The Saint Abroad Read online

  The Saint could see that the man was breathing deeply. There was a faint smell of chloroform on the air.

  “I think they just doped him. Let’s see how his pulse is doing.”

  When he had lifted the man up onto the back seat, he realized that the audience of pedestrians which had started to collect at a distance a few moments before was gathering closer around the car. At any minute some alert member of the Parisian police would stumble on the scene and begin asking questions.

  “Let’s either sell tickets or pull out of here,” Simon said. “If you’d like to drive I’ll tend to your friend here.”

  “I can’t,” Mademoiselle Lambrini said. Then she noticed that the half dozen people around the car were cocking their ears to listen. Her next words were in excellently pronounced English. “I can’t drive. Will you, please? If I could trouble you…”

  “Of course,” the Saint said, also in English. “Would you like to get back here with Otto?”

  She was already sliding onto the seat next to the limp man. He was about sixty-five with close-cropped gray hair.

  “Hans is his name,” she said. “Please, let’s hurry.”

  The Saint nodded pleasantly to the little group of gawkers, got into the driver’s seat, and started the automobile’s engine.

  “Where to?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Would you mind…would it be too much trouble to ask you to drive me home?”

  “I don’t know whether it’s too much trouble for you to ask me or not, but it won’t be too much trouble for me to do it.”

  She flushed.

  “You are making a joke about my English.”

  Simon backed the car a few inches from the curb, shifted it into forward gear, and felt the powerful engine move it smoothly away from the group of onlookers.

  “I shouldn’t have made a joke,” he said. “You speak very good English…and I’d guess about ten other languages, judging from the fact that I can’t place your accent.”

  He was turning the Mercedes into a main street. She met his eyes in the rear-view mirror for an instant and then suddenly bent over her chauffeur.

  “Here we are chattering away as if we were at a tea party, with poor Hans lying here in such a terrible condition,” she said. “What can I do for him?”

  “His breathing seems strong enough. Let him sleep it off. Or when you get home you can phone a doctor.” The Saint turned his head so as to see her again in the rear-view mirror. “Speaking of home, where is it?”

  “I’m afraid it’s fifty kilometers out of Paris.”

  Simon sighed.

  “I asked for it. Fifty kilometers in any particular direction?”

  She told him the way.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” she concluded.

  “No…assuming that a girl with a house full of Leonardos has an equally good kitchen and wine cellar, or at least a decent bottle of scotch.”

  She smiled.

  “If your standards aren’t too terribly high I might be able to satisfy you.”

  The Saint returned her smile.

  “I’d be willing to bet on it. And for a start, you might try satisfying my curiosity about these bully boys who wanted to borrow you along with your car.”

  Her green eyes, reflected in the mirror, were wide with surprise at his question.

  “How would I know that?” she asked. “I didn’t invite them for a ride, I can tell you that.”

  Simon navigated a difficult forking in the river of traffic, kept on his course south out of the city, and then turned his attention back to his one conscious passenger, who in the interim had been trying to revive the unconscious one.

  “And I suppose you have no idea why they decided to kidnap you,” he said.

  “Of course. They undoubtedly wanted my paintings. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

  “I’m trying to keep an open mind,” he answered. “Maybe they were going to hold you for ransom. If these paintings have been kept as secret as you and LeGrand seem to think, it’s possible that what just happened wasn’t even connected with them…but you’d know what the chances of that are much better than I would.”

  There was a bitter tone in her laugh.

  “Who would pay any ransom for me?”

  “Your father? Brother?”

  “I have no family any more,” she told him curtly. “The paintings—and poor Hans here—are all I have in any way tied to the past.”

  “Could they have expected you to pay your own way out?” Simon asked.

  “No more than they might have expected anybody else in Paris to make it worth their trouble. I am not rich. I own this car and my clothes and such things…”

  “Such as a few paintings worth several million dollars,” the Saint put in.

  “But I have only a monthly income I inherited,” she continued. “Not enough to make anyone think of kidnapping me.”

  “Then it must be the paintings they were after,” Simon said. “Paintings nobody is supposed to know about. Which is an interesting fact in itself. How is it that five such fantastically rare paintings have been lying around your house all this time without being heard of?”

  “It’s even more interesting when you know the full story,” she replied. “I will tell you later. Now I think that Hans is waking up.”

  The Saint caught glimpses of the revival of Mademoiselle Lambrini’s chauffeur. Most of his attention had to be focused on keeping Mademoiselle Lambrini’s Mercedes from destruction at the hands of homeward bound suburban drivers. But before the worst of the evening rush hour had swamped the roads of the city’s outskirts he had managed to get well along the N7 to the south, past the vicinity of Orly airfield and on the way to Fontainebleau.

  “We turn soon,” Mademoiselle Lambrini said to him presently. “Follow the signs toward Barbizon.”

  Hans was sitting up beside her now, still apparently too dazed to be sure of anything except the fact that his professional duties had been taken over by somebody else.

  “I drive,” he said feebly.

  “Bleiben Sie ruhig,” the woman told him. “Relax. You aren’t even awake yet. That is Mr Templar driving. Mr Templar, this is Hans Kraus. He has been with my family since I was a girl.”

