The Saint Abroad Read online

  THE ADVENTURES OF THE SAINT

  Enter the Saint (1930), The Saint Closes the Case (1930), The Avenging Saint (1930), Featuring the Saint (1931), Alias the Saint (1931), The Saint Meets His Match (1931), The Saint Versus Scotland Yard (1932), The Saint’s Getaway (1932), The Saint and Mr Teal (1933), The Brighter Buccaneer (1933), The Saint in London (1934), The Saint Intervenes (1934), The Saint Goes On (1934), The Saint in New York (1935), Saint Overboard (1936), The Saint in Action (1937), The Saint Bids Diamonds (1937), The Saint Plays with Fire (1938), Follow the Saint (1938), The Happy Highwayman (1939), The Saint in Miami (1940), The Saint Goes West (1942), The Saint Steps In (1943), The Saint on Guard (1944), The Saint Sees It Through (1946), Call for the Saint (1948), Saint Errant (1948), The Saint in Europe (1953), The Saint on the Spanish Main (1955), The Saint Around the World (1956), Thanks to the Saint (1957), Señor Saint (1958), Saint to the Rescue (1959), Trust the Saint (1962), The Saint in the Sun (1963), Vendetta for the Saint (1964), The Saint on TV (1968), The Saint Returns (1968), The Saint and the Fiction Makers (1968), The Saint Abroad (1969), The Saint in Pursuit (1970), The Saint and the People Importers (1971), Catch the Saint (1975), The Saint and the Hapsburg Necklace (1976), Send for the Saint (1977), The Saint in Trouble (1978), The Saint and the Templar Treasure (1978), Count On the Saint (1980), Salvage for the Saint (1983)

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2014 Interfund (London) Ltd.

  Foreword © 2014 Richard Usher

  Preface © 1969 Leslie Charteris

  Publication History and Author Biography © 2014 Ian Dickerson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  ISBN-13: 9781477843000

  ISBN-10: 1477843000

  Cover design by David Drummond, www.salamanderhill.com

  CONTENTS

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  FOREWORD TO THE NEW EDITION

  PREFACE

  THE ART COLLECTORS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  THE PERSISTENT PATRIOTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  PUBLICATION HISTORY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  WATCH FOR THE SIGN OF THE SAINT!

  THE SAINT CLUB

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  The text of this book has been preserved from the original edition and includes vocabulary, grammar, style, and punctuation that might differ from modern publishing practices. Every care has been taken to preserve the author’s tone and meaning, allowing only minimal changes to punctuation and wording to ensure a fluent experience for modern readers.

  FOREWORD TO THE NEW EDITION

  The early 1980s were a glorious period for law-abiding young bookworms with “secret buccaneering dreams” to indulge themselves in the adventures of the notorious Simon Templar, alias the Saint. For one thing, there were so few distractions, no e-mail, no video games to speak of, and only four TV channels. In the UK, crisp new copies of Count on the Saint could be found in some branches of WH Smith, and well-thumbed paperbacks featuring the “Robin Hood of Modern Crime” could be found on the shelves of discerning second-hand bookshops. Best of all, many of the Saint’s classic adventures could often be found gracing the shelves of your local public library. It was in one such public library, a dimly lit, eerily silent municipal athenaeum with strangely smoky strip lights, that I first encountered The Saint Abroad.

  I was lucky to discover the literary Saint in the way that I did, my interest sparked by the fairly regular reruns of Return of the Saint on ITV, offering enough excitement to spice up even the most somnolent Sunday. This action-packed TV series, bookended by a gloriously quirky title sequence and a memorable theme tune, left an indelible impression on my boyhood imagination. So, when I discovered a series of books in my local library displaying the impeccably dressed Ian Ogilvy on their covers, it was a done deal—I handed over my library ticket and felt a tingle of excitement as the punch of ink on paper date-stamped them to my care for the next two weeks.

  The Saint Abroad was one of the books ceremoniously stamped into my custody by the seemingly stereotypical librarian. I can’t recall if there was a photograph of the Saint on the cover, but it didn’t really matter as I began to read those marvellous adventure stories written by Leslie Charteris. I was suddenly whisked away to Paris, a place I’d only really heard about through my school geography and French lessons. “The Art Collectors”—for that was the title of the first story—brought this foreign city to life in ways that dusty old textbooks simply could not. The finer nuances of plot probably failed to register, but kidnap attempts, expensive works of art, crisp dialogue, and the odd fight scene kept my interest throughout. I so enjoyed that first literary adventure with Simon Templar that I looked forward to our next excursion in “The Persistent Patriots” even more, and I wasn’t to be disappointed! There was more of that humorous Saintly dialogue, plenty of the Ungodly ripe for a bopping, and my first encounter with Simon Templar’s old sparring partner, Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal.

