Leslie Charteris - The Saint Returns

“Factories, sir? Like where they make autos and things?”

“Any kind of factories.”

The girl shook her head.

“No. The only thing we make here is cheese, and there is no factory for that. It is done by the farmers at home.”

“Well,” Simon said, “in that case, thank you very much.”

“Bitte sehr. If you wish to see a factory you must go down to Zurich.”

Tanya turned back as she and Simon started away.

“I have a small radio that does not work. Can someone here fix it?”

“Nein. Es tut mir leid. We have no one to fix anything. If you want things like that, why do you come here?”

“Because I really love peace and quiet,” said the Saint.

He set a course that took them through the inquisitive village, across a little stream covered by a neatly built wooden bridge, and along a path that led straight up the slope of the surrounding meadow.

Tanya looked up ahead of them to the spot on the mountainside where man-made walls of gray stone were half hidden by evergreens.

“I hope you are not taking me on a wild-goose hunt,” she said, avoiding one of the manifold traces which grazing cows had left behind.

“‘Chase,’” Simon corrected her. “I didn’t really expect to find a transistor radio factory bringing prosperity to the peasants up here at the end of nowhere, but there just has to be some link with it.”

“At the monastery?”

“Yes. Think you can make it?”

“Of course. I can still be walking after you have dropped on your face.”

But she underestimated both the distance and Simon’s hard-muscled health. His sense of direction took them briskly on across the remainder of the Alpine meadow, past lovely patches of blue and yellow wild flowers, to the foot of a rocky trail that led through the dense forest that clung to the mountainside. A rustic sign with lettering carved precisely into it said: KLOSTER ¾ St.

“Three-quarters of an hour from here,” he said. “But if you’re in such great shape, we should be able to shave that to a half.”

He set off at a pace that would not have disgraced an energetic chamois. The slope was soon so steep that the path, such as it was, had to zigzag back and forth to maintain a reasonable gradient. Simon went on with springy steps, smiling to himself as he sensed Tanya’s increasing difficulties. He took a makeshift staff from some branches left by woodcutters and began to sing cheerily as they climbed on.

“Stop!” she cried at last; and he stopped and turned, with raised eyebrows.

“Am I that bad? It’s an old Tirolean song — perfectly respectable. I thought it went well with the scenery.”

“I can’t go on... so fast,” she panted shamelessly.

“Must be the thin air at this altitude,” Simon said, with devastating concern. “I should have remembered — it can get the greatest athletes down at first.”

She called him something unkind in Russian and flopped down on a pile of cut wood to rest.

“It can’t be much further now,” he said, after giving her a minute to catch her breath. “When we get there, just don’t say anything till I’ve decided what line to take.”

“Don’t you know what you are going to say?”

He shrugged.

“Only vaguely. It depends on what reception we get. But I have great faith in my ability to improvise. It hasn’t failed me yet.”

They came again to the stream they had crossed down in the meadow; here it had its source, gushing like a miraculous fountain from the rocks. Then, almost without warning, the cold stone of the monastery rose in front of the Saint and Smolenko. Whatever was inside the encircling walls could not be seen from where Simon and Tanya stood. Gates of massive hardwood braced with hand-wrought iron were solidly closed, and the only means of communication with the inside appeared to be a rusty bell with a pull-rope of plaited cowhide.

“Shall we?”

The Saint rang the bell, and for a long time there was no sound but the twittering of birds and the whisper of an afternoon breeze in the pine needles. Then, like something entirely unearthly, the voices of melodiously chanting men came from within the walls.

“They sound like professionals,” Simon said.

Tanya gave him a wry look.

“They are, of course,” she said. “Professional parasites on superstitious ignorance.”

“Oh, dear comrade, let’s not go into that.”

He rang again, vigorously, hoping to make the bell heard over the monkly devotions.

“It might be more polite to wait till they’ve finished, but they’re liable to go on for hours,” he explained.

“From what little I know about this order, they’re extremely hard on themselves. Don’t show their faces or say anything except prayers, except for one brother who has a dispensation to conduct any essential business. Dig their own graves and sleep in coffins and scourge themselves twice a day.”

“Charming,” said Tanya.

There was a rattling sound inside the thick gate, and a sliding board about a foot long and six inches high slid back to show a cowled and black-veiled head. The head said nothing, just hovered there.

“Gruss Gott,” said the Saint. “May we come in?”

The monk pressed his eyes to the opening as if to see whether or not there were others in the party.

“Grass Gott” the head replied in a voice much less sepulchral than its visible source. “There is not much to see.”

“I was told that visitors were always welcome if they made a contribution,” Simon said mendaciously.

“The contribution is always twenty francs. For only two, that would be ten francs each.”

“I should be glad to give it to such a deserving order.”

The open panel slammed shut. There were clanking noises on the other side of the portals, and a moment later one of them creaked partially open. The monk stood with his hand silently extended, palm upwards, until Simon placed the requisite coins in it.

“I am Brother Anton. The Brotherhood are at their devotions in the chapel, as you hear. It will be several hours before they come out, and of course I cannot allow you to disturb their meditations by entering that part of the building. But I will show you what little else I can.”

He gestured for them to follow, and together they crossed the open courtyard, which had a stone well with bucket and pulley in the center, and small but profusely growing vegetable gardens around the sides.

The cloister was built of stone so old that its surface was pitted and often crumbling. Here and there an Alpine flower had found a home in some niche or crevice, and velvety green moss grew on the roof shingles. As Simon saw, led and lectured by Brother Anton, the place was in the shape of a square, with the chapel and library comprising one side, the monks’ cells two sides, and the refectory and kitchen the fourth side. In the center, by the well, was a small inner quadrangle quartered by crossing walkways and possessed of two stone benches and a stagnant birdbath.

Simon and Tanya were allowed a brief look at all areas except the chapel, from which continued to come the sound of harmoniously chanting male voices. In the kitchen a lone monk, cowled and veiled, stood watch over a gigantic pot on the wood-burning stove. He turned to look at the visitors without noticeable reaction and then went back to his cooking. From the pot came a familiar but somehow inappropriate aroma which Simon could not immediately pin down. His mind was busy with other things.