Leslie Charteris - The Saint Returns

“How much do you remember about Hitler’s death?”

When Simon returned from his room, showered and immaculately dressed, he found Kelly looking dazed and Mildred chattering like a magpie just recovered from laryngitis.

“Simon!” the Irishman exclaimed. “Ye should only hear what she’s been tellin’ me!”

His sidewise look at the Saint held more doubt than his voice. He obviously wanted some confirmation or denial, but he got only a helpless gesture of upturned hands.

“Let’s go eat,” Simon said. “Mildred’s problem isn’t the kind of thing I like to think about with an empty stomach.”

She clutched his arm in what was becoming an habitual gesture.

“I’m frightened to go out,” she said. “What if they...”

“No need to be frightened while I’m about,” Kelly assured her, displaying a fist big enough to crack the Blarney stone. “Simon an’ me have handled worse than a couple o’ second-hand supermen.”

“And we don’t even need to leave the hotel,” Simon said. “The Grill here is as good as anyplace in town.”

As they were leaving the bar, Kelly stopped, tucked in his chin, and stared down at Mildred.

“But only imagine,” he said, “a tiny thing like this going to conquer the world!”

Simon placed his fork on the platter which minutes before had been heaped with the delectable cadavers of Dublin Bay prawns, looked contentedly around at the elegant red and black decor of the Gresham Grill, and finally let his gaze come to rest on Mildred, who avoided a direct meeting with its intensity by chasing a last bit of lettuce across the salad plate. Kelly was still engaged in demolishing a double-cut steak done to dry death in the manner admired by true Gaelic countrymen.

“Mildred,” said the Saint thoughtfully, “what are we going to do about you?”

She shrugged uncomfortably.

“I don’t know. But I think I must get out of Dublin — and out of the country. I’ll hide someplace where they’ll never find me.” Her eyes grew brighter as inspiration began to flow again. “I once read a story about a girl who disguised herself as a boy and signed on a ship and nobody found out for months. I’ll take a schooner to the South Seas, and then I’ll...”

Kelly looked at her figure appreciatively as he mopped his mouth with a napkin.

“I’m afraid ye’d never get away with that disguise for more than an hour.”

“No,” said Simon. “I’m sure there must be a better way. Are you sure you’ve told us all the facts, exactly as they are?”

She looked him in the eye.

“As incredible as it sounds, it’s all the gospel truth.”

“And I don’t suppose you know anybody who can help you?” the Saint said.

“Not a soul. Only you — and I’ve given you too much trouble already — and put you in danger.”

She closed her eyes and tears appeared on her long brown lashes. The Saint and Kelly exchanged unbelieving but concerned glances.

“Simon,” said the Irishman, “shure and to let her go now would be like castin’ out a kitten in a snowstorm.” He pushed back his chair and gave the table a decisive thump with a meaty paw. “If talk were cloth a man might have the makin’s of an overcoat— An ould soldier like me can’t stand such a quantity of speech without no action. Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll take her out to my place. It’s so far from anything, God Himself couldn’t find it with a guidebook. There she’ll be safe, and Simon and me won’t mind havin’ a nice little girl about the house to make things cozy when we come in from fishin’ all day.” He looked at Mildred. “Me dear wife’s down in Cork visitin’ her mother, and I’m like a lost soul, with dirty dishes pilin’ clear up to the rafters.”

The Saint watched Mildred’s reactions to that speech and saw that she was delighted with the idea — though her eager expression wilted a little at the mention of dirty dishes.

“Well, Pat,” he said, “I couldn’t have thought of a better plan myself. If this poor misguided child honestly prefers us to the SS, she’s welcome to come along. Maybe a little fresh country air will clear our heads and give us some good ideas for the next step.”

Mildred was ecstatic.

“You really don’t mind?” she said excitedly. “You’ll let me come?”

Simon nodded.

“And I think the sooner we get on our way the better. It’s just possible those guardians of yours recognized my face and could trace us here.”

She gave him a puzzled look.

“Why should they recognize your face?”

Her ignorance offended Kelly’s pride of friendship.

“Good heavens, girl! Haven’t ye heard of the Saint? Simon Templar — the Saint?”

He seemed to think that if he spoke the name to her loud enough she would be bound to recognize it. But she looked at him blankly.

“Saint?” she said.

“Never mind,” said Simon. “Remember, she’s been cooped up in a convent for over twenty years.”

There was a ray of dawn on Mildred s face.

“You mean you’re famous,” she said. “And I didn’t even know it. I’m so sorry.”

“Didn’t they give ye any newspapers or anything in that place?” Kelly inquired, as Simon asked their waiter for the check.

“They were very careful about what I saw,” Mildred explained. “No newspapers or magazines. I was brought up to think of my father as a great hero who tried to save the West from Bolshevism, and I was told that even though he had lost the war there were still millions and millions of people who believed in his cause and were only waiting for something to give them the courage to stand up and be counted. Then one day I came across something in one of the convent’s books that showed me some of the other side of the story. I guess with all the books they let me read they were bound not to screen them all quite carefully enough. So when I realized what the rest of the world seemed to think of my father I was shocked.”

“Made ye see the light, did it?” Kelly said.

“Well, naturally I didn’t just turn right around and deny everything I’d been taught since I was born — but I had enough doubts to want to find out both sides of the story before I let anybody use me to lead a big political movement. That’s why I ran away.”

Simon stood up, putting money on the table.

“A wise decision,” he said. “Now I think you’d be safer coming up to my room while Pat and I pack than staying down here by yourself.”

“If ye don’t mind,” said Kelly, “I’ll have a final spot o’ gargle for me nerves, and then I’ll be off to get me things.”

Mildred went with Simon out to the lobby as Pat waved down the waiter. Most hotel guests who were going out were out by now, and the receptionist, a blond woman, was intent on her record books. A dowdy man in a rumpled suit was reading a newspaper nearby. Then a porter came through the main entrance from the street carrying a pair of expensive-looking leather bags. Behind him walked a tall thin gentleman of about fifty-five, with a strangely egg-shaped head, long grey hair falling thick on the back of his neck, and bulging brown eyes. He was obviously in a hurry, and with those enormous compelling eyes fixed on the receptionist toward whom he was heading he did not notice the Saint and Mildred, who by then had just reached the elevator at one side of the lobby.

Simon would have thought nothing about the newcomer if it had not been for Mildred’s reaction. In a fraction of a second all the color drained from her face and she gasped audibly.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she whispered, averting her head. “Ladies’ room.”

And she disappeared into a public corridor next to the elevator.