Leslie Charteris - The Saint in Europe

“If you remember,” she said with unnatural restraint, “I told my fiancé that tramping about with him over a lot of dreary roads and sleeping in filthy village inns without any sanitation was not included in the terms of our engagement, and just wasn’t my idea of a good time. I’m a civilized woman, not a farm hand. Also that happens to be my own business. Why don’t you try to suggest something helpful?”

“You haven’t any friends here?”

“None at all.”

The Saint raised one eyebrow.

“In that case, you’re only left with your bank’s correspondents here, or the American consulate. Failing those two,” he added flippantly, “you could lie down on the tram-lines outside and wait with resignation for the next tram—”

The door banged violently behind her, and Simon glanced at it and chuckled.

He ran cold water into the basin, submerged his head to remove the last traces of lather, and dried it off with a rough towel. Then he brushed his hair and sat down at the small desk where the telephone stood. He fished the directory out of a drawer, and with it the girl’s expensive bag. From it he took her letter of credit, discovered the Munich correspondent’s name there, and called the number.

“This is the American consulate,” he said, when he was connected with the necessary Personage. “We have information of a trick that’s being played on the banks around here by an American girl. She comes in with the story that her letter of credit has been stolen, and tries to get an advance without it. There is no accurate description of her at the moment, except that she is dark and about one meter sixty centimeters tall. Anything else we learn will be communicated to the police, but in the meanwhile we’re taking the responsibility of warning the principal banks. Your safest course will be to make no advance in those circumstances. Tell the girl you will have to get in touch with New York or wherever it is, and ask her to call back in three or four days. By that time you’ll have a full description from the police.”

A couple of minutes later he was speaking to the American consul.

“I say!” he bleated, in the plaintive tones of Oxford. “D’you happen to know a young thing by the name of Deane — Miss Deane?”

“No,” said the consul blankly. “What about her?”

“Well, I met her in a beer garden last night. She’s an American girl — at least, she said she was. Dashed pretty, too. She told me her bag and things had been stolen, and I lent her five pounds to wire home for money. Well, I’ve just been sniffing a cocktail with another chap and we were comparing notes, and it turns out he met the same girl in another beer garden last Tuesday and lent her ten dollars on the same story. So we toddled round to the hotel she said she was staying at to make inquiries, and they hadn’t heard of her at all. So we decided she must be a crook, and we thought we’d better tell you to warn your other citizens about her, old boy!”

“I’m very much obliged. Can you tell me what she looks like?”

“Like a wicked man’s dream, old fruit! About five foot three, with the most luscious brown eyes...”

His last call was to the hotel manager. Simon Templar spoke German, as he spoke other languages, like a native, and he put on his stiffest and most official staccato for the occasion.

“This is the Central Police Office. We have information received that a new swindle is by an American girl worked. She tells you that her money from her room in your hotel stolen is. Then will she a few days more to stay attempt, or money to borrow... So! That has already yourself befallen... No, unfortunately is there nothing to do. It is impossible the untruthfulness of her story to prove. You must however no compensation pay, and if you her room engaged announce, will you sorely less money lose.”

Simon finished his dressing in an aura of silent laughter, and went out to lunch.

He was scanning a magazine in his room about four o’clock when another knock came on his door and the girl walked in. She looked pale and tired, but the Saint hardened his heart. Even the spectacle of his attire could only rouse her to a faint spark of sarcasm.

“Have you joined the boy scouts or something?” she asked.

Simon turned his eyes down to his brown knees unabashed.

“I’m going down to Innsbruck and up over the Brenner Pass into Italy. Tramping about over a lot of dreary roads and sleeping in ditches — all that sort of thing. It’s one of the most beautiful trips in the whole world, and the only way you can get the best out of it is on foot. I’m catching a train to Lenggries at five, and starting from there early tomorrow morning — that cuts out the only dull part. What luck have you had?”

“None at all.” The girl flung herself into a chair. “I’d never have believed anything could have been so hopeless. My God, the way I’ve been looked at today, you might think I was some kind of crook! I went to the bank. Yes, they’d be delighted to get in touch with my bank in Boston, but they couldn’t do anything till they had a reply. How long would it take? Four days at least. And what was I going to do till then? The manager didn’t know, but he shrugged his shoulders as if he thought I’d be lucky to stay out of jail that long. Then I went to the consulate. The consul’s eyes were popping out of his head almost as soon as I’d begun to tell him the trouble. If the bank was willing to cable Boston for me, what was the trouble? I told him I couldn’t go without eating for four days. He said he was only authorized to allow me fifty cents a day and send me home. I asked him what he thought I could eat for fifty cents, and he bawled me out! He said I was a disgrace to the country, and an American citizen had no business to be abroad without any means of support, and if he shipped me home I’d go straight to jail when I landed. And then he showed me the door. I’ve never been so humiliated in my life! If I don’t get that consul fired out of the service—”

“But surely you can stay on here till some money arrives?” suggested the Saint ingenuously.

“Not a chance. I’ve just seen the manager. He said as much as he could without insulting me openly — told me he would require my room by seven o’clock if I couldn’t pay him up to date by that time.”

“Distinctly awkward,” remarked Simon judicially.

The girl bit her lip.

“I...I’ve got to do something,” she stammered. “I don’t know how to say it — I hate asking you, after all this — but I’ve got to have something to see me through till the bank gets a reply from Boston, and they can’t do that till after the week-end. Or when Jack gets to Innsbruck about Tuesday — I can send a wire to him there. I... I know I’m practically a stranger, but if you could lend me just enough—”

“My dear,” said the Saint blandly, “I should be delighted. But I haven’t got it to lend.”

Her eyes opened wide.

“You haven’t got it?”

She spread out a brown hand.

“Take a look. My luggage went off in advance this afternoon. All I’m going to need — toothbrush and towel and blankets — is in my rucksack. My bill here is paid, and I’ve got about forty marks in my belt — enough to buy food and beer. I can’t get any more till I get to Bolzano. I couldn’t even send you on to Innsbruck — the third-class fare for one is about fifteen marks, and the remaining twenty-five wouldn’t feed me.”

She stared at him aghast. Her pretty mouth quivered. There was a moistness very close to the tears of sheer hysterical fright in her eyes.

“But what on earth am I going to do?” she wailed.

Simon lighted a cigarette, and allowed his gaze to return to her face.

“You’ll just have to walk to Innsbruck with me,” he said.