Leslie Charteris - The Saint Returns

“Almost finished now. Eight... nine...”

The Saint did not exactly see Molière run for the rear of the shop. Like a startled bird, the terrified man was halfway out of sight before anyone saw him move. Simon watched with calm approval, locking the shutter mechanism of the camera.

“What is happening?” Smolenko asked. “This has gone far enough. You play with us.”

“Apparently our comrade doesn’t feel like playing. But don’t worry. He won’t get away. Igor’s covering the back entrance.”

Smolenko looked with a puzzled expression over the Saint’s shoulder.

“Igor?”

Simon turned. Igor was standing there, beaming complacently.

“Igor covering you, comrade. Not so stupid as you think.”

“You pinheaded baboon — he’s getting away!”

The Saint shoved the man aside and raced toward the back door.

“Halt!” Igor cried, going for his pistol.

Smolenko’s hand darted toward the guard’s wrist, but Simon had already halted. Molière was bouncing out of sight down the alley in an old Renault. The Saint turned on Igor.

“Get Ivan to help you, and catch that man. I don’t care if it takes you the rest of your life... find Molière!”

“I demand to know what is going on,” Smolenko said.

“Okay, I’ll show you. Watch.”

Simon brought out the lighter.

“You see, this has a delayed action adjustment on it. You can press the shutter release button and the shutter won’t actually open for ten seconds. I’ll set it on delayed action. I’ve taken nine pictures. This will be the tenth and last.”

He walked several yards along the alley to a waist-high garbage pail. Setting the delayed-action switch and pressing the shutter button, he dropped the miniature camera into the metal pail and came quickly away.

“Stay over here, now, and in just about three seconds...”

There was a loud, muffled boom, and the walls of the pail bulged fatly outward as the lid took off for housetop level. The Saint’s and Smolenko’s eyes, along with Igor’s and Ivan’s, followed the trajectory of the metal disk until it clattered back to the cobblestones of the alley.

“There but for the grace of God go I,” Simon said soberly.

“Igor,” Smolenko said, her eyes full of fire, her voice like a saber blade slashing air, “go and find that man.”

She slipped into Russian, but it was clear from her tone if nothing else that Comrade Molière could not look forward to a very happy life in the near future, and that that future might not be very extensive.

Smolenko confronted the Saint as Ivan and Igor pounded away on the double.

“Now,” she said. “How do you know this?”

She jerked her head toward the bulging garbage can. Her voice was dangerous, but the Saint was not easily awed.

“I saw the device demonstrated in Berlin, by a gentleman working with Western intelligence: A lighter exactly like that one, exploding on the tenth frame.”

“So,” she said, “it is your people behind this.”

“No. They were merely trying to understand the workings of your equipment — the equipment, I mean, which has developed such a nasty habit of blowing up in your agents’ faces of late. I already explained to you on the train about the British fear of pointless bloodshed among their agents and yours.”

“Very humane. And I am supposed to believe your stories?”

“How many times do I have to save your life before you begin to have a little faith in me?”

“Faith is stupidity.”

“I think it would also be slightly stupid to wait here until some cop who heard the explosion comes looking for what made it.”

She looked at him as he hurried her away from the music shop. When she finally spoke again, her voice was more subdued.

“I thank you. For saving my life.”

“I suppose you’re welcome. I haven’t decided yet.”

They continued on for several minutes through a tangle of back streets.

“I’ll say one thing for you,” Simon remarked. “You’re probably the first woman I’ve ever met who can keep up with my pace when I’m evading the law.”

“I walk three miles every morning.”

“If you’d like to compete,” Simon said, “we could try wrestling.”

Smolenko smiled, and it was the first time the Saint had seen in her expression the vestiges of the child which linger in the faces of most really beautiful women.

“I might injure you,” she said.

“I shudder to think what I might do to you.”

She looked away and slowed her steps as they passed the display window of a parfumerie.

“These goods are very expensive, I suppose,” she said with elaborate casualness.

“I’m surprised you’d notice.”

“Mr. Templar, your insinuations to the contrary, I am not quite a total automaton. I notice the colors of fabrics. I enjoy nice smells. If I were a man I should use shaving lotions, which are pleasant and effective. Since I am a woman I use perfume, on some suitable occasions, and I wear dresses and often stockings. I even have experienced a love life, it may astonish you to learn. We have no need of false inhibitions in the socialist state.”

“And you accept that some love life is necessary for the procreation of the race.”

“Of course, but...” She broke off abruptly. “This is a ridiculous conversation. Are we going to the hotel by this route?”

“Eventually. For the moment we’re probably safer wandering around here than sitting back at the hotel.”

“Safer?” she asked. “But certainly Molière will not think of trying to harm us now that we know about him. He will be too busy trying to save himself.”

“Colonel, I’m surprised at you. Do you seriously think that Molière is the root of the problem, or even the most important part of it? He was much too easy a nut to crack. He gave himself away almost from the instant we walked into that shop. He was inept and practically shaking with fear when the scheme he’d been taking part in at a comfortable distance moved onto his own doorstep. He’s only a piece in the puzzle.”

“Igor and Ivan will find him — and see that he talks.”

“Before that, he may talk to his own associates, and they will reorganize to have another go at us. Probably they have something in the works already, since they know they flunked out on the train. In the meantime, we may as well amuse ourselves. The shops will still be open for another couple of hours, and I need to do a little shopping. I didn’t have time to pack a bag before I caught that train in Berlin.”

“We shall part here then,” Smolenko said.

“For safety’s sake, let’s meet at this spot in two hours and go back to the hotel together. Then I shall have the privilege, I hope, of taking the most beautiful colonel in the world out for one of the most beautiful dinners in the world. Assuming we don’t get our heads blown off over cocktails.”

“There is no such company as Grossmeyer, Cardin et Fils,” said Simon, “in Zurich or anywhere near it.”

They had just come back to the suite. The golden light of a setting sun fell directly through the windows, giving a touch of splendor to the otherwise uninspiring rooms.

“So that is why you went to the telegraph office and looked at the directories,” Smolenko said.

His blue eyes opened wide and mocking.

“Do you actually admit that you were following me?”

She smiled.

“Why, of course.”

“I somehow sensed those lovely brown eyes on the back of my neck,” Simon said calmly, “but I figured you were safer toddling along after me than getting yourself lost in the big, bad city. Didn’t I lose you right after the wineshop?”