Leslie Charteris - The Saint Abroad

Our first three experiments in turning the tables on the television producers (The Saint on TV, The Saint Returns, and The Saint & the Fiction Makers) having been tolerably well received, we have been encouraged to bring out yet another of these hybrid books — that is, Saint stories which were originally created expressly for television, not by me, adapted for reading as ordinary fiction by yet another writer, and indebted to me only for the parentage of the Saint himself, for sundry suggestions along the way, and for a final revision of the manuscript in which I did my best to see that the style was as close to my own as possible, short of a complete personal rewrite. In the construction of these adaptations, I have not hesitated to call for quite drastic changes from what you may have seen on the mini-screen, exactly as a film producer does not hesitate to take liberties with any story he has bought, whenever I thought I could improve on the material. In this case, reversing the traditional sequence of events, I am the character who has had the last word.

Nor do I feel that I owe any apology to old and faithful readers of the Saint Saga. The television stories which I have selected for this treatment are only those which I thought had genuine possibilities — which by no means qualifies everything that has gone out on the TV networks. Nor would I have published these adaptations if they dissatisfied me. Whether this kind of composite authorship is kosher may be debatable on a rarified intellectual plane, but if it satisfies enough aficionados of the Saint who want more books to read than I can supply, it can’t be all bad.

LC

“In these devaluable days,” Simon Templar said, “you don’t just take your money and stash it away in some nice sturdy bank, or you may very well find yourself with a nice sturdy bank full of waste paper.”

“Knowing your reputation, Monsieur Templar, I can well believe that you have several bank vaults full of such waste paper,” said Marcel LeGrand.

LeGrand’s smile, which appeared through the thicket of his black mustache and beard like the moon seen rising through a forest, was the smile of a salesman certain that however much money his customer has at the moment, he is going to have considerably less before he leaves. The bushy-faced art dealer’s hand caressed the gilded frame of one of his salon’s more expensive offerings as he spoke. All around him, on walls and easels, were the colors and forms of the paintings that were his stock-in-trade. The displays were arranged so that direct sunlight could never touch the works of art, but flashes of light thrown by the passing traffic through the blue-tinted windows from the Paris street outside gave a kind of psychedelic motion to the whole interior.

“You underestimate me,” Simon Templar replied with a perfect gravity. “I support the Rothschilds almost single-handed. Without my deposits, the gnomes of Zürich would have to crawl back into their caves and collect mushrooms for a living.”

The Saint — the name by which the world most generally knew Simon Templar — saw no more reason to try to spike the rumors which circulated about his wealth than he saw to try to quash the legends which flourished around his reputation as a modern buccaneer, a Robin Hood whose Sherwood Forest was the world of crime in an age of industry and international finance, and whose victims were the criminals themselves. In the first place, the stories were mostly true. In the second place, efforts to refute myths tended only to have the effect of increasing belief in their validity. Thirdly, the Saint enjoyed the exaggerations, and they were useful to him. They increased the awe of potential enemies and pushed them toward elaborate precautions and nervous countermeasures which could only increase their chances of error. The same tables enhanced his powers of bluff where the police were concerned and his naturally considerable powers of attraction where women were concerned. All in all, folklore had its uses.

“I hope, then, more sincerely than ever, that you will find something here which pleases you,” LeGrand said. “You will find no better selection in France — I can promise you that. And I do not think I flatter myself when I say that my judgment as to the investment value of paintings is as sound as that of any man in the world.”

“No, you don’t flatter yourself,” the Saint said. “That is exactly why I’m here and not talking to some other dealer.”

He moved slowly through the large room, whose space for hanging paintings was increased by a number of partitions jutting out across the richly carpeted floor and reaching almost to the ceiling. LeGrand followed with calculated casualness, his hands clasped behind his back. He was a head shorter than the Saint’s lean-muscled six feet two, but he made up for it on the horizontal, without actually being fat.

“Perhaps you could suggest some amount you would like to invest,” LeGrand said. “I realize that taste, too, is involved, but we may as well be practical.”

“We may as well,” Simon said with a smile, “and therefore I’m not showing you my wallet until after you’ve shown me the price tags.”

LeGrand laughed and shrugged to acknowledge his appreciation of the Saint’s acumen as a bargainer. Simon noticed, looking over the art dealer’s shoulder, that a tall, dark-haired man had started to step into the shop from the street, had seen through the windows that LeGrand was occupied, and had stayed outside without leaving the doorway.

“This,” Simon said. “What is it?”

He had turned back to one of the framed paintings hanging on one of the partitions. Most of LeGrand’s collection was pre-nineteenth century. Along this partition were some of the exceptions — contemporary productions, non-representational.

“That is chicken feathers on lacquered axle grease,” LeGrand said impassively. “Interesting, no?”

“No,” said the Saint. “How much do you calculate it will be worth in ten years?”

“About two francs,” said LeGrand, still impassively. “Let me show you something more suitable. Something from the Renaissance — Italian, or Flemish. There is a Van Eyck...”

The dealer and Simon turned, and the dark-haired man who had been outside the doorway was standing not ten feet from them. He had entered so soundlessly that even the Saint had not heard his footsteps on the carpet.

“I am sorry to disturb you,” he said to LeGrand in French, “but I must speak with you as soon as possible.”

“As you see, I have a customer,” LeGrand said with polite deference. “But as soon as...”

“This is very urgent,” the stranger said, “and I have other duties. If you could spare just a moment... alone.”

“Very well,” LeGrand answered. “If you can excuse me...”

He was looking at the Saint, who nodded.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I may as well be going. I haven’t really seen anything that...”

LeGrand held up his hand and put on a confidential expression.

“Don’t go,” he said earnestly. “I have something... special. Special for you. Just wait a few moments...” He turned to the stranger and motioned him toward an alcove in the rear of the salon, separated from the main area by a pair of velvet curtains. “If you would step this way, please, monsieur. We must be brief.”

If the Saint had not been naturally inquisitive, he would have spent many more quiet evenings at home than in fact he did. It would not be accurate to say that he listened to the conversation between Marcel LeGrand and his stolid visitor, but he did not take, pains to avoid hearing a phrase here and there from the dialogue of hushed voices.