The Saint in Europe (The Saint Series) Read online

  “Let it remain that way, Monsieur. A vacation does everyone good.”

  Simon offered a cigarette, and struck a light for them both.

  “Now that I know how you feel about me,” he remarked, “I suppose I ought to thank you for not trying to pin that Rosepierre murder on me. It must have taken great restraint not to grab such a readymade scapegoat.”

  He had been reading the story in a newspaper at breakfast. The body of a young man identified as Charles Rosepierre had been found murdered in the Bois de Boulogne, the spacious park adjacent to the most fashionable residential quarter of Paris. There appeared to be no clue to the murderer, or even to the motive, for he was a respectable clerk in a shipping office, vouched for by his employers as honest and hard-working and by his friends and associates as being sober and amiable and impossible to connect with any shady acquaintances. He carried very little money, but he had not been robbed. He had left the office at the usual time on the day he died, apparently with no apprehensions, and it was understood that he was going to have dinner and call later on the girl he was courting, but he had not been seen since until his body was found a few yards from one of the roads through the park. There was no hint of a jealous rival, nor did anything in his open commonplace life give any grounds to believe in a crime of passion, yet a passion of some weird kind must have been involved. For what lent the crime the eerie touch of horror that justified the space allotted to it in the press was the fact that although he had died almost instantly from a knife stab in the heart, his head had been severed from his body after he was dead, and was found where it had presumably rolled a few feet away.

  “I might have thought of you,” Quercy said, without the ghost of a smile, “if Rosepierre’s body had not been found two hours before your plane landed at Orly. When he was killed and his head was being cut off, there is no doubt that you were half-way over the Atlantic.”

  “It was clever of me to arrive with a cast-iron alibi. You really have no ideas about how I could have faked it?”

  “I am satisfied, Monsieur, that that would be beyond even your powers.”

  “One day I must figure out how it could be done,” said the Saint, and in some incredible way he made it sound possible.

  The Inspector grunted.

  “You have not, perhaps, any more constructive suggestions about the mystery?”

  “I read a detective story once with a decapitated body in it, in which the head was actually taken from an entirely different body, the object being to confuse the police and no doubt the readers too.”

  “The medical examination, in this case, proves positively that the head which was found did indeed belong to the body.”

  “A big part of your problem, then, seems to be to find an answer to why anyone who had already killed someone, for whatever reason, should afterwards take the trouble to cut off his head. It was not done to prevent identification, because the head was left there.”

  “Exactly.”

  Simon gazed at the ceiling.

  “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “the name of the victim is a clue. Is it possible that you have in Paris some demented aristocrat who is still nursing a grudge for the treatment given to his ancestors during the Revolution? He has made a vow to track down and take vengeance on the lineal descendants of the revolutionary leaders who gave his forebears the radical haircut. Mistaking the name of this unfortunate young man for Robespierre, and having no guillotine handy, he—”

  There came, perhaps providentially, a knock on the door, and an agent entered.

  “Mademoiselle North est ici, Monsieur l’Inspecteur.”

  “Good. I will see her at once. It is the sister of the murdered man,” he explained to the Saint.

  “Then why is her name North?”

  “She was adopted as a child by an American family. It is quite a story.” Quercy stood up. “But I must not detain you any longer.” He held out his hand. “Amuse yourself well, Monsieur Templar, and remember what I have told you.”

  “I will do my best,” said the Saint, and wondered even to himself just what he meant.

  2

  He took a long look at the girl who was entering as he went out. She was American, obviously, in every outward particular, stamped unmistakably with all the details of dress and grooming that label the American product to a sophisticated glance anywhere. And since a pretty face is a pretty face in any country within the same broad ethnic limits, there was nothing about her features to mark her as conspicuously French by birth. She had softly waved black hair and clear brown eyes and a wide mouth which in happier circumstances, the Saint’s instinct told him, could be generous in many ways.

  Simon carried the image of her vividly in his mind as he retraced his way through the musty labyrinth of the upper floors and down the ancient winding stairway to the street. He stood at the gates of the courtyard for a few moments, indulging himself in indecision, and knowing all the time that his decision was already made. There was a sidewalk cafe on the other side of the boulevard. He crossed it and sat down at a table from which he could watch the entrance of the building he had just left.

  And so, he reflected cheerfully, it was going to happen to him again.

  It was true, as he had told Quercy, that he hadn’t come to Paris with any intention of getting into trouble. But trouble had that disastrous propensity for getting into him. It was, of course, originally Quercy’s fault for ordering him to report at the Prefecture. The summons had been most courteously phrased, but it had been an order, just the same. The Saint had an unpardonably rebellious attitude towards all orders, especially police orders. That had prepared the ground. And then, the Inspector had rashly proceeded to plant a seed. It was not that Simon could legitimately resent his warning, which had been most discreetly and even benevolently phrased, but nevertheless it had the ingredients of a challenge. The Saint had never found it easy to leave a challenge alone. And unfortunately, there was an intriguing murder mystery immediately to hand for fertilizer. Even so, he might have been able to resist, but then he had seen the girl. It was harder still for him to leave a pretty girl alone. And hadn’t Quercy himself invited him to enjoy the pretty girls? And so upon fertilizer and seed and cultivated ground, to conclude the metaphor, had fallen the warm rain of her presence, and the result was inevitable, as it had always been…

  The Saint ordered a Suze, paid for it at once so that he could leave at any moment, and waited.

