Лесли Чартерис - The Saint

“Yes, I read that in the paper.”

“They are enamored of one another...”

“Karpov?”

“Russell and Templar,” clarified Teal. “I have no doubt that she knows his whereabouts, and if he is back in the U.K. or not. I also believe that she was not forthright with us in her debriefing upon her return from Moscow.”

“No doubt.”

Teal chewed faster.

“Whatever is really going on with the Saint is definitely tied in to this entire Tretiak business and international espionage regarding cold fusion.”

Teal paused. By broaching international espionage, he was tossing the proverbial ball onto a court out of his jurisdiction.

The commissioner leaned back in his chair and projected a thoughtful air. The detective allowed his meditating superior an appropriate measure of silence.

When the commissioner next spoke, the presentation took Teal by complete surprise.

With his mustache in one hand, he arose from his chair, came out from behind the desk, walked over in front of Inspector Teal, and sat down on the desk’s edge. He leaned forward and spoke in hushed tones.

“I’m going to ask you a question, Teal. And I want you to answer it as if your entire career depended upon the honesty of your answer, because it does.”

The detective’s languid lids snapped open as if they were window shades.

“I beg your pardon...”

“Listen to me and answer me with absolute veracity,” insisted the commissioner.

Teal stopped chewing.

“I need to know, right now, between the two of us...” he leaned so close to Teal that he almost fell off the desk. “Has Sir Hamilton Dorn given you any special instructions regarding Simon Templar of which I may be unaware?”

In his three decades with Scotland Yard, Chief Inspector Claude Eustace Teal had never before found himself in such a politically charged position. Had he been a man of lesser intellect, he would have blurted out the honest answer immediately. He was not a man of lesser intellect.

He eyed his superior drowsily and appeared to stifle a yawn.

“You are well aware, sir, that had Sir Hamilton Dorn instructed me to do anything, and had he invoked confidentiality necessitated by national security, I would have to comply with his request.”

The commissioner slapped his thighs.

“So, do you mean to tell me that Dorn wanted the Saint to vanish in Moscow, not to be seized and extradited?”

Teal felt the balance of power shift in his favor.

“I didn’t exactly say that, sir. But I think you and I can reach an understanding.” If he could have forced a convincing smile, he would have.

The commissioner smiled encouragingly.

“If you would be so kind as to take me into your confidence regarding the matter, I’ll do the same,” offered Inspector Teal.

Fair enough.

The commissioner stood and began pacing about the office.

“Politics, Teal. Damn politics. You know how I hate it when we get the rug pulled out from under us by Special Branch or MI5...”

Teal mumbled and nodded.

“I know British Intelligence is having fits about Tretiak, Templar, Russia, and this whole Russell affair. They have no reason to tell us anything more than they want to. And that means this so-called Saint could be a clandestine operative of Her Majesty’s government, the CIA, or even the French. The French!”

The commissioner had a personal problem with the French.

“If Simon Templar is a deep-cover agent, or if he’s been drafted or pressured into serving some major player in the intelligence community. Sir Hamilton Dorn would be perfectly happy to let Scotland Yard look foolish and incompetent if it served what he calls ‘the greater good.’ ”

“I’m sure it’s happened before, sir,” agreed Teal.

“Damn right! Not that I don’t support the best interests of the Crown, mind you, but if Dorn’s messing with a priority investigation of Scotland Yard and not informing me of it...”

Teal looked more tired than ever.

“And so,” added the dour detective, “there is the possibility that certain government agencies have a vested interest in keeping Simon Templar out of jail and up to his neck in international intrigue. He could be on his own, or under someone’s thumb.”

The commissioner stood at the window combing the remains of his mustache.

Teal stood and held his bowler over his protruding stomach.

“Well, Teal, tell me.”

“The honest answer is that Simon Templar, despite the massive media attention given his antics in Russia, managed to disappear from Moscow. He has not, to this point in time, been apprehended. That does not mean that if we bring him in, that Sir Hamilton Dorn wouldn’t arrange his release for purposes of, shall we say, ‘voluntary conscription.’ ”

Perfect.

Teal managed to confirm his failure while deflecting attention and suspicion back on Sir Hamilton Dorn.

“Of course,” added the detective, “were Dorn to arrange a release on the condition that Templar serve Her Majesty’s government, it would be in the national interest.”

“Oh, yes. Absolutely.”

“And in such a situation, I’m sure that you would be the first informed, and perhaps the only one so informed. After all, I may be chief inspector, but you’re the commissioner of Scotland Yard.”

The tiny comb returned to the commissioner’s pocket. He turned and smiled warmly at Inspector Teal.

“Thank you. Thank you for your honesty and dedication, Inspector.”

Teal nodded.

“Do you have any idea where this Templar may have gone, or what he may do?”

The detective’s bowler hat began moving in circular motions, propelled by pudgy fingers.

“We haven’t seen the last of him. He’s out there, somewhere. Wherever he is, whatever the reality of the situation, there’s one thing we know for sure — Dr. Emma Russell is in love with him. That means the feeling may be mutual. If so, there is an off chance that Templar will show up at the physicists convention at Oxford tomorrow.”

The commissioner cocked his head.

“Were you and Rabineau planning to be there?”

Teal shifted his ample weight

“As I said, it’s an off chance. There is tremendous security for the event as it is, sir.”

“Be there, Teal. Even if it is a waste of time, we need to have a strong presence. Dorn’s men will be, probably disguised as gentlemen. ”

It was clear that the masculine descriptive was not intended as a compliment.

Between Oxford and Bath, half hidden in the deep woods, was a secluded farmhouse which, despite the corporate shell who’s name adorned the deed, was among the property assets of Simon Templar.

This isolated abode was one of the Saint’s more rustic temporary residences. He owned or leased several habitats, in numerous residential areas under a variety of names.

There was an impressive apartment maintained at #7 Upper Berkely Mews in the name of Sebastian Tombs, another at Cornwall House in Piccadilly leased to Louis Hayward, and a rather respectable-looking house in Home Counties Weybridge sold to a wealthy gent calling himself Hugh Sinclair. All these men were the Saint, and all these properties were utilized for his diverse purposes.

Today the purpose was romance.

Dr. Emma Russell turned off her car’s ignition and waited for the VW’s engine to rattle its way to silence before setting the hand brake. She eagerly pulled the Bug’s reluctant and wobbly handle and gave the door an encouraging shove with her shoulder. She exited, took a deep breath, and walked toward the farmhouse door.

It was unlocked. She let herself in.

Feeling a bit like Goldilocks sneaking into the Three Bears’ cottage, Emma looked around the rustic rooms. There was no porridge on the stove, but there was a warm fire glowing from the bedroom hearth.