Leslie Charteris - The Saint Returns

Simon Templar had seen Paris many times, and in many seasons, but never as a colonel of the Soviet Secret Police, and never in quite such precarious circumstances.

The hotel was not exactly of the class he would have chosen either, but apparently it impressed red travel agents as striking the proper tone between capitalistic extravagance and unbecoming shoddiness. His own taste ran to such palaces as the George V, where he could treat himself to the level of luxury that he felt any self-respecting buccaneer deserved, but he realized that Smolenko might have to conform to a more ascetic expense account.

Of all the more gracious hostelries he had frequented, however, he could not recall one that he had entered with such an entourage. In addition to a pair of bellboys, there were Igor and Ivan lumbering along the thinly carpeted hallway on either side of him like a movie gangster’s bodyguards, and Simon’s new secretary, the former Colonel Smolenko, looking decidedly mussed by the long train journey, but still more attractive than she had any right to be, considering her almost total disdain for the civilized amenities which women ordinarily find indispensable for any sort of decent public appearance.

As the hotel employees opened the unimpressive suite, Igor and Ivan hurried inside and began inspecting the three bedrooms, the baths, and the closets. The porters went away looking surprised at the size of Simon’s tip.

“Please,” Ivan said, dragging two straight chairs to the center of the living room. “Down.”

Colonel Smolenko sat in one of the chairs, half smiling at Simon’s mystification.

“They want us out of the way while they search,” she explained. “What you call, I think, standard operation procedure.”

The Saint watched as the security agents pulled out drawers, looked behind pictures, peered and felt under table tops and rugs.

“Do a thorough job, boys,” he said encouragingly. “From now on practically anything you touch could go bang.”

“They are experts,” Smolenko said frostily. “They need no advice.”

“You forget, darling,” Simon said, “I am in command now. I need no advice from a mere secretary, especially one who probably can’t even take shorthand.”

“Mr. Templar...”

“Colonel to you. You communists carry this equality business much too far.”

Smolenko’s lips tightened for a moment.

“You ask for trouble.”

“I have trouble, and I didn’t ask for it. As a matter of fact, it occurs to me that as long as we’re the same person we may as well be friends. Any objection to that?”

Smolenko simmered for another few moments, breathed deeply, and shook her head.

“I’m glad you’re so understanding,” the Saint continued. “After all, I’m not a philanthropist in any ordinary sense of the word, but what I’m doing is entirely for your own good.”

She gave an uncertain jerk of her head.

“You doubt me?” he asked. “You have good reason to. As a matter of fact I’d have been gone long before this if I could have managed to contact someone to pass the job on to.”

“My men would have stopped you.”

“Don’t tempt me to take that as a dare.”

There was an awkward silence. Simon stretched his long legs and yawned.

“I can’t even think of anything I might be able to steal,” he said gloomily.

“Naturally you would think in terms of the profit motive,” Smolenko said.

He nodded agreeably.

“Of course.”

There was no sound for a while but the pushings and pullings and probings of the security twins.

“Have you been in Paris before?” Simon asked finally.

“No.”

“You’ll be out shopping for clothes, I imagine, while I’m tracking down the manufacturers of those noisy cigarette lighters.”

“Why?”

“Well, women tend to associate Paris with fashions — and you surely can’t be intending to go around this city in that coat.”

She flushed and smoothed the rumpled material.

“In ordinary circumstances a man would not dare to speak to me in that manner.”

“Would you send him to Siberia, or have him shot?”

“You think we are barbarians, don’t you?”

“Not necessarily. I just think you have poor taste in clothes.”

“Clothing I regard as necessary covering to maintain body temperature. That is its only use.”

“Then I’d love to spend a couple of weeks with you on a South Sea island.”

Igor was taking a vase of roses apart, looking inside each blossom. Finding nothing, he threw the whole bouquet out the window.

“Not a nature lover, your friend,” the Saint commented.

“He is trained to distrust all manifestations of bourgeois sentimentality.”

“Here we are back to your favorite subject again.”

“All good, polkovnik,” Igor said, pointedly addressing himself exclusively to Smolenko.

“Fine,” Simon replied. “Now you boys may unpack your suitcases and...”

There was a tap at the door. Simon smiled with anticipation.

“The champagne.”

Smolenko looked horrified.

“Champagne?”

“I ordered it when we checked in.”

Ivan and Igor dashed for the door and stood on either side of it. Ivan yanked it open. The startled waiter blinked, then stepped hesitantly inside. Simon indicated the most convenient table, where the waiter put down the ice bucket and glasses, rattling the crystal when he heard the door slammed and locked behind him.

“Voila, m’sieu,” he said nervously.

“Open it, please,” the Saint said in French.

“Oui, m’sieu.”

The waiter eased the cork toward release, looking more and more uneasy as the other occupants of the room moved several yards away from him.

“If you please, m’sieu, is something wrong?”

“We shall see,” said Simon. “Open the bottle.”

At the pop of the cork everyone in the room except the Saint, who had long ago learned to control such easily anticipated reflexes, gave an undignified jump. The waiter’s forehead was glistening with perspiration. He splashed a little of the Bollinger into a glass and offered it to the Saint. The Saint offered it to Smolenko, who gestured toward Ivan, who yielded to Igor. Simon handed the glass to the waiter.

“You taste it.”

“Moi, m’sieu?” the man asked, astounded.

“Oui. Vous”

“Merci, m’sieu.”

The waiter took a sip and managed a sickly smile.

“All of it,” said Simon, touching the base of the glass with a fingertip.

The waiter drained it, then stood trying to preserve some semblance of nonchalance as four pairs of eyes studied his every twitch.

“That is all,” the Saint told him at last. “You may go now.”

When Ivan opened the door, the waiter hurried out with relief. Simon filled the glasses as Igor gave the tray and the bottom of the bottle a close inspection.

“Cheers.”

Smolenko raised her glass grudgingly.

“This is generous of you.”

“You’re very kind, but I’m not paying for it.”

“Who is?”

“The Kremlin, of course. We’re on an expense account, aren’t we?”

Smolenko glared at him.

“Your file is quite correct. You are nothing but a mercenary adventurer.”

“And one who likes staying alive. While we’re dawdling merrily here, evil wheels are turning in this city. Your rather spectacularly defective electronic equipment is purchased from Paris. Klaus said he was hired here, by a man who knew the number of your compartment. If they were confident enough not to be watching the train when it arrived, they’ll be suspicious when Klaus fails to report — so all in all our best course is to trace them before they trace us.”