Leslie Charteris - The Saint 49 Count On The Saint

Taffy rebounded the question in a flat, tired tone without giving a clue to whether the reply was also double-edged.

“You’re the famous detective. You tell me.”

Simon smiled thoughtfully.

“Well, that’s what we have to find out,” he said blandly.

“What’s puzzling me,” said Mila, unaware of the verbal fencing match she was interrupting, “is how the thief thinks he’s ever going to be able to sell the chalice. I mean, it’s not the sort of thing you can just go into a pawnshop and put on the counter.”

“There are ways,” Simon said briefly; and then, realising a new avenue was opening before him, went on: “My guess is he passed it on to a fence, probably taking a deposit, with the balance to come when the receiver has placed it.”

“But surely the fence would still have trouble getting rid of it,” Taffy said.

The Saint continued to watch him closely while he explained.

“There are specialist dealers around who work for very rich and very unscrupulous collectors, people who keep their treasures in vaults and gloat over them in private. I happen to know that there’s one of those operators in London right now. A character named Grondheim, staying at the Savoy and in the market for anything that’s not on general sale.”

The Saint’s tone was deliberately casual. A professional outlining tricks of the trade to the uninitiated. But the words were carefully chosen. They formed the trip wire of the trap he had begun to build the previous evening. Now all that remained was to wait and see who walked into it.

Vic Reefly did not believe in wasting time, and he started doing what he had been asked to do even before Simon Templar closed the front door of the Montparnasse Club behind him. But he was not a miracle worker, as he pointed out forcefully when the Saint telephoned later the same afternoon.

“I know you don’t perform miracles, Vic,” Simon agreed soothingly. “If you did, those bottles of water behind the bar might turn into alcohol. I just wondered how you were getting on.”

“None the quicker for you asking,” Reefly answered sourly. “I’ve put out some feelers and I think we’ll get something pretty soon. How do I contact you?”

“I’m staying at the Savoy while my place is redecorated. Ask for Mr. Tombs. Got that?”

“Sure I’ve got it,” said Reefly testily. “Tombs, eh? What’s your game, Saint?”

“I’ll teach it to you someday, Vic,” Simon replied with a laugh. “But the rules are a bit complicated.”

He dropped the receiver into its cradle and lay back on the bed, gazing at the white plaster ceiling of the hotel room and resigning himself to a period of patient waiting.

Mila and Taffy had left Upper Berkeley Mews a short while after he had told them about J.J. Grondheim. Had they loitered outside for half an hour, they would have been surprised to see that same American gentleman emerge from the premises and take a cab to the hotel. Had Vic Reefly been in the lobby of the Savoy when the said Mr. Grondheim returned, he might have been equally surprised to hear him tell the receptionist that any calls for a Mr. Sebastian Tombs, an English business colleague, were to be put through to his suite.

With the hook well and truly baited there was nothing left to do but sit at the other end of the line and wait for a bite. He could not leave the hotel in case a call came, and so he whiled away the evening with a. long and very expensive dinner followed by a sojourn in the bar where he discussed the rising crime rate in New York with a Manhattan advertising executive who was surprised by the breadth of his comprehensive knowledge of the subject.

At breakfast the following morning he was supplied with all the daily papers to help him pass the time. He had consigned three to the wastepaper basket before his telephone rang. The operator informed him that a gentleman named Dankin was asking to see him. The Saint told her to send him up.

Mr. Jonathan Dankin aptly fitted the description “gentleman.” He was slightly built, with a dapper taste in suits and a penchant for brightly coloured shirts. He carried himself with an assurance and spoke with an accent that identified him as a product of one of the better public schools. Anyone meeting him for the first time would not have been surprised to discover that he ran an antique shop in the Fulham Road, though they might have thought that Bond Street would have seemed a more fitting location.

Mr. Dankin would have agreed with them, but the firm of auctioneers in that particular thoroughfare for whom he had once worked would most certainly not have done so. They had dispensed with his services upon discovering that the works of art he declared copies, and so worth a fraction of their apparent value when under the hammer, were really originals. How many had been bought by Dankin’s accomplice at a knockdown price and later sold for considerably more had never been sorted out. His distinguished employers had not wanted to undergo the scandal of a formal investigation. Jonathan Dankin had left quietly to set up in business on his own.

The word was put round the antiques trade that he was not to be trusted. But what is a bad reputation in one quarter can amount to a testimonial in another. His specialist knowledge brought him many lucrative commissions, and as he knocked on the door of the Saint’s room he had few doubts that his present errand would be any exception.

Simon Templar had heard of Dankin though they had never met. In the circles in which the Saint moved, the fence was referred to not by his baptismal name but by the title conferred by those who visited his premises only at night: “the Professor” — commonly abbreviated to “the Prof.”

As soon as Simon opened the door the Prof produced a visiting card from his waistcoat pocket and handed it over. It stated simply his name and occupation, and carried a phone number without an address.

“I understand that you are in the same business, Mr. Grondheim,” Dankin said.

The Saint looked from the card to the dealer. His face was expressionless.

“Maybe,” he agreed warily. “Come in and we’ll talk about it.”

“Do you come to London often?” Dankin enquired as the Saint led the way into the sitting room.

“Sometimes,” Simon said, motioning Dankin to a chair. “But I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

“Well, better late than never.”

The Saint sat opposite, conscious that he was being examined but confident that his cover would pass any test Dankin could impose.

“How did you know about me?” Simon asked.

“One hears these things, you know,” Dankin said. “One makes it one’s business to, you understand. Contacts in the trade, and with the staff in hotels such as this, for instance. Word gets around.”

“Really,” drawled the Saint. “And what did the word tell you, Mr. Dankin?”

“That you may be in the market for certain merchandise not, shall we say, on public display.”

“Is that so?” said the Saint slowly. “You’ll appreciate, Mr. Dankin, that as I don’t know you I should like some sort of reference. Don’t get me wrong, but I’m sure you’ll understand if I’d like to check with the person who sent you.”

The Professor looked at him without speaking for several seconds. He had been in such situations before and knew how to deal with them. He allowed the Saint to know he was being scrutinised and then leisurely rose to his feet.

“It appears, Mr. Grondheim, that I may have been misinformed.” His tone was brisk, almost curt. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”

The Saint never moved from his chair. He knew that Dankin had little intention of leaving, but the card had been skilfully played and deserved to take the trick if not the game.