The Saint Abroad Page 2

  “Well,” the Inspector said, “I believe I have given you all the facts…”

  “Facts!” LeGrand said, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “Fantasies would be a better word.”

  “We shall see,” Mathieu said.

  He bowed slightly to the art dealer, granted the Saint a slight nod of his head, and walked to the door. LeGrand did not accompany him all the way, and just before stepping out onto the sidewalk the Inspector paused and spoke over his shoulder.

  “We have kept this quite secret,” he said. “If you wish to speak with me on this subject, call me only at the number I have given you.”

  When he was gone, Marcel LeGrand exhaled like an underwater swimmer surfacing at the limit of his endurance. His body seemed to sag a little and he put one hand over his heart, which apparently was going a good deal faster than its normal rate.

  “I think I’ve been missing something,” the Saint remarked. “I never realized there was quite so much excitement in the art business.”

  “Nor did I,” LeGrand said weakly. “If I survive all this I think I shall retire.”

  “You asked me to stay,” Simon said. “I hope that means you’re intending to tell me what ‘all this’ is about—or did it just mean you still want to sell me something?”

  LeGrand sank down on a bright purple leather chair in the center of the display room and motioned Simon to take its yellow mate.

  “Both,” he answered. “I both wanted to tell you something and at the same time interest you as a buyer. This sudden intrusion of the police was completely unexpected.”

  The Saint had taken the chair which LeGrand had offered. He settled back and crossed his long legs.

  “And Mata Hari?” he asked.

  “Pardon?” said LeGrand.

  “That lovely creature you shooed out of here a minute ago.”

  “Ah, she,” the dealer said. “Yes, she is a part of what we are calling ‘all this.’ She is almost the most important part.”

  “Almost?”

  “Yes. What she has is the most important.”

  The Saint smiled reflectively.

  “Having seen her, I wouldn’t question that…except to ask if you have anything specific in mind.”

  LeGrand leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. His voice was low, secretive, and almost melodramatically intense.

  “To leave all humor aside, this is truthfully the most fantastic thing which has ever happened to me. It is an art dealer’s dream—if it is true—and the greatest art discovery of this century. The young woman you saw here may have in her possession five paintings—three Leonardo da Vincis, one Titian, and one Raphael—which until now were not known to exist, and any one of which would be worth more than all the paintings in this room put together.”

  2

  Marcel LeGrand had no time to continue his explanation. The door of the room opened and the same woman who had come in a few minutes before stepped from the sunlight into the strangely artificial atmosphere of the salon.

  “I am sorry, Monsieur,” she said. “I am afraid I cannot continue to wait. If you…”

  Marcel LeGrand was instantly on his feet, hurrying toward her and showing every sign of being ready to prostrate himself on the carpet in front of her. With simultaneous shrugs, wags of his head, and wavings of his hands he shepherded her toward the cluster of four chairs in the center of the room, apologizing every step of the way. Simon was standing, waiting with more outward nonchalance than he actually felt. His interest had been aroused, but more than that, he was experiencing that peculiar sense of involvement that had so often marked the point of no return in his adventures—a feeling of fated inclusion in a course of events in whose beginnings he had had no part, but in whose outcome he was destined to play a crucial role. He had no idea how he might become further involved in LeGrand’s business, but he suddenly had no doubt that he had had only a taste of what was to come.

  “You will understand my behavior when you hear what happened,” LeGrand was saying to his new guest. “It was an impossible situation, and there was nothing I could do but ask you to leave.”

  The woman looked at Simon icily.

  “I see that you still have business,” she said to LeGrand. “Perhaps I should go elsewhere.”

  That sent the dealer into renewed paroxysms of apology and entreaty.

  “This gentleman is Monsieur Simon Templar, a most valued client and a man completely to be trusted,” LeGrand concluded. “You must have heard of him? The Saint?”

  The woman’s green eyes revealed nothing.

  “I lead a rather sheltered life,” she said.

  “In any case, please be seated,” LeGrand implored her. “Monsieur Templar, this is Mademoiselle Lambrini.”

  She did not offer her gloved hand, but acknowledged the introduction with not much more than a glance as she sat down in the chair which LeGrand offered her.

  “I thought I had made it clear,” she said, “that our business was to be confidential.”

  “And so it is!” LeGrand protested.

  “With no exceptions,” Mademoiselle Lambrini said, looking pointedly at Simon.

  “Mademoiselle,” LeGrand said, “believe me, he is to be trusted, and will perhaps play a part in our transaction. And let me add very quickly that there are already exceptions—which I knew nothing about. The man who was here when you came the first time was from the police.”

  Mademoiselle Lambrini finally reacted with something other than frosty calm. Her eyes narrowed and her hands unconsciously moved over one another with nervous agitation in her lap.

  “What did they want?” she asked. “The police, I mean. They could have no interest in me.”

  “But they have,” LeGrand said. “The Inspector—Mathieu was his name—instructed me to telephone him if I should be approached by a woman with rare paintings to sell.”

  “Why?” Mademoiselle Lambrini asked.

