Leslie Charteris - The Saint Abroad

There were no disturbances that night. Whoever was after Annabella Lambrini’s little cache of masterpieces had apparently given up trying to take them by storm, at least for the time being. By nine-thirty in the morning the Lambrini household was a picture of commonplace and cozy normality. A completely recovered Hans Kraus was out in the gravel driveway washing the Mercedes with hose and chamois, and Simon and Annabella were polishing off the last of eggs, rolls, jam, and coffee in the bright dining room. The Saint looked out through the large window at the chauffeur moving around the streaming black car and released a contented sigh.

“I must have been born with royal blood in my veins,” he said. “There’s nothing that gives me a greater sense of well-being than sitting at a late breakfast with a beautiful woman and watching other people work.”

Annabella smiled. She was not only visibly excited about the fortune the day was supposed to bring her; she seemed absolutely radiant compared with the tense tired state she had been in the evening before.

“After this morning I won’t let Hans work,” she said happily. “He deserves to retire.”

“Are you sure he wants to? Some people thrive on hard labor.”

“I can’t imagine it.”

The Saint chuckled.

“Neither can I. It makes me think of a prison sentence.” He looked at his watch. “When is it you’re going to legally raid the banks of France?”

“LeGrand said he would be here with his friend at ten-thirty. Maybe we should put the paintings out for him to see.”

“They are still there, aren’t they?”

She laughed.

“I’ve checked three times already. They’re quite safe.”

Before Simon heard or saw a car approaching the house he noticed through the window that Hans Kraus had paused in his polishing and was peering down the driveway toward the road.

“I think he’s here,” he said, getting up from the table. “Or somebody.”

Annabella was fidgeting like a schoolgirl before her first dance.

“Don’t tease me. Or somebody, indeed! It will be him. It has to be him!”

It was LeGrand. The Saint recognized his dark-bearded head as a frog-nosed blue Citroën crunched to a halt near the Mercedes. There was no one else with him in the car. Annabella Lambrini almost ran for the front door. Outside, Hans Kraus, looking fiercely protective, had taken up a position by the front steps as if preparing to repel boarders.

Still making his way at a fairly leisurely rate toward the entrance hall, Simon heard Annabella exclaiming in French as she opened the door to LeGrand.

“Oh, I am so glad to see you, monsieur! Come in, please. Did you have trouble finding my house?”

“Blind intuition would have led me here, I am sure,” LeGrand said elegantly. “What a great day this is for both of us, n’est-ce pas?”

“Vraiment, monsieur, vraiment!”

Simon joined the enthusiastic pair in the hallway, greeted LeGrand and shook hands with him.

“What a surprise!” LeGrand blurted. Then he covered his surprise smoothly. “I had no idea that you two charming people would have become friends... so...”

“So early in the morning?” Annabella said archly.

Marcel LeGrand only shrugged and smiled.

“If it were not for Monsieur Templar I would probably not be here this morning to meet you,” Annabella told him. “And neither would my paintings.”

LeGrand looked shocked, and the woman gave him a detailed account of what had happened after she had left his gallery the afternoon before.

“These men: you have seen nothing more of them since yesterday evening?” LeGrand asked nervously.

“No,” she answered, darting a fond look at the Saint. “I think that when they discovered I was not alone here with my chauffeur — who is no longer strong enough at his age to be much protection — they gave up their ideas of robbing me.”

LeGrand was stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Assuming their object was robbery,” he said.

The three of them were standing in the big front living room now, and Annabella offered them chairs. LeGrand sat down along with the Saint and his hostess and then bobbed up again and began to pace the floor after her next question.

“What other object could they have?” she asked.

“I can think only of the police,” LeGrand answered. “This Inspector Mathieu who called on me so inopportunely yesterday. Perhaps he and his fellow bureaucratic bloodhounds are going to desperate lengths to pry into your business. Such things have been known to happen — unofficially.”

“Even if that were believable,” Annabella said — “why?”

LeGrand turned from his pacing and faced her, his stubby legs apart. It was a way of standing which suggested that he needed to assure a firm support for a torso that clearly showed the cumulative result of several decades of rich cooking.

“Do we need to be surprised at anything a government does?” he asked with sudden passion. “Is there any privacy left anywhere today? When we move from our beds they take an interest!”

The Saint had relaxed totally in his softly upholstered chair. He brought the long fingers of both his hands together against his lips as LeGrand spoke, and then lowered them.

“But still,” he intervened politely, “wouldn’t these be rather peculiar cops? Your deal with Mademoiselle Lambrini has to be legal. A man of your reputation can’t afford under-the-counter games. You pay your taxes, I’m sure — or enough of them, at least. And Mademoiselle Lambrini tells me that the paintings have been in her family’s hands — legally — for many years. That hardly seems to call for special investigations.”

“Maybe they do not have your trusting nature,” Annabella said.

LeGrand, still standing at the center of the room, suddenly clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly.

“What use is it to speculate about this?” he said. “We have more important things to do.”

“Certainly, monsieur,” Annabella replied eagerly. “It is time for the unveiling.”

She got to her feet and went to the bookshelf beside the fireplace.

“Clever,” LeGrand said with a giggle of pure nervous anticipation when she pressed the release mechanism and opened the secret compartment in the wall.

Then he froze, his eyes glittering, biting his furry underlip as he waited for Simon and Annabella to uncover the paintings. They removed the cloth covering and stepped back to show the first Leonardo da Vinci.

The art dealer’s first audible reaction was a prolonged, awed, “Ahhh...” He hurried forward and fell down on his knees in front of the painting, gazing at it with hungrily darting eyes from two or three feet away.

“Oh, exquisite. Magnificent. It is not only real, real Leonardo, but good Leonardo. Great Leonardo.”

He heaved himself back on to his feet and looked at Annabella, who was smiling joyously.

“You are rich, mademoiselle. This alone will bring... well, I don’t know how much!”

It amused Simon to see how quickly a cloud of practicality veiled the sun of LeGrand’s spontaneous enthusiasm.

“Of course,” the dealer said, “things never bring what they are worth. And then there is the interest I must pay on loans, and the problem of...”

“Later, monsieur, later,” Annabella interrupted good-naturedly. “We can bargain later. .if you are interested. Would you like to see the others?”

“Would I like to see the others!” LeGrand burbled. “That is the same as asking me if I would like to be twenty-five again! Show me, please. Show me.”

His next word was “Incroyable!” as with Annabella he brought the second masterpiece from its one-time hiding place into the clear morning light of the room. The ritual and the exclamations and ecstatic comments were repeated until all five of the paintings had been admired.