  “How do you do, Hans?” said the Saint cheerily. “Feeling better after your nap?”

  Suddenly the chauffeur seemed to come entirely awake, as if for the first time he fully realized where he was and what had happened.

  “A man!” he said excitedly. “He asked me for a match, und den ven I turned—I vas in der car—he pushed somet’ing over my face. I could not even shout, und everyt’ing vas coming very dark…I don’t know, then…”

  “They used chloroform, or something like it,” Simon said.

  “But vy? Vat happened?”

  “There were two of them,” his mistress explained. “One wore your hat, and then when I walked up to the car they pulled me inside. If Mr Templar hadn’t come along…I don’t know.”

  “Did you get a good look at the man?” Simon asked, tossing the words over his shoulder. “Was he French?”

  Hans Kraus shook his head, rubbing his cheek with one hand.

  “I don’t know. He did not speak to me. He looked…nothing special. But I think I vould know him.”

  Mademoiselle Lambrini interrupted suddenly.

  “Oh! You turn there…just ahead. To the left. And then go slowly. We are almost to the house.”

  The Mercedes had been traveling through an area where the land seemed cultivated more for beauty than for agricultural production, and the countryside, mostly wooded, was divided into small estates, each with its house scarcely visible through tailored shrubs and trees.

  Simon reduced speed.

  “Nice neighborhood,” he said. “Have you lived here very long?”

  “No.” She leaned forward and pointed past his shoulder. “Turn in there, where you see the stone wall.”

  The Saint guided the car i
nto the drive, which formed a U-shaped loop from the road to the two-storeyed brick house that dominated the acre of property from a shallow rise. The grounds were thickly shaded with trees. Between the house and the road, on sloping leaf-covered terrain, was an inoperative fountain watched over by a nude marble nymph, her hands carefully arranged in the sort of modest pose affected by marble nymphs when they watch over the fountains of the respectable well-to-do.

  Simon stopped the black Mercedes at the front door of the house and helped his two passengers out onto the gravel drive. Hans Kraus was unsteady on his feet, but when Mademoiselle Lambrini tried to help support him he pulled himself up with a great effort at dignity and made his way with little assistance up the steps. He held the door open after his mistress unlocked it, and then swayed dizzily.

  Simon caught his arm.

  “All right?”

  The man took a deep breath.

  “Ja. Better. Thank you.”

  “Off to bed with you,” Mademoiselle Lambrini said to him.

  Kraus looked back through the trees in front of the house as the Saint closed the door.

  “But Fräulein, they may have found out about this place. They may come here!”

  “A lot you could do about it in your condition,” she said gently. “Go to your bed, mon vieux. You have taken care of me often enough. Let me take care of you.”

  The white-haired man shrugged.

  “As you vill, Fräulein. But be careful, please.” He gave Simon a distrustful look, bowed slightly, and moved slowly away down the entrance hall toward the door at its far end. He turned to speak once more. “Excuse me please.”

  “Take care of yourself,” said the Saint casually.

  “And I shall bring you some supper,” Mademoiselle Lambrini said.

  She led the Saint out of the dim hall into the house’s large front living room. A large window looked south over the entrance drive, the marble nymph, and her dry fountain. The room itself was not as richly furnished as Simon had expected. What was there fitted harmoniously, was antique, and gave the impression of having been there for a long time—and of having cost someone plenty a good many years before. It was just that there was so little of it: a sofa, three chairs, a pair of small tables, an empty glass-fronted mahogany cabinet. Yet the room was very large, and the empty spaces where furniture had formerly stood were depressingly evident. The walls, too, were bare except for two etchings of hunting scenes.

  The owner of the house sensed the meaning of Simon’s survey.

  “I am selling this place,” she said. “I have already sold quite a few things from it, as you can see.”

  “It does seem large for a single girl.”

  “Yes,” she said very thoughtfully, as if considering whether or not to say something further. The decision was positive. “If I can truly be called single.”

  Simon frowned slightly.

  “You’re married or have been?”

  “I am married, Monsieur Templar—to these.”

  She was walking to a recessed bookcase of about her own height, next to the marble fireplace. Her fingers touched something on the left side of the bookcase, and then she easily slid the entire bookcase, shelves, and back panel aside into the wall. Behind it was a space like a wide shallow closet, containing something that resembled an irregularly shaped waist-high box covered with a green cloth.

  Mademoiselle Lambrini pulled away the cloth, revealing the five paintings which stood there in a crude rack, or at least their frames, since only the front canvas was visible. At a glance the Saint recognized the style of Leonardo da Vinci. Even in the sunset light the colors had the luster of emeralds and rubies. It was the half-length portrait of a woman against a background of lakes and mountains.

  One by one Mademoiselle Lambrini showed Simon the pictures and unnecessarily told him the names of the artists. Then she put the cloth back over them and slid the bookcase into place again in front of the secret compartment.

  “They’re beautiful,” Simon said, “and I’m sure very valuable.”

  “Very. They are worth at least eight million francs—a million and a half dollars.”