  A good book is sometimes a bit like that good friend you don’t see very often—there is a comfort to being in their company, and you somehow fall back into your relationship and pick up where you left off, even if it’s years since you were last together. That’s how I sometimes feel about the Saint books, and having reread The Saint Abroad fairly recently, it felt like I’d enjoyed a fabulous reunion (minus the hangover and the bar bill!). If this is your first acquaintance with the book, I think you will enjoy yourself in the company of Simon Templar as he becomes embroiled in typically exciting adventures in France, the tropical African territory of Nagawiland, and foggy old London town (with a brief excursion into rural Berkshire). That said, this book is perhaps one of the more leisurely introductions you could have to the world of our “Brighter Buccaneer.” The Saint Abroad was first published in 1969, a product of a series of collaborations attempting to adapt some of the scripts from the Roger Moore TV series into legitimate canon. The two stories featured are based upon teleplays by Michael Pertwee, adapted by Fleming Lee, and given that essential Saintly sparkle by Leslie Charteris himself. If you are a reader more familiar with the urbane characterisation conjured up by the TV Saint, you will perhaps find this a more accessible book than some of the earlier literary works. The youthful, buccaneering twentysomething Simon Templar of the formative Saint books is quite a different adventurer from the more mature and suave gentleman you will find battling art thieves in Paris, but the steely eyes still sparkle, and he still fights the good fight against the Ungodly and their fiendish plans.

  —Richard Usher (2014)

  PREFACE

  Our first three experiments in turning the tables on the television producers (The Saint on TV, The Saint Returns, and The Saint & the Fiction Makers) having been tolerably well received, we have been encouraged to bring out yet another of these hybrid books—that is, Saint stories which were orig
inally created expressly for television, not by me, adapted for reading as ordinary fiction by yet another writer, and indebted to me only for the parentage of the Saint himself, for sundry suggestions along the way, and for a final revision of the manuscript in which I did my best to see that the style was as close to my own as possible, short of a complete personal rewrite. In the construction of these adaptations, I have not hesitated to call for quite drastic changes from what you may have seen on the mini-screen, exactly as a film producer does not hesitate to take liberties with any story he has bought, whenever I thought I could improve on the material. In this case, reversing the traditional sequence of events, I am the character who has had the last word.

  Nor do I feel that I owe any apology to old and faithful readers of the Saint Saga. The television stories which I have selected for this treatment are only those which I thought had genuine possibilities—which by no means qualifies everything that has gone out on the TV networks. Nor would I have published these adaptations if they dissatisfied me. Whether this kind of composite authorship is kosher may be debatable on a rarefied intellectual plane, but if it satisfies enough aficionados of the Saint who want more books to read than I can supply, it can’t be all bad.

  —Leslie Charteris (1969)

  THE ART COLLECTORS

  Original teleplay by Michael Pertwee

  Adapted by Fleming Lee

  1

  “In these devaluable days,” Simon Templar said, “you don’t just take your money and stash it away in some nice sturdy bank, or you may very well find yourself with a nice sturdy bank full of waste paper.”

  “Knowing your reputation, Monsieur Templar, I can well believe that you have several bank vaults full of such waste paper,” said Marcel LeGrand.

  LeGrand’s smile, which appeared through the thicket of his black mustache and beard like the moon seen rising through a forest, was the smile of a salesman certain that however much money his customer has at the moment, he is going to have considerably less before he leaves. The bushy-faced art dealer’s hand caressed the gilded frame of one of his salon’s more expensive offerings as he spoke. All around him, on walls and easels, were the colors and forms of the paintings that were his stock-in-trade. The displays were arranged so that direct sunlight could never touch the works of art, but flashes of light thrown by the passing traffic through the blue-tinted windows from the Paris street outside gave a kind of psychedelic motion to the whole interior.

  “You underestimate me,” Simon Templar replied with a perfect gravity. “I support the Rothschilds almost single-handed. Without my deposits, the gnomes of Zürich would have to crawl back into their caves and collect mushrooms for a living.”

  The Saint—the name by which the world most generally knew Simon Templar—saw no more reason to try to spike the rumors which circulated about his wealth than he saw to try to quash the legends which flourished around his reputation as a modern buccaneer, a Robin Hood whose Sherwood Forest was the world of crime in an age of industry and international finance, and whose victims were the criminals themselves. In the first place, the stories were mostly true. In the second place, efforts to refute myths tended only to have the effect of increasing belief in their validity. Thirdly, the Saint enjoyed the exaggerations, and they were useful to him. They increased the awe of potential enemies and pushed them toward elaborate precautions and nervous countermeasures which could only increase their chances of error. The same tales enhanced his powers of bluff where the police were concerned and his naturally considerable powers of attraction where women were concerned. All in all, folklore had its uses.

  “I hope, then, more sincerely than ever, that you will find something here which pleases you,” LeGrand said. “You will find no better selection in France—I can promise you that. And I do not think I flatter myself when I say that my judgment as to the investment value of paintings is as sound as that of any man in the world.”

  “No, you don’t flatter yourself,” the Saint said. “That is exactly why I’m here and not talking to some other dealer.”

  He moved slowly through the large room, whose space for hanging paintings was increased by a number of partitions jutting out across the richly carpeted floor and reaching almost to the ceiling. LeGrand followed with calculated casualness, his hands clasped behind his back. He was a head shorter than the Saint’s lean-muscled six feet two, but he made up for it on the horizontal, without actually being fat.

