obligation to you — because even if you did knock Jaeger or Norden or whoever he was out of the window, it was only what I’d have wanted to do if I’d known who he really was.”

“Maybe so,” said the Saint. “But I’m also sure you realized you couldn’t let me be pinched while I had this little package in my pocket.”

She gave him credit for accurate divination by a moment of stymied silence.

“But anyway,” she said belligerently, “you admit I got you out of a jam, so how about your obligation?”

The Saint was now lounging casually on the sofa with his long legs crossed in front of him, while the girl was still standing next to the closed door.

“First,” he said, “may I ask why you’re loitering over there on the threshold?”

“So I can get out in case you take it into your head to throw me out of the window!”

She tried to say it with the same sting that she had summoned a few seconds before.

“You forget what a mercenary pirate’s mind I have,” Simon said impudently. “I’d never toss a prize like you overboard — I’d sell you to the slave traders.” As an afterthought he added, “Or keep you for myself.”