Leslie Charteris - The Saint Returns

Naturally the Saint’s former lack of interest in the stranger immediately increased by one hundred per cent, and he sauntered back into the vicinity of the reception desk and pretended to study the contents of a magazine rack. The rumpled man with the newspaper was likewise affected by the guest’s arrival. He got to his feet, put down his paper, and hovered expectantly like a suppliant waiting his moment to petition the passing emperor.

“Good evening, sir,” said the blond receptionist pleasantly. “Do you have a reservation?”

The protuberant eyes fixed her scornfully.

“I take it you do not recognize me?”

The woman, since she clearly did not recognize him, was a little flustered.

“No, sir. I’m afraid not. I...”

“It doesn’t matter,” he grumbled. “My name is Drew, and I have a reservation.”

She found his card quickly.

“Mr. Eugene Drew?” she said.

“That’s correct.”

She pushed the register toward him and he scrawled a signature.

“I’ve read about you, Mr. Drew,” she said. “In the papers. Consolidated Steel, and the coal mines, and...”

Her belated recognition of his importance failed to mollify him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said abruptly. “Have you held the suite I requested?”

“Of course, sir. The porter will take you up.”

As Drew walked from the desk the man who had been waiting came up to him.

“Mr. Drew, sir,” he said in a low voice, with an ingratiating smirk, “me name is Blaney, correspondent for the London Echo.”

“Wonderful,” Drew remarked, with superciliousness that would have shriveled an apple on the spot. “Now if you’ll pardon me...”

“Just a word,” wheedled Blaney, “on the reasons for yer visit.”

“No comment.”

“Is there any truth in this talk ye’re interested in buyin’ into the Hardacre Group?”

“Get out of my way.”

Drew stepped around the reporter, who moved along with him crab-style.

“There’s rumors, sir,” the reporter said in a more intense but less audible tone, “that serious troubles in yer family have...”

Drew stopped and turned to face the speaker.

“I shall not forget your name, Blaney, and if you address one more question to me I shall contact Lord Abbeyvale, the proprietor of your paper, and request that he dismiss you immediately. I assure you he will respect my wishes.”

The reporter, beaten, backed away with cringing nods.

“Thank yer, sir. Thank yer very kindly in any case.”

As Blaney made his exit, Simon returned to the corridor down which Mildred had disappeared. Before he had gone more than a few steps, however, he heard Drew’s name called breathlessly in the lobby he had just left. A glance over his shoulder told him that his alleged SS acquaintances from the trout stream had just come into the hotel — in dry clothes and unmuddied shoes — and were hurrying toward the elevator. They passed from his field of view, but he could hear the first exchange of words.

“Why are you alone?” Drew demanded.

“We thought we had her,” said one of the men, “but some bloke interfered. We have a strong clue, though, and we’ll soon pick up her trail, I’m sure.”

“Let’s not broadcast it to the whole world, shall we?” Drew said in a sharp, hushed voice. “Come to my room.”

There was a swoosh as the elevator doors closed behind them, and Simon was left with time for a few moments of silent meditation before Mildred rejoined him.

First, the SS man’s speech had betrayed more influences of Liverpool than of Berchtesgaden. He had no German accent at all. That came as no surprise to the Saint, who by now had about as much confidence in Mildred’s veracity as he did in the Flat Earth theory. The next obvious question was, then, what exactly was her relation to Eugene Drew?

Simon’s speculations on that were delayed by the cautious arrival of Mildred herself.

“He’s gone,” Simon said.

“Who?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“The man you were running away from.”

“I wasn’t running away. I told you where I was going.”

The Saint pushed the elevator button.

“Your friends are here,” he said casually.

“What friends?”

“Your SS friends.”

She looked completely shattered, and all but pulled at the parting elevator doors to get inside, glancing fearfully over her shoulder.

“Where? Did they see you?”

“No,” Simon said. “Nothing to worry about.”

He told the elevator operator his floor and discouraged Mildred from any more talking with a warning shake of his head. As soon as they were in his room she wanted to know everything.

“They came in and went straight for that fellow I thought you were avoiding,” said Simon, opening a suitcase on the bed and beginning to pack immediately, as Mildred paced up and down the Donegal carpeting.

“How could they have followed us here?” she asked, biting the edge of one of her pink-painted fingernails.

“I don’t think they did. They seemed to have an appointment with the gentleman you weren’t running away from — Eugene Drew.”

She showed no reaction at the name.

“You wouldn’t have heard of him, of course,” Simon continued, “considering the sheltered life you’ve led. But he’s one of the biggest industrialists in Northern Ireland.”

Mildred stopped pacing, and sucked in her lower lip.

“Maybe he’s one of them,” she theorized suddenly. “I heard them mention a man called Kleinschmidt, who changed his name and was some kind of Nazi agent here even before the war. He’s probably scheduled to take over all of Ireland when they make their move.”

The Saint looked at her with a kind of ambiguous admiration.

“Fantastic,” he said. “In a single day you’ve changed my whole picture of the history of our times.”

The phone rang, and Simon answered. It was Pat Kelly.

“I’m back in me own little room,” he said, “and sober as a judge, in case ye’re wonderin’. Shall we meet in the lobby in twenty minutes?”

“Fine,” said Simon. “I’m just about ready now.”

He was travelling light, and he had not even removed most of his clothes — the ones for fishing and country wear — from the suitcase during his short stay at the hotel. So he had only to pack his toilet kit, and then he was ready to call for the porter.

“I think we’ll send you down the stair well,” he said to Mildred. “Your guardians wouldn’t be likely to use it, and I’ll meet you...”

There was a knock at the door. Mildred froze and her eyes grew wide.

“It’s them,” she whispered.

“Clairvoyant too?” asked the Saint.

Mildred looked like a frightened rabbit.

“Who else could it be?”

“Maybe I’ve just won the sweepstakes,” the Saint suggested. “But in case you’re right, get in the wardrobe.”

She obeyed, and Simon hurried into the bathroom as the knocking continued. He took the bath brush from its rack and laid it on the edge of the washbasin so that the brush was under the faucet. He put an empty plastic soap dish on the brush and turned on the tap just enough to produce a fast drip. Within a short time the soap dish would fill enough with water to unbalance the brush and make it fall into the basin. The whole operation took only a few moments.

Simon closed the bathroom door, making sure the key was in the outside. Then he pushed the door of the wardrobe firmly shut and went to answer the knocking. While he was prepared for anything, the Saint was nevertheless a little surprised to see Mildred’s SS guardians standing there. He had considered the bath brush ticket a probable waste of energy.

But he did not show his surprise any more than he betrayed any concern over the pistol in the fat man’s hand. His face was as serene as his afternoon had been before they and Mildred had interrupted it.