Leslie Charteris - Vendetta for the Saint

She made a sign to the maid, who had been pointedly waiting within range, and lowered herself stiffly into one of the chairs.

Simon turned to choose a seat for himself, and in so doing was confronted by a vision which almost equalled his wildest expectations.

Approaching through an archway of rambler roses, from a hedged area of the garden where she had apparently been taking a sunbath, was Gina Destamio, clad only in a bikini of such minuscule proportions that its two elements concealed little more of her than did her sunglasses. Her skin was a light golden-brown in the last rays of sunlight, and the ultimate details of her figure more than fulfilled every exquisite promise they had made under the dress in which he had last seen her. It was a sight to make even a hardened old pirate like Simon Templar toy with the idea of writing just one more sonnet.

Not so Donna Maria, who sucked in her breath like an asthmatic vacuum cleaner, then let it whoosh out in a single explosive sentence, crackling with lightning and rumbling with volcanic tension. It was in dialect, of which Simon understood hardly a word, but its themes were abundantly clear from the intonation: shamelessness, disgracing a respectable family before a total stranger, and the basic depravity of the new generation. The thunderbolts sizzled around Gina’s tousled head, and she only smiled. Whatever other effect the Swiss finishing school might have had, it had certainly finished her awe of matriarchal dragons.

She turned the same smile on the Saint, and he basked in it.

“You must excuse me,” she said. “I did not know we had a visitor.”

“You must excuse me for being here,” he replied. “But I refuse to say I am sorry.”

She slipped leisurely into the cotton jacket which she had carried over her arm, while Donna Maria painfully forced herself to perform a belated introduction.

“My niece, Gina. This is Signor Templar from America.”

“Haven’t I seen you before?” Gina asked innocently, in perfect English.

“I didn’t think you’d recognize me,” he answered in the same language. “You looked right through me to the wall behind, as if I were a rather dirty window that somebody had forgotten to wash.”

“I’m sorry. But our rules here are very old-fashioned. It’s scandalous enough that I sometimes go into town alone. If I let myself smile back at anyone who hadn’t been properly introduced, I should be ruined for life. And even a nice Sicilian would get the wrong ideas. But now I’m glad that we have another chance.”

“Non capisco!” Donna Maria hissed.

“My aunt doesn’t speak English,” Gina said, and reverted to Italian. “Are you here for business or pleasure?”

“I was beginning to think it was all business, but since your uncle sent me here it has suddenly become a pleasure.”

“Not Uncle Alessandro? I am glad you know him. He has been so good to us here—”

“Gina,” interrupted the chatelaine, her voice as gentle as a buzz-saw cutting metal, “I am sure the gentleman is not interested in our family affairs. He is only having a little drink before he leaves.”

The maid returned from the house, opportunely, with a tray on which were bottles of vermouth, a bowl of ice, a siphon, and glasses.

“How nice,” Gina said. “I am ready for one myself. Let me pour them.”

Her aunt shot her a venomous glance which openly expressed a bitter regret that her niece was no longer at an age when she could be bent over a knee and disciplined properly. But the girl seemed quite oblivious to it, and the Dragon Queen could only glower at her back as she proceeded to pour and mix with quite sophisticated efficiency.

“Have you seen much of Palermo yet?” Gina asked, as if seeking a neutral topic out of respect for her guardian’s blood-pressure.

“Nothing much,” Simon said. “What do you think I should see?”

“Everything! The Cathedral, the Palatine Chapel, Zisa, Casa Professa — and you should drive out to Monreale, it is only a few kilometers, and see the Norman cathedral and cloisters.”

“I must do that,” said the Saint, with surprising enthusiasm for one who, in spite of his sobriquet, seldom included cathedrals and cloisters among his sightseeing objectives. “Perhaps you could come with me and tell me all about them.”

“I would like to—”

“My niece cannot accompany you,” Donna Maria rasped. “There are professional guides to do that.”

Gina opened her mouth as if to protest, then seemed to think better of it. Apparently she knew from experience that such battles could not be won by direct opposition. But she gazed thoughtfully at the Saint, biting her lip, as though inviting him to think of some way to get around or over the interdiction.

Simon raised his glass to the chaperone with a courteous “ Salute!” and sipped it, wishing there had been more choice of beverage. His palate would never learn to accept the two vermouths as drinks in their own right, instead of as mere ghostly flavorings added to gin or bourbon respectively.

“I did not want to cause any trouble,” he said. “But it was Alessandro’s suggestion that Gina might like to show me around.”

Donna Maria glared at him sullenly — he could not decide whether she was more resentful at having to control an impulse to call him a liar, or at a disconcerting possibility that he might be telling the truth.

“I must look in my diary and see if there is any day when I can spare her,” she said finally. “If you will excuse me.”

She lurched to her feet and waddled into the house without waiting for confirmation.

“I’m afraid she doesn’t like me,” Simon remarked.

“It isn’t you in particular,” Gina said apologetically. “She hates practically everybody, and twice as much if they’re men. I sometimes think that’s what keeps her alive. She’s so pickled in her own venom that she’s probably indestructible and will still be here in another fifty years.”

“It’s funny there should be such a difference between her and her brother. Al is such a big-hearted guy.”

“That’s true! Do you know, he takes care of the whole family and pays all the bills. He sent me to school and everything. If it hadn’t been for him I don’t know what would have happened to us all. When my parents were killed in a car accident they didn’t have any insurance, and there was hardly any money in the bank. I was only seven at the time, but I remember people looking at the house and talk about selling it. Even Uncle Al was very sick just then and everyone thought he was going to die. But he got better and went to America, and soon he began sending back money. He’s been looking after us ever since. And yet he hardly ever comes near us. Aunt Maria says it may be because he feels we’d be embarrassed by remembering how much we owe him.”

The Saint lounged in his chair with long legs outstretched, sipping his drink perfunctorily and listening with the appearance of only casual interest; but under that camouflage his mind was ticking over like a computer, registering every word, correlating it with previous information, and reaching on towards what hypotheses might be derived from their multiple combinations. He had an extrasensory feeling that the answer to the Cartelli-Destamio riddle was close at hand, if he could only grasp it, or if one more link would bring it within reach...

And then the fragments that were starting to fit together were rudely pushed apart again by the voice that spoke behind him.

“Signore, it is getting late for you to return to the city.” Donna Maria was returning from her errand. “It would not be well-bred to send a friend of Alessandro’s away at such an hour. You will stay for dinner?”