Leslie Charteris - The Saint in Europe

Simon Templar took an infinitesimal moment to reply. And in that apocalyptic instant he realized that he had found a foothold again with a suddenness that literally jarred the breath out of him.

It was all so simple, so obvious that in retrospect he wondered how it could ever have baffled him. Filippo Ravenna had been going to America to live and to make a fresh start. Ravenna was rich, but he would not be allowed to transfer all his assets across the Atlantic just by asking for a bank draft. Like many another European, he had nothing but money which was not translatable through ordinary channels. But someone had told him about Paul Galen. So Ravenna had bought things. Things whose only connecting characteristics were that they were relatively small, relatively light in weight, relatively easy to smuggle, and very valuable; things moreover which a man in his position could acquire without attracting undue attention. And he had brought them to Switzerland to convert back into hard money — with an introduction to Paul Galen, who had made an international business out of cooperating in such evasions, whose reputation in such tricky-minded circles was doubtless a guarantee of comparatively fair dealing and absolute discretion.

All that part of it was dazzlingly clear, and the other part was starting to grow clearer — some of it, at least.

The Saint found himself saying, almost absent-mindedly, “I left the other things at the hotel. You understand, I thought we should get acquainted first.”

Somewhere outside the room he was aware of indistinct voices, but it was a rather subconscious impression which he only recalled afterwards, for at the moment it did not seem that they could concern him.

“I hope I have made a good impression,” Galen said with lively good humor. “What else did you bring?”

“I have a small Botticelli,” said the Saint slowly. He was stalling for time really, while his mind raced ahead from the knowledge it now had to fit together the pieces that still had to tie in. “It is a museum piece. And a first edition of Boccaccio, in perfect condition—”

The door behind him burst open as if a tornado had struck it, and that was when he actually remembered the premonitory sounds of argument that he had heard.

It was the Signora Ravenna, with her nubile bosom heaving and her black eyes blazing with dark fire. Behind her followed the funereal manservant, looking apologetically helpless.

“Go on,” she said. “What else was there?”

Galen was on his feet as quickly as a big dog. He glanced at the Saint with quizzical wariness as Simon stood up more leisurely.

“Do you know this lady?”

“Certainly,” said the Saint calmly. “She is Signora Ravenna.”

Galen almost relaxed.

“A thousand pardons. You should have told me your wife—”

“I am not his wife,” the young woman cut him short passionately. “My husband was murdered last night, by robbers who stole his briefcase with the things he brought to sell. This impostor is an American who calls himself Tombs — he is probably the employer of the men who killed my husband!”

Galen moved easily around the couch, without apparent haste or agitation.

That is quite an extraordinary statement,” he remarked temperately. “But no doubt one of you can at least prove your identity.”

“I can,” said Signora Ravenna. She fumbled in her handbag. “I can show you my passport. Ask him to show you his!”

“I’ll save you the trouble,” said the Saint amiably, in English. “I concede that this is Signora Ravenna, and it’s true she’s been a widow for about twelve hours.”

“Then your explanation had better be worth listening to,” Galen said in the same language.

It was produced so smoothly and casually that Simon never knew where it came from, but now there was an automatic in Galen’s hand, the muzzle lined up with Simon’s midriff. The melancholy manservant remained in the doorway, and somehow he no longer looked apologetic.

Simon’s gaze slid languidly over the barrel of the gun and up to Galen’s coldly questioning face. It was no performance that he scarcely seemed to notice the weapon. He was too happy with the way the other fragments of the puzzle were falling into place to care.

“I happened to see Signor Ravenna jumped on last night by the two thugs who stole his briefcase,” he said. “I imagine he was on his way to see you then. I tried to catch them, but I didn’t do so good. There’s an independent witness, a local citizen, who saw me try, and he’s on record with the police... This morning Signora Ravenna came to my room and asked me about the briefcase. She said she had no idea what was in it and couldn’t imagine why anyone would attack her husband. I told her that so far as I knew the thieves had gotten away with it.”

“A bluff, to try and make it look as if they weren’t working for you,” Signora Ravenna said vehemently. “You had it all the time!”

“I didn’t,” said the Saint steadily. “But after you left, I went on thinking. It occurred to me that there was just an outside chance that the fellow I nearly caught had dropped it, and then nobody had thought of looking for it — everybody taking it for granted that somebody else had got it. I went back to the spot and looked. Sure enough, there it was in the bushes. I took it back to my room.”

“You see, he admits it! I saw him again after that, and he didn’t say anything about finding it. He meant to steal it all the time. The only thing he doesn’t confess is that the whole thing was planned!”

“While Signora Ravenna was asking me questions,” Simon continued imperturbably, “I also asked her a few. And I knew damn well she was lying. That made me curious. So I opened the briefcase. I found the painting, the book, the necklace which you have — and, of course, that letter of introduction to you. It was just too much for my inquisitive nature. So I came here, using Ravenna’s name, to try and find out what was going on. You’ve been kind enough to explain the background to me. I now know that Ravenna was simply trying to turn his assets into American money which he could use when he emigrated — which, you’ve explained to me, isn’t a crime here, whatever they think of it in Italy. So now I’m satisfied about that — but not about why Signora Ravenna told me so many lies.”

“I leave that to you, Monsieur Galen,” said the woman with a triumphant shrug. “I would not even tell the police, still less a perfect stranger.”

Galen’s dispassionate eyes rested immovably on the Saint’s face.

“And what is your business, Mr Tombs?”

“Just think of me,” said the Saint, “as a guy with a weakness for puzzles, and an incorrigible asker of questions. I have a few more.” He looked at Signora Ravenna again. “Are you positive your husband couldn’t have discussed this deal with anyone?”

“Only with his best friend, who gave him the introduction to Monsieur Galen.”

“And you’re sure you never mentioned it to anybody?”

“Of course not.”

“But as I said this morning, the jokers who waylaid your husband knew he was carrying something valuable, and even knew it was in his briefcase. How do you account for that?”

“I don’t know how crooks like you find out these things,” she flared. “Why don’t you tell us?”

Simon shook his head.

“I suggest,” he said rather forensically, “that those crooks could only have known because you told them — because you hired them to get rid of your husband and bring you back his most negotiable property.”

The servant in the doorway was pushed suddenly aside, and a short spherical man elbowed his way unceremoniously past him into the room.

“I am Inspector Kleinhaus, of the police,” he said, “and I should also like to hear the answer to that.”