Leslie Charteris - The Saint in Europe

Inspector Buono bounced to his feet.

“It is against the law to conceal information about a crime from the police,” he said furiously. “This alters everything. I shall refuse to release you!”

Inverest gazed at the Saint intently from under lowered brows.

“He has already been released,” he pointed out at length. “Furthermore, as regards anything that has transpired since then, I must inform you that Mr Templar has just been appointed a special attaché to the American Embassy, and therefore claims diplomatic immunity.” He stood up. “I shall communicate with you later, Inspector, if I decide that Mr Templar’s information should be disclosed. Come, Mr Templar.”

He gestured with his shiny top hat towards the door, and Simon went and opened it.

The Secretary of State stalked out without a backward glance, but Simon Templar could not resist turning to give the baffled Inspector a mocking bow before he followed.

Uniformed guards outside saluted them into a waiting black limousine with CD plates and the Stars and Stripes fluttering from a little mast on the hood. It was the finest exit the Saint had ever made from any police station, and he would treasure the remembrance for the rest of his life — however long that might be.

“The driver is an Italian,” Inverest said. “Better wait until we’re alone.”

Simon nodded, and said nothing more until the door had closed behind them in the office at the Embassy which had been placed at the Secretary’s disposal.

“Well, Mr Templar,” Inverest said, dropping his hat and gloves on the desk, “you’ve placed me in a most peculiar position. Unless you have something extraordinary up your sleeve, I might well deserve to be impeached. All that talk of yours about international complications, of course, was arrant nonsense.”

“You realized that, did you?”

“I’m not completely naive.”

“After what you said about the Mafia,” Simon explained, “I couldn’t take any chances. Not even in police headquarters. It’d only take one tiny leak to blow the whole works. And that’d mean goodbye to Sue.”

“That’s understood,” Inverest said brusquely. “I took the risk of backing you up. But what is it that you know?”

Simon took out a cigarette and placed it between his lips. Then he took out his lighter and held it poised.

“Nothing.”

He lighted the cigarette.

Hudson Inverest’s features seemed to crumple from inside, as if he had received a physical blow. He sank slowly into a chair.

“Good God, man,” he cried shakily. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t know a thing. I haven’t a clue. I was knocked cold on the spot, and that was the end of it. But,” Simon went on quickly, “nobody knows that except you and me.”

Inverest clasped his hands together as if to steady them.

“Go on.”

“If there’s a leak in the police department,” said the Saint, “so much the better. It’ll make the story that much more convincing when it gets to Tony. But we’re not going to gamble on that chance alone. I want you to call in your public relations boys and tell them to see that every newspaper in Rome gets the story. Let ’em be as mysterious as they like, but sell it big. Then we’ll know for sure that Tony Unciello will hear it. His men already know that they slugged a guy who was with Sue, but they didn’t know who it was. My name’ll hit them with a big bang. I think it’ll make ’em believe almost anything.”

“But if they do believe it,” Inverest said, “what good will it do? They’ll just shoot you down in the street.”

Simon shrugged.

“That’s quite a possibility. But I’m betting on the angle of curiosity. I don’t think a man like Unciello could bear never to know what this one thing was that I had on him. So I think he’ll want me taken alive.”

“Even so,” Inverest protested, “if they catch you and take you to him — what would you be able to do?”

“I’ll try to think of that when the time comes.” Simon stood over the older man, very lean and straight, and something like the strength of a sword invested him. “But it’s the only chance we’ve got of finding your daughter. You’ve got to let me try it.”

The statesman blinked up at him, trying to dispel a ridiculous illusion that a musketeer’s feather tossed above that impossibly handsome face.

“It might still cost you your life,” he said.

“For a gal like Sue,” said the Saint lightly, “I wouldn’t call that expensive.”

Simon Templar came out of the front gates of the Embassy and stood on the sidewalk for a while, gazing idly up and down the Via Vittorio Veneto, like a man trying to make up his mind where to go. What he wanted was to be sure that anyone who might already be watching for him outside would not be left flat-footed by too sudden a departure.

Presently he walked a few steps to the entrance of the Hotel Excelsior, which was only next door. He paused inside to give the lobby a leisurely survey, and at the same time to give the population of the lobby plenty of time to survey him. Then he crossed to the porter’s desk.

“Do you have any messages for me?” He added, very clearly. “The name is Templar — Simon Templar.”

“Your room number, sir?”

“Six-seventeen.”

The porter examined his pigeonholes.

“No, Mr Templar.”

“Thank you. Where is the cocktail bar?”

“On the left, sir, down the stairs.”

That ought to take care of anyone who might be waiting to pick him up at the hotel.

He went down the stairs. The room was filling up, the hour being what it was, but he found a place at the bar and ordered a Dry Sack. He was aware of other people filtering in after him — at least two couples, and a single man who sat at the far end of the bar and started reading a newspaper. But Simon paid none of them any direct attention. He watched more carefully to see the bottle taken off the shelf and his drink poured without any legerdemain. After all, he reflected, the Borgias were Italians, and any bartender would be a likely candidate for the Mafia.

The general level of conversation, he was pleased to note, was pitched discreetly low.

He said to the bartender, just loudly enough for anyone who cared to overhear, “Tell me, I hear there are two restaurants claiming to be the original Alfredo’s — the place that’s famous for fettuccini . Which is the real one?”

The bartender grinned.

“Ah, yes, they make much propaganda against each other. But the real one, the old one, is in the Via della Scrofa.”

“Then I must have been taken to the imitation last night. Tonight I’ll have to try the old original.”

“You will have a good dinner.”

And that should be plenty of help to anyone who picked up the trail late, or who wanted to make plans ahead...

But nothing was likely to happen in the Excelsior cocktail lounge, which was obviously not adapted to tidy abductions, and the Saint was too impatient to wait there for long. The laughing face of Sue Inverest kept materializing in front of him, turning into a mask of pitiful terror, dissolving into imagined scenes of unspeakable vileness. He knew the mentality of men like Tony Unciello too well to be complacent about the inevitable passing of time. He wanted something to happen fast. He wanted to leave nothing undone that would help it to happen.

He finished his sherry, paid for it, and went out into the street again.

A glance at his watch only reasserted the fact that it was still early to go to dinner. He strolled up towards the Borghese Park, making a conscious effort to slow down a stride that wanted to hurry but had no place to hurry to.