  An hour passed before she came out, and he got up and threaded his way nonchalantly through the traffic. She stood outside the Palais, looking hopefully up and down the street for a taxi, and Simon timed his crossing so that he arrived beside her as one came by, and their hands met on the door handle.

  They looked at each other with the surprise, confusion, and incipient hostility normal to any two people caught in such a deadlock, the Saint playing his part exactly as if the accident was none of his making, and then he smiled.

  “A photo finish,” he said. “Shall we flip for it, or are we lucky enough to be going the same way?”

  She smiled back—he had counted on the sound of a familiar accent to earn that.

  “I’m going to my hotel—the Georges Cinq.”

  “Mine too,” said the Saint, truthfully, although his answer would have been the same whatever she had said.

  As the cab turned along the Quais des Grands Augustins he knew that she was looking at him more closely.

  “Didn’t I just see you in that detective’s office?” she asked.

  “I didn’t think you noticed,” he said. “But I saw you.”

  “Are you a reporter?”

  He considered the possibilities of the role for an instant.

  “No.”

  “Are you connected with the police?”

  Intuition, which had been whispering to him, raised its voice to a sure command. At this moment, in this situation, with this girl, the truth would gain him more than any fiction.

  “My name is Simo
n Templar.”

  “The Saint.”

  She was one of those people whom he met all too seldom, who could hear his name and recognize its connotation without gasping, swooning, or recoiling, and at first, he was glad to see, she received it even without fear. “The Saint,” she said, looking at him with no more than ordinary curiosity, and then the fear barely began to stir in her eyes.

  “No, darling,” he said quickly. “I didn’t kill your brother. Even Quercy will vouch for that. He knows I was in an airplane over the Atlantic at the time.”

  “Do you suspect me?”

  “Did you do it?”

  “I was on the Atlantic, too. On a boat. I landed at Cherbourg this morning. A policeman was waiting for me at the Georges Cinq.”

  “Don’t let anyone tell you these cops aren’t efficient. They sent for me almost as quickly.”

  Simon lighted a cigarette and gave his hunch one last retrospective survey, for the duration of a long inhalation. His mind was made up.

  He said, “This is on the level. Quercy had me in his office, giving me a solemn warning to keep my nose clean while I’m here. So I just naturally have an unholy desire to make a monkey out of him. I like you. And your brother’s case is the hottest thing on Quercy’s blotter right now. If I could break it and hand him the pieces on a platter, it’d be a magnificent moment. And I’m sure you want the case solved, whoever does it. So will you let me help—if I can?”

  Her straightforward dark eyes studied him for many seconds.

  She said, “Thank you. I like you, too. But what can you do?”

  “I may think of something. First, I’ve got to know everything you can tell me. May I take you to lunch?”

  “Yes. But I’ve got to stop at the hotel first. They didn’t even give me time to see my room.”

  3

  In the lobby, while she was asking for her key, a man stepped up beside her at the desk, removed a rich black homburg with a slight flourish, and said, “Pardon, Miss North.” He extended a card. Looking over her shoulder, Simon saw that it said “M Georges Olivant” with an address in St Cloud.

  “I ’ave waited for you all zis morning,” Olivant said. “I am an old friend of your fahzer. I would ’ave met you at ze boat, but I was unable to leave Paris because of business.”

  He was a stout man with a face that was unfortunately reminiscent of a well-fed rat, although the only fur on it was a carefully trimmed black moustache, the rest of the skin having that glossy pink patina which can only be produced by the best barbers. From the points of his polished shoes, up through his studiously tailored blue suit and studiously manicured fingernails, to the top of his pomaded head, he exuded an aroma of cologne and solid prosperity. He spoke English in an aggressive way which somehow gave the impression that he was extremely proud of his accent, which was atrocious. And just as the Saint had liked Valerie North at first glance, from the first glance he disliked M Olivant.

  “This is quite a surprise,” the girl was saying politely. “How did you know about me, and how did you find me so quickly?”

  “I read about your trip in ze newspapers,” Olivant said, “so of course I am waiting for you. Eet was not difficult. Zere are not so many ’otel in Paris where ze Americans descend.”

  She seemed to take the reference to a newspaper story on her trip so matter-of-factly that a tiny line creased between the Saint’s brows. Her name had meant nothing to him, and he thought he was aware of most celebrities.

  “Then you must have known my brother,” the girl said.

  “Alas, no. I am in Belgium, on business, when I read ze newspaper. It is ze first I ’ear of you bose since ze war. I mean to look for ’im, of course. But as soon as I return, before I can look, I read in ze newspaper about ’im again, and ’e is dead.” Olivant allowed an expression of grief to dwell on his face for a measured period of time, and then bravely set it aside. “’Owever, I come to place myself at your service. For finding ze murderers, we can only ’ope ze police ’ave success. But anysing else I can do…You will, per’aps, ’ave lunch wiz me?”