  “Perhaps you could suggest some amount you would like to invest,” LeGrand said. “I realize that taste, too, is involved, but we may as well be practical.”

  “We may as well,” Simon said with a smile, “and therefore I’m not showing you my wallet until after you’ve shown me the price tags.”

  LeGrand laughed and shrugged to acknowledge his appreciation of the Saint’s acumen as a bargainer. Simon noticed, looking over the art dealer’s shoulder, that a tall, dark-haired man had started to step into the shop from the street, had seen through the windows that LeGrand was occupied, and had stayed outside without leaving the doorway.

  “This,” Simon said. “What is it?”

  He had turned back to one of the framed paintings hanging on one of the partitions. Most of LeGrand’s collection was pre-nineteenth century. Along this partition were some of the exceptions—contemporary productions, non-representational.

  “That is chicken feathers on lacquered axle grease,” LeGrand said impassively. “Interesting, no?”

  “No,” said the Saint. “How much do you calculate it will be worth in ten years?”

  “About two francs,” said LeGrand, still impassively. “Let me show you something more suitable. Something from the Renaissance—Italian, or Flemish. There is a Van Eyck…”

  The dealer and Simon turned, and the dark-haired man who had been outside the doorway was standing not ten feet from them. He had entered so soundlessly that even the Saint had not heard his footsteps on the carpet.

  “I am sorry to disturb you,” he said to LeGrand in French, “but I must speak with you as soon as possible.”

  “As you see, I have a customer,” LeGrand said with polite deference. “But as soon as…”

  “This is very urgent,” the stranger said, “and I have other duties. If you could spare just a moment…alone.”

  “Very well,” LeGrand answered. “If you can excuse me…”

  He was looking at the Saint, who nodded.

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I may as well be going. I haven’t really seen anything that…”

  LeGrand held up his hand and put on a confidential expression.

  “Don’t go,” he said earnestly. “I have something…special. Special for you. Just wait a few moments…” He turned to the stranger and motioned him toward an alcove in the rear of the salon, separated from the main area by a pair of velvet curtains. “If you would step this way, please, Monsieur. We must be brief.”

  If the Saint had not been naturally inquisitive, he would have spent many more quiet evenings at home than in fact he did. It would not be accurate to say that he listened to the conversation between Marcel LeGrand and his stolid visitor, but he did not take pains to avoid hearing a phrase here and there from the dialogue of hushed voices.

  The first fragment was quite clear, since the newcomer uttered it before he had entered the alcove: “I am Inspector Mathieu…” LeGrand’s reactions were almost inaudible but had overtones of puzzled incomprehension. Inspector Mathieu mentioned a young woman, paintings, Leonardo da Vinci. LeGrand said, raising his voice, “But it is unbelievable…” Inspector Mathieu went on to insist, at length, that it was quite believable, but the details of his statements were lost as the street door of the salon opened and introduced a period of traffic noise from outside. Then, after a few seconds, the expensive cushioned hush of the salon was inviolate again, and the Saint moved around the end of one of the partitions to see a chic and beautiful woman of about thirty standing inside the doorway. Her o
utfit of brown suit and gloves did justice to a very deserving figure.

  “Monsieur Marcel LeGrand?” she asked in French with a foreign accent so slight that it was impossible to identify.

  Simon looked at her honey-colored hair and green eyes, and regretfully admitted that he was not Monsieur LeGrand. At that point LeGrand himself, hearing the voices, came alone very quickly out of the alcove and scurried toward the green-eyed lady. Apparently they had never seen one another before, but were otherwise acquainted. LeGrand was looking at the woman in a peculiar way as he nervously went toward her.

  “You are…” he began in a low voice.

  “Yes,” she said.

  LeGrand was glancing meaningfully back over his shoulder without completely turning his head.

  “Come back in ten minutes,” he whispered. “We can talk alone then.”

  She looked at him with the first traces of indignation. Then, over his shoulder she saw the dark-haired Inspector Mathieu step between the curtains of the alcove and look toward her. Realizing that it was to him that LeGrand’s nervous glances referred she suddenly changed her expression and spoke in a completely natural voice.

  “Well, if you are busy, Monsieur, I shall come back later. I am thinking of something for my husband’s birthday.”

  “I am certain we can furnish the perfect gift for him. Would you care to wait?”

  LeGrand had regained his usual sangfroid and was speaking at normal volume.

  “No, thank you,” the woman said. “Until later.”

  “Au revoir, then. Thank you, madame.”

  Inspector Mathieu waited by the curtains.

  “I hope you have not lost a customer because of me,” he said.

  “The lady was in a hurry,” LeGrand replied. “But of course the sooner we can finish this discussion, the sooner I can get on with my business.”

  Mathieu looked at the Saint, who no longer had any intention of leaving LeGrand’s gallery, where so many fascinating bits of side-play took place in the course of an afternoon, until he had satisfied his curiosity as to what was going on. He stood his ground and looked mildly back at Mathieu, who seemed to grow a little uneasy under the gaze of those brilliant blue eyes.