Leslie Charteris - The Saint Returns

The telephone rang, and the Saint answered it. He recognized Ivan’s thick voice in the receiver.

“Dascha,” Ivan said tersely.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Dascha,” the MGB man repeated impatiently. “Say her dascha.”

Simon covered the mouthpiece with his hand and turned to Tanya.

“It’s Ivan. He wants me to say you ‘dascha,’ whatever that means.”

“My code name,” she explained, taking the phone. “You don’t expect him to ask for Colonel Smolenko.”

She engaged in some heated Russian interchange which seemed to grow increasingly angry on her part and sparse on Ivan’s. She clamped down the receiver as if hitting the table with her fist.

“Idiots. They traced Molière to a village twenty kilometers from Paris but have not found him yet.”

“Where’s Ivan now?”

“A café in some place called Villeneuve, south of here. They are trying to hire a car. They promise they find Molière by morning. They assure me that they have his location, how do you say it, pinned down? But they will not be back here tonight.”

“Well, that’s very good. I don’t think we need them. With the local boss — who I assume is Molière — on the run it should take the Ungodly at least until tomorrow to conjure up another blast. Let’s see Paris, shall we?”

They did not see all of Paris, but they saw some of the best that Simon knew, which was the best there was. After cocktails in the jam-packed sophistication of the George V, he took her to dinner at the Tour d’Argent, not perhaps so much for its famous canard à la presse as for the entrancing view over the Seine to the floodlit cathedral of Notre Dame. Then when they were full of rich food and beauty and a bottle of ’34 Cheval Blanc settled with ballons of Delamain cognac, the intimacy of a short taxi ride transported them with hardly a perceptible break to one of those impeccably discreet hideaways which still defy the rising din of the discotheques, for those who prefer the Old World trappings of romance, a place of candlelight, soft music for dancing, and an agreeable absence of tourists.

After a few glasses of champagne on top of their earlier libations, Tanya Smolenko was as off guard and mildly giggly as most other women would have been under similar circumstances. The Saint led her onto the minuscule dance floor, whose meager dimensions were designed to foster intimate contact rather than terpsichorean athletics, and took her in his arms.

“I must admit,” he said, “that this is one of the most peculiar experiences of my life.”

Their bodies swayed slowly together to the muted sounds of gypsy violins.

“Bizarre,” she said, “but very nice.”

“There’s no other place like Paris, really.”

“All cities look well at night.”

“Tanya,” he said, “why don’t you relax and enjoy it? Answer me truthfully: doesn’t all this make your heart beat just the tiniest bit faster?”

“My heart? Of course not. What does it have to do with my heart?”

“You must have a heart somewhere.”

He slipped his right hand around and under her breast for a moment.

“There,” he said, “you do have one. And you aren’t telling me the truth. I estimate it’s about twenty beats a minute above normal.”

“My heart rate is always high. It is my metabolism. It has nothing to do with Paris.”

“No? How flattering. Anyway, it’s a beautiful metabolism.”

He drew her closer to him, their eyes meeting in a wordless communication. Then his lips touched hers in a light leisurely way until she turned her head.

When they returned to the hotel, the trucks of fresh vegetables were rumbling through the city toward predawn market, and the streets were wet from their nocturnal washing. It was one of those late hours which are best left indefinite, so as not to evoke exhaustion the next day by their very recollection.

Simon simply avoided looking at his watch, prolonging the blissful timeless state in which he and Tanya had existed since the sun went down. And if he, who had known virtually all the pleasures of the world, was happy, Tanya, who apparently had known very little beyond the comparatively harsh environment of her birthplace, was euphoric. She was also slightly drunk, which the Saint was not.

As they entered the suite and Simon closed the door, she held both his hands and looked him in the face.

“I had a most beautiful time.”

“So did I, Tanya; I think you’d make any night a success — when you were off duty.”

She smiled and slipped her hands to his shoulders, shyly inviting another kiss. But the Saint, moving closer, noticed something on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he said, stooping to pick up the envelope, “but these days one can’t be too careful. It’s for you, my dear. Feels light and flexible enough. Probably the only thing explosive involved will be me if it turns out to be a billet-doux from a rival admirer.”

She smiled and looked curiously at the envelope.

“From Switzerland.”

“Do all women do that?” Simon asked, going over to the fresh bucket of ice and bottle of Evian he’d requested in advance be sent up to keep his bottle of Peter Dawson company after the witching hour.

“What?”

“Try to figure out who letters are from before they open them. Don’t you have agents in Switzerland?”

She was intent now on slitting the envelope and unfolding the rather heavy paper of the letter. Simon, in order not to seem to pry, devoted his attention to pouring drinks. Tanya’s scream took him by surprise.

“Simon! What...”

He saw the edges of the letter, as if touched by an invisible flame, begin to curl and turn brown.

“Drop it!” he snapped, and reacted faster than a pouncing cat.

By the time the letter reached the floor he was emptying the ice and water from the bucket over it. His aim was so accurate that the paper was completely sodden, and after emitting a few dying wisps of steam it lay harmlessly on the carpet, a wrinkled sheet of scorched brown.

“The envelope,” Tanya said.

Simon had already thought of that and assured himself that it lay inert and inactive where Tanya had let it fall.

“Your friends,” he said, “impress me with the variety of distractions they manage to throw our way. I don’t know if that was supposed to burn us up, blow us up, or gas us, but...”

“When I find who does this...”

“You and me both,” Simon said, admiring the expressively murderous clenching of her fist.

“I crush him like a bedbug.”

“I’ve never had the pleasure of that particular type of violence, but I sympathize completely with your feelings.”

He picked up the envelope and examined it.

“Lined with black inside. Sealed airtight, I’m sure. The paper was obviously some sort of plastic sensitized to go off when it was exposed to light and air.”

Tanya stood directly in front of him and looked into his eyes very seriously.

“Simon Templar, I have come to trust you. For good reasons. This is the third time, at least, that you save my life. And I know that being together like this, and being who we are, we... have a physical attraction. But that could happen even between enemies. A biological thing. I am not ashamed of it.”

“Neither am I.”

“But Simon — who am I to think... After all, consider my position. Who am I to think is behind these things if not the British and Americans? Surely not my own men. Why? Why would they? The whole thing is so pointless. For instance I carry no information or plans in my head on this mission which would make me dangerous to any nation. There is nothing I might reveal. And if I were gone, somebody else would immediately replace me. Yet there have been several attempts on my life already. Can you blame me for suspecting the most obvious enemy?”