  The girl’s eyes went to the Saint, and Simon made a faint negative movement with his head.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’ve already promised…May I introduce Mr—”

  “Tombs,” said the Saint promptly, holding out his hand.

  The same kind of impulse that had made him introduce himself with complete candor to Valerie North now made him duck behind the alias which often afforded him a morbid private amusement, but this time his inward smile vanished abruptly as Olivant shook hands. From a man who looked like Olivant, he had expected a fleshy and probably moist and limp contact, but the palm that touched his own was hard and rough like a laborer’s.

  Deep in the Saint’s brain a little premonitory pulse began to beat, like the signal of some psychic Geiger counter, but his face was a mask of conventional amiability.

  “Mr Tombs,” Olivant repeated, like a man who made a practise of memorizing names. “Zen per’aps bose of you—”

  “I don’t want to be rude,” said the Saint firmly, “but my job depends on this exclusive interview. You know how newspapers are.”

  M Olivant made a visible effort to look like a man who knew how newspapers are.

  “I am desolate.” He turned back to the girl. “For cocktails, zen, per’aps? I ’ave look forward so much to zis meeting—”

  “Excuse me,” said the Saint.

  He strolled across the lobby to the little newsstand and glanced quickly over its wares. A guidebook with a shiny stiff paper cover caught his eye, and he bought it, and wiped the cover briskly with his handkerchief while he waited for his change. He walked back, holding the book by one corner, to where M Olivant was taking his talkative leave of Valerie North.

  “I come ’ere, zen, at five o’clock. I ’ave so much to tell you about your poor fahzer, and what ’e does for us in ze Resistance before ze Gestapo take ’im…To sink I ’ave not see you since you were such a leetle girl!”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” said the girl, self-consciously letting her hand be kissed, and looked at the Saint. “May I run upstairs just for a minute and see my room before we go?”

  “Sure.”

  As she left, Simon showed M Olivant his book, holding it in such a way that the other was practically forced to take it.

  “M Olivant, would you say this was any good?”

  Olivant took the book and thumbed perfunctorily through a few pages.

  “Eet is probably quite ’elpful, Mr Tombs. So you don’t work ’ere all ze time?”

  “No, this is a special assignment”

  “Ah. I ’ope you make a good story.”

  “At least it’s a chance to travel,” said the Saint conversationally. “But I don’t suppose that means much to you. From what you were saying, it sounds as if you spent most of your time doing it. What sort of business are you in?”

  “I ’ave many affairs,” Olivant said impressively, and seemed to think that was an adequate answer.

  He held out the book, and Simon took it back again by the corner.

  “Maybe you’d let me talk to you later, Monsieur Olivant. You should have some interesting things to tell about Miss North’s family.”

  “Ah, yes, eet is a most interesting story.” Olivant seemed curiously uninterested. He extended his hand briskly. “Now, I ’ave anozzer appointment. Eet ’as been a pleasure to meet you. Au revoir, Mr Tombs.”

  The Saint watched him go, with the sensation of that inappropriately calloused hand lingering on his fingers, and then he turned to the concierge and asked for a large envelope, into which he slid his newly acquired guidebook, being careful not to touch the book again except by the one corner he was holding it by.

  4

  “Tell me,” said the Saint, “as the most ignorant reporter in this town, what put you in the news. I mean, even before anything happened to your brother.”

  They sat in opposite armchairs across a
table in the tiny downstairs room of the Restaurant Châtaignier, sniffing the savory bouquet of its incomparable homard au beurre blanc rising from the plates in front of them, while the chef and proprietor himself uncorked a bottle of cool rosé.

  “It sounds silly,” said Valerie North, “but I was on one of those radio quiz programs. I happened to know the answer to who was the painter of the Mona Lisa, and the prize I won was a free trip to Europe. They asked me what I planned to do with it and I said it’d give me the chance I’ve always hoped for to get to know my brother.”

  “It does sound a little unusual,” Simon admitted. “Hadn’t you ever met?”

  “Not since we were kids. We were born and lived here, till 1940, when the Germans were advancing on Paris. I was too young to remember much about it, but everyone was very frightened, and my father said we must go away. He wouldn’t go himself, but he sent us with the wife of a neighbor—my mother died when we were very young. Somewhere on the road we were strafed by a plane, and the woman was killed. Charles and I went on alone.”

  “Was he older or younger than you?”

  “Two years older. But we were both children. Somehow, presently we got separated. I just went on, helplessly I guess, with the stream of refugees who were trudging away to the southwest. Somewhere, after that—it all seems so far away and confused—I was picked up by an American couple who’d also been caught in the blitz. They took me to Bordeaux, and then afterwards to America. They were sweet people—they still are—and they hadn’t any children, and they treated me like their own. Later on, they were able to find out somehow that my father had died in a concentration camp. They adopted me legally, and I took their name.”

  “So for all practical purposes, you really are an American.”

  “I went to school in Chicago—Mr North is an accountant there—and now I’m a secretary in a mail-order house. And the only French I know is from high school.”

  “Who was your father?”