Лесли Чартерис - The Saint

“That’s Rabineau, sir...”

“... and we’ll have a nice chat.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sensing Teal’s weariness, Dorn made an unusually friendly offer.

“I’ll even buy you a beer when you’re off duty.”

Teal gave it serious consideration before reciting his standard reply to offers of alcohol.

“Fat men ought not to drink, but I appreciate the gesture.”

“As you wish,” said Sir Hamilton Dorn.

Teal returned the telephone to its cradle and plopped himself back down in front of the television. On the screen, live from Russia, Simon Templar looked every bit the hero.

“Am I boring you, Inspector?”

It was Dr. Emma Russell who asked him the question during her debriefing in Teal’s office a few days after her return from Moscow.

“Don’t take it personally,” explained Rabineau, leaning back in her chair. “He always looks like that.”

“Has this Simon Templar made any threat to contact you in the future?” asked Teal as he unwrapped another stick of gum and folded it into his mouth.

“No. Actually, he never had a chance to say much of anything to me after I started running for the embassy.”

Rabineau drummed her well-manicured fingers on the desk. She was a recent graduate of Lord Trenchard’s famous Police College, and usually gave the impression of being very well satisfied with her degree.

“Quite a charmer, though, isn’t he?” offered Rabineau. “The Saint, I mean.”

Emma was guarded in her reply, but attempted to sound spontaneous.

“I admit he holds a certain short-term appeal. But if you’re referring to romance, all I got from Mr. Templar in Moscow was a series of near-death experiences.”

“Count yourself lucky,” insisted Teal. “Simon Templar is our top suspect in the Uffizi bombing in Florence a few years back...”

“An innocent woman was killed, along with two children,” added Rabineau.

Emma took the bait, snapping out an impassioned objection.

“No! He’s no murderer, Inspector...”

The two detectives exchanged glances. It had been a test, and Emma failed. Belatedly she sensed it.

“Or... maybe he is... who knows?” She was unconvincing.

Teal sat close to her and did his best to appear compassionate.

“It’s not unusual for kidnap victims to become enamored with their captors. Dr. Russell.”

Emma’s cheeks flushed.

“Simon Templar may be the Saint — and, from the looks of that Russian business, even a hero — but he’s obviously also a thief, a fraud, a criminal. He stole your life’s work, don’t forget. He isn’t a romantic hero, he has no lofty motives. Tell me. Dr. Russell, has his stolen wealth benefited anyone except himself?”

There was only one honest answer.

“No.”

Teal took her hand as would a well-intentioned clergyman.

“The Simon Templar who endangered your life in Moscow is not exactly the Robin Hood of modem crime.”

Emma sighed, nodded, and checked her watch. She couldn’t wait to get out of there.

“Look, there’s an important conference coming up. I’ve got to prepare my talk.”

Teal walked her to the door while Rabineau pretended to do paperwork.

“We understand. The British Physicists Conference, isn’t it? Been a lot of publicity about that one, several famous scientists making presentations. You have a life. We appreciate your taking the time.”

Emma smiled her best professional smile and left without looking back. Teal shut the door and turned to Rabineau.

“The situation seems perfectly obvious. Inspector Rabineau,” said Teal drowsily. “She’s in love with him.”

The hand-drawn map in the nervous grip of Dr. Emma Russell led her VW Bug down a winding English country road.

She had been perfectly honest in most of her comments to Inspector Teal — Simon Templar had not threatened to make contact with her. The fact that he had made contact indirectly and discreetly that very morning by leaving a detailed map to his whereabouts on the front seat of her car was an item best left out of official conversations.

Emma, to be fair in representing her moral and ethical dilemma, argued with herself quite intently about whether or not it was wise to rendezvous with the Saint. Returning first to Oxford, she admonished herself aloud while primping in front of a mirror.

“You’re smitten like a schoolgirl, Emma,” she advised herself, “and you really should have nothing further to do with him.”

She laughed at her own daring absurdity, walked out to her little VW Bug, and pointed it toward Bath, Avon.

“Purified by our kisses,” recited Emma, “we are healed.”

She found a certain irony in the history of her destination, for Bath’s fame rested on cleansing and purification.

According to a legend of which Emma was particularly fond, it was in 500 B.C. that Prince Bladud discovered the amazing curative powers of the natural hot springs. Afflicted with leprosy, he saw his swine healed of skin ailments after wallowing in the mud. He followed their example and was cured. It occurred to Emma Russell that perhaps she was only doing some mud wallowing of her own, but she preferred envisioning a more romantic and transformative outcome.

After all, she reasoned, when the Romans arrived in the first century a.d. they transformed Bath into England’s first spa resort, complete with a temple, theater, and even a gymnasium.

“From mud to majesty,” murmured Emma, “good things can come from unpleasant beginnings.”

And she thought of Simon Templar.

There was no way around her emotions. She was fascinated, enthralled, attracted, and fearful. The fear fueled the fire of her attraction.

The Saint had deceived her, rescued her, stolen from her, and given her freedom. He was the most astonishing combination of heroism and terrorism imaginable — a mystery more complex, elusive, and compelling than cold fusion itself.

Despite numerous opportunities to reverse direction an return to the familiar security of her tiny apartment and slowly swimming fish, Emma kept a firm foot on the gas pedal and an ongoing inner dialogue. The outcome of her internal debate was no surprise.

Emma was in love.

She followed the map’s directions perfectly.

The commissioner of Scotland Yard tugged relentlessly at his thinning mustache.

“The boys from Fleet Street are having a field day with this one, Teal.” He waved the Evening Clarion as if he could make it disappear. He couldn’t.

The silver-headed superior let go of his tattered lip hairs and slammed his fist on the table.

“Front page material,” continued the commissioner in his most authoritative dramatic tone, “byline by feature reporter Barney Malone, accompanied by a delightful photo of Simon Templar, alias the Saint — Scotland Yard’s Most Wanted Man — performing heroics in Russia. ‘Saint Saves Russian Democracy!’ ‘International Criminal or New World Hero?’ ”

He attempted throwing the newspaper against the wall, but it only flapped to the floor.

“The press loves making us look foolish, and you’ve made them so happy I’m surprised this Barney Malone fellow hasn’t proposed marriage.”

His monologue came to an abrupt conclusion, either from frustration or a lack of fresh verbiage. Teal chewed slowly, his lids hovering close to closing.

The commissioner stared at his melancholy chief inspector and shook his head in dismay.

“Do you have anything to say, Inspector Teal?”

Teal had plenty he would like to say, but his experience and professionalism forbade it.

“Sir,” he began calmly, “this Saint fellow is obviously a most unpredictable character with a lot of excess energy and some rather personal ideas of justice above the law. He also seems to be exerting some degree of influence over the judgement and emotions of Dr. Russell, not to mention the president of Russia, who wants to pin a medal on him.”