  She seemed nervous, as Simon had noticed as soon as she heard about the investigator from the police—and yet she seemed genuinely surprised and puzzled that the police should be taking any interest. Simon felt strongly that the probings of the police were a new and unexpected factor in her plans, and a factor which she really could not explain to herself.

  “He did not tell me,” LeGrand replied. “He said only that if such a person should contact me with paintings to sell I should contact the police because they wished to interview her.”

  “And you told them…what?” she asked.

  “Nothing. But I would appreciate an explanation from you.”

  “I have none,” she said. “I can think of no reason why the police, even if they should have heard about my paintings, would have any interest in them. But of course it does seem that all the world is hearing about them very rapidly.”

  She was looking at the Saint again.

  “If there is no reason for the police to be interested in them, why should you be ashamed of letting the world hear about them?” Simon asked.

  Mademoiselle Lambrini drew herself up haughtily.

  “Monsieur, I assure you that I am not ashamed in the slightest. But I am discreet, and for good reason. Monsieur LeGrand has apparently already told you about my paintings. They are not the sort of possessions a woman, living alone, advertises for everybody on earth to hear about. If Monsieur LeGrand is unwilling to respect my wishes about this, there are plenty of other dealers in Paris who would be delighted to hear about them.”

  “Mademoiselle,” LeGrand responded with dignity, “if everything is in order, we can conclude this matter tomorrow. Such things cannot be kept secret for long, especially if the police are interested. They will be contacting other dealers all over Paris. But I am willing to tell this Inspector Mathieu nothing if you are willing to trust me and the one or two people I may take into my confidence before I actually pay you for the paintings. Isn’t that fair enough?”

  “Whom else would you tell—besides Monsieur Templar?”
the woman asked.

  “The only other I have in mind is an expert on the Italian Renaissance—an old friend of mine I would wish to corroborate my judgment of the paintings. You certainly could not object to that.”

  “But I understood that you were the greatest expert in France,” Mademoiselle Lambrini said.

  “In many ways,” LeGrand said matter-of-factly. “But in a situation of this sort, with masterpieces of such magnitude, I would not dare to trust my own evaluation alone.”

  “You’ve seen the paintings?” Simon asked him.

  “I have seen a number of color photographs,” LeGrand said. “They include extreme detail. I am already quite satisfied, tentatively, one might say. I have no doubt that Professor…my friend will agree as soon as he has seen the canvases themselves.”

  “And when will this be?” Mademoiselle Lambrini asked.

  “Tomorrow morning?” LeGrand suggested. “Would you prefer to have the paintings brought here?”

  “I would prefer that you come to my house. Just a moment.”

  She took a pen and small leather-bound pad from her purse and wrote out an address.

  “I trust you can find this,” she said, giving the piece of paper to LeGrand. “It’s a white house, set back from the road, surrounded with high hedges.”

  They discussed directions for finding the house while the Saint watched in silence, wondering just how he could insure that his acquaintance with Mademoiselle Lambrini could be kept active and developing. He would have had the same thoughts even if there had not been paintings and police and a couple of million dollars involved…some of which might eventually be coaxed into his own pockets. Miss Lambrini was what in the coarser forms of detective fiction might have been called a doll. She had the sort of imperious beauty that seems challenging the world to conquer it, and the continuing sight of her had the same effect on Simon that the sight of Mount Everest must have on a dedicated mountain climber.

  She got to her feet with the same crisp abruptness that had characterised all her movements.

  “Very well,” she said. “Ten-thirty in the morning. I should have preferred today because I have my own plans to consider, but if you can come to a decision tomorrow I shall be satisfied.”

  “I trust we shall all be satisfied,” LeGrand said. “And I shall have my check book with me.”

  “Good. I hope I can trust both of you to refrain from discussing this with anyone. I have…specific reasons to worry.”

  A shadow crossed her face when she spoke the last words. Simon took it as a cue.

  “Maybe you should tell us more about that side of things,” he said.

  “I need no help,” she replied. “Good day.”

  They were at the door, and LeGrand opened it for her.

  “Good day, Mademoiselle Lambrini. Monsieur Templar, if you will remain here briefly I can show you…”

  “I think I’ll walk with Mademoiselle Lambrini,” the Saint told him. “You’ll hear from me later today.”

  “I have told you I need no help,” the woman said. “I’m quite capable of walking unassisted.”

  “I won’t offer you my protection, then,” the Saint said amiably. “Just my charming company.”

  “I had hoped that you might be interested in Mademoiselle Lambrini’s paintings,” LeGrand said. “It is certainly the opportunity of a lifetime to share in.”

  “At the moment I’m more interested in Mademoiselle Lambrini,” Simon said hurriedly. “I’ll telephone you. She’s getting away.”

  She was in fact out of the door and walking quickly out of viewing range from the windows of the salon. The Saint ignored LeGrand’s protestations, shook the dealer’s nervously damp hand, and strode away after the woman. He could see her blonde head among the people gathered at a crossing half a block away. She turned to the left at the intersection, but the Saint was already gaining on her rapidly. She was easy to follow, taller than most women, and the afternoon sun made a beacon of the lightness of her hair.