  “And they’re yours,” Simon said, allowing a distinct note of doubt to come into his voice.

  “Of course—until I sell them tomorrow.”

  “Just a few lucky finds you picked up for a song at some little place on the Left Bank?”

  She turned and glared at him coldly from near the marble fireplace.

  “If you are going to make stupid remarks about them I shall be sorry I showed them to you. You gave me good reason to think I could trust you, Monsieur Templar, and…”

  “Since we’re getting intimate enough to have quarrels, won’t you call me Simon? And I’ll call you…”

  He stopped, questioningly.

  “Annabella,” she said without relaxing.

  “Anna the beautiful,” Simon translated. “Very appropriate…very true.”

  She blushed slightly and tried to keep her lips from softening into the hint of a smile.

  “You don’t need to flatter me, Monsieur Templar. You have already saved my life—and my paintings. That is enough for one day.”

  “I’m just giving my natural honesty free rein,” the Saint said engagingly. “And you can’t blame me for feeling some curiosity, too. I didn’t mean to insult you or your one-woman Louvre.”

  She nodded, and this time she actually did smile, although a little tiredly.

  “I apologize, too. I am very nervous. This sale to Marcel LeGrand means everything to me—and I’m not accustomed to being kidnapped either, or almost kidnapped. The strain of trying to arrange this deal with LeGrand was enough before I found out today that someone else knows about these paintings and wants to steal them.”

  “Do you know that for certain?” the Saint asked her.

  “After what happened in Paris, it’s a reasonable assumption, isn’t it?” she replied. “I assure you I don’t know of any other reason why anybody should bother me. I have very little money and no rich relatives.”

  “Maybe what seems very little money to you might seem a lot to other people,” Simon suggested.

  She shook her head.

  “No. I literally have just enough money to keep up appearances—though why I’m telling you all this I don’t know.”

  She hesitated. Simon, lounging against the wall near the front window, looked at her across the darkening room.

  “I must be a sort of rejuvenated Father Figure,” he surmised. “People always confess to me. Can’t help themselves. Luckily I’m entirely trustworthy except where money and women are concerned—so if you don’t have a bank account or a husband, both of us are safe.”

  She laughed uncertainly.

  “Well, I have neither. My father died just a few months ago, and he left me this house. It was heavily mortgaged, and almost all the proceeds from it will have to go to settle debts. In fact I have had to sell furniture in order to live these past weeks. I didn’t have the heart to sell the car. Hans is so fond of it, and he stays with me for nothing. He lives on his own savings.” She brightened. “Of course I’ve also known I would only have to hold out for a few more weeks, and then I would be rich—from selling the paintings.”

  “Which brings us back to…”

  But Simon did not have a chance to finish. Hans Kraus came running from the back rooms of the house, shouting at the top of his voice.

  4

  “Fräulein! Fräulein! Bitte schnell! Quickly!”

  The Saint and Annabella Lambrini met the gray-haired chauffeur in the entrance hall.

  “Hans!” she cried. “What is it?”

  “A man! I haf seen a man from my vindow. T’rough der trees he valked! Und ven I go out after him, he ran to der front.”

  Simon did not wait to hear any more of the story. He was already on his way out the front door of the house after only an instant’s glance to make certain he was not walking into an ambush. At first the most n
early human thing he saw in the golden twilight was the modest marble nymph. Then his keen eye caught a flash of color in motion far down among the trees near the main road. Although it was already obvious that he had little chance of catching up with the intruder, he went through the motions of chasing him just in case some miracle should occur that would make the effort worthwhile.

  But when he reached the dry fountain and paused, the Saint heard the engine of a car roaring from first into second gear with a squeal of rubber on pavement. He could not see the car that was making the noise, but its sound told him that it was taking off in the general direction of Paris as fast as it could go.

  Simon felt vaguely unhappy with himself. If the Mercedes had been followed while he was driving it, he should have noticed. He had in fact kept his eyes open for anybody tailing him on the way out from the city and had seen nothing that aroused his suspicions. But the roads had been crowded, and if the followers had held well back while Annabella Lambrini’s car was in the main traffic stream they would have been hard to spot. On the other hand, they might not have followed at all. Knowing as much as they appeared to, they would presumably have found out where she lived.

  “Did you see anything?” she was calling to him.

  He turned and strode back up the slope, where he was met by Annabella Lambrini and her chauffeur on the driveway.

  “Just an art connoisseur dropping in to have a look at your collection,” he answered. “He’s shy, though. I never got near him.” He looked back down toward the road. “Too bad. I might have caught a ride back to Paris.”

  The woman’s lovely green eyes were much wider when Simon turned back to meet them than they had been a few seconds before.

  “You are not leaving!” she exclaimed.

  “I didn’t know I was invited to stay,” he said, with the most feather-light touch of challenge.

  “Oh, please do! Don’t leave us here alone tonight—the last night before I finally get these paintings off my hands. Hans isn’t feeling well, and I…”

  “I feel good,” Hans said. “I am not longer ill.”

  “I don’t think Hans trusts me,” murmured the Saint.