  About five doors down the new street she had taken, the Saint caught up with her. Before she noticed him he quietly fell into step alongside her. When she happened to look round and notice him she gave a start and then a short humorless laugh.

  “Is there more than one of you?” she asked, still in that tantalizingly accented French. “Or are you the same gentleman I asked to leave me alone just a minute ago?”

  As she spoke her sharp heels continued their staccato on the pavement. Simon needed only his most casual walking speed to keep abreast of her.

  “I won’t try to match your subtle wit,” he answered with the faintest trace of sarcasm. “I’ll just ask if you would care to join me for a drink.”

  She stopped beneath the awning of a jewelry shop.

  “Monsieur Templar, I am not certain just what your connection with Monsieur LeGrand and his interest in my paintings is. Perhaps you are a rich American who is going to put up the money for all five, or perhaps you are a spy of his hoping to find out something which will give him an advantage in our bargaining. In either case, or whatever the case may be, I do not stand to benefit from your company.”

  She moved on, and Simon continued unruffled beside her.

  “Maybe I’m just lonely,” he said. “Don’t you have a soft spot in your heart for visiting art lovers?”

  “There are girls in bars for that sort of thing,” she said drily. “I’ll leave you now. There is my automobile.”

  They were at the entrance of a narrow one-way street. Illegally parked there was a single black Mercedes facing away from the Saint and Mademoiselle Lambrini. Through the rear window Simon could make out the peaked cap of a chauffeur.

  “Well,” he said to her, “at least we have something in common: neither of us finds the other one very pleasant.”

  For a moment he thought she was going to smile, but then she nodded, said “Bonjour,” and walked away toward the Mercedes.

  “Au revoir,” the Saint said.

  He watched her until she had reached the car, and then he started back toward LeGrand’s salon. He had scarcely taken the first step when he heard a short sharp scream. It was almost lost in the traffic noise, and the passersby near him did not seem even to notice it. He spun around in time to see Mademoiselle Lambrini being pulled into the black Mercedes. The automobile’s door was half open, and the woman’s struggles had succeeded in keeping one of her arms and one of her legs outside the car.

  Simon ran toward the car. The only other witness to the scene was an old woman, her arms full of parcels, standing and gaping as dumbly as if she had been watching the whole thing on television.

  The Saint reached the black car just before Mademoiselle Lambrini could be hauled inside clear of the door. He threw himself between the open door and the side of the car, so that the door could not be closed. There were two men immediately visible—one the man in the chauffeur’s cap and the other the man trying to restrain Mademoiselle Lambrini. The latter had to give up the hold of one of his hands on the woman in order to aim a punch at the Saint’s midriff. Simon evaded the jab, caught the man’s forearm, and yanked him by his outstretched arm straight out of the door, banging the kidnapper’s head and shoulder against the doorframe in the process.

  Mademoiselle Lambrini swung her purse at the head of the driver as he started to throw the Mercedes into gear. The automobile lurched forward with the door still open, the Saint clinging to the outside, and its comely owner bashing its driver with a large alligator purse.

  It was a short trip—not more than half a dozen yards. The driver slammed on the brake, flung open his own door, and jumped out before the car had stopped moving. In the meanwhile, his comrade had scrambled to his feet and was disappearing past the gaping old woman with the parcels. The Saint might have caught the escaping driver if the Mercedes, in coming to an abrupt halt as its wheels bumped into the curb, had not given such a jerk that he was thrown momentarily off balance. He half fell, and saw that Mademoiselle Lambrini h
ad been thrown forward against the dashboard. Clutching her head with one hand, she slumped half out of the still rumbling car, and the Saint had to catch her in his arms and raise her back to a sitting position in the front seat. By the time he could look up both of the men were out of sight.

  Simon gently took Mademoiselle Lambrini’s hand and moved it away from her forehead.

  “Cut?” he asked.

  “No,” she said weakly. “I am all right.”

  “I thought so,” he continued with confident good cheer. “Somebody was telling me just a few minutes ago that you are the sort of girl who doesn’t need protection, and now it’s perfectly obvious that that’s true.” He straightened up and nodded. “I’ll be running along then, and…”

  She let out a dismayed gasp and caught his arm.

  “No! Please. Don’t leave me. I…I thought you were one of them.”

  “One of them?”

  “I’ll explain if you won’t leave me…”

  From his standing position the Saint saw something on the floor behind the front seat of the Mercedes. He also noticed the old woman of the parcels creeping tentatively nearer, one hesitant step at a time, as several other pedestrians gathered at the end of the narrow street to look at and discuss the situation.

  “I won’t leave you, then—yet,” Simon said. “But we’d better leave here. For one thing, there seems to be a body in the back seat of your car.”

  3

  “A body?”

  Mademoiselle Lambrini turned to peer over into the back of the Mercedes as Simon opened the rear door. A middle-aged man in a black suit lay unconscious on the floor, face up, his arms sprawled awkwardly as they had fallen when he was dumped there.

  “Hans!” she cried, in shocked recognition.

  “One of ours?” Simon asked.

  “My chauffeur,” she answered in a voice that was genuinely shaken with concern. “Have they hurt him? What…”