Saint and the Templar Treasure (5 page)

Simon followed her in silence around the balcony and along a passage leading off to the right. He wondered how long it would take to qualify as a guide to the chateau. The old house appeared to have been built to no specific plan, as if the rooms had been added haphazardly when and where they were needed. The result was a confusing obstacle course of corridors and staircases. All he could tell of their destination was that it lay somewhere towards the rear of the chateau in the east wing. After some abrupt turns and arbitrary changes of level they passed through a vast echoing gallery panelled with more stiffly posed portraits of presumable Florian forebears before descending to ground level again via a more modern flight of wooden stairs. They met no one and heard nothing but the sound of their own footsteps. After the sunlit spaciousness of its outdoors the interior of the chateau seemed oppressive, almost claustrophobic.

Finally Mimette stopped and ushered the Saint into a small sitting-room. It was comfortably furnished with the sort of heavily upholstered Napoleonic sofas that were designed to relax on rather than to admire. In contrast with the other areas that he had seen, it was a room that was obviously lived in, the kind that is found behind doors marked Private in stately homes and is a mile removed from the imposing suites with their Louis XV and Chippendale which are on show to the paying public. A pair of plain glass doors opened on to a patio beyond which was a neatly clipped lawn that stretched between banks of flowering shrubs to the remains of the castle’s outer walls. In the centre was an ancient well that might have once served the beleaguered knights.

Mimette told him that she would not be long and left. The Saint stretched himself full length on a sofa from which he could look out of the window and thought over the events of the previous hours.

His involvement had happened so swiftly, through a chain of circumstances that no solvent bookmaker would have laid odds about, that he felt slightly like a canoeist who had been pitched into the centre of the rapids and now, between rocks, could take advantage of a lull to study the river around him.

It was, to say the least, an intriguing situation. A noble family plagued by a curse that was being helped to work by a couple of small-time crooks. A proud and beautiful young woman too well aware of her station to show her emotions openly, but most certainly a very frightened female. A magnificent house that had about it a feeling of foreboding as if even the walls were waiting for something to happen. Plus, for good measure, a professor trying to understand some sort of primitive tombstone. It was like a crossword puzzle with only half the clues and no black squares.

It was, as Mimette had so bluntly pointed out, no business of his; but if the Saint had always minded his own business there would have been very few stories to write about him.

“The game’s afoot,” he quoted to the pleasant garden he was staring at. “But what’s the game?”

He was still no nearer to an answer when Mimette returned carrying a tray on which were a bowl of hot water, a jar of pink-coloured ointment, and a roll of gauze. The Saint rolled up the right sleeve of his shirt and removed his improvised bandage.

Mimette held his hand and carefully bathed his blackened palm. When she had cleaned it she looked up at him sharply.

“This burn is really almost nothing,” she accused.

“That’s what I thought,” he said shamelessly.

“Then why did you-“

“But it was a wonderful excuse to spend more time with you, and to have you hold my hand.”

She released the hand quickly as an elderly lady in a black dress that bulged in all the wrong places entered with the whisky, a siphon, and glasses. The Saint guessed that she was the spouse of the retainer who had opened the door for them. If possible she was even more self-effacing than her husband. She placed the silver salver on a table beside the sofa and left without a word. Mimette never even looked at her and the Saint’s smile of thanks went unnoticed.

“I ought to have you thrown out,” Mimette said as the door closed.

“Why not?” Simon concurred helpfully.

“Because I am beginning to think I have heard your name before.”

“And you think I might be a distant relative—or too much for Charles to handle?”

Her eyes searched his face.

“You are called the Saint, n’est-ce pas?”

“By some people. But what are you afraid of?”

His question was intentionally ambiguous, but her first choice of answers was not the one that he was aiming for.

“You are a pirate. You rob people. They say you have even murdered some.”

” ‘Pirate’ sounds so much nicer than ‘thief.’ Thank you,” he replied calmly. “Though I suppose whichever word you use it comes to the same thing. But I’ve never robbed anyone who didn’t deserve it, and there are some people who are enormously improved by death.”

Mimette poured out one liberal Scotch and a token spoonful in the other glass. The Saint sipped his drink and allowed her time to marshal her thoughts. When she finally spoke her voice was husky and uncertain.

“I must not forget that at this moment we are in your debt. But what do you really want from us?”

“Well, as you can see, even if I’m not critically injured, I got myself a bit messed up. If you felt truly hospitable, you’d offer me a bath and a chance to change my clothes.”

As soon as the words were out he cursed himself for his casualness. Mimette rose at once and pulled a bell sash. She did not return to her seat but walked to the window and stood with her back to him looking out across the lawn.

“Mimette,” he said gently, “believe me, I want nothing from you or your family. It was purely an accident that brought me here. Or a whim of fate. But I know now that you’re in trouble. I might be able to help. I’d like to if you’d let me. But you would have to trust me. Could you trust me?”

The Saint concentrated every ounce of his personality into his voice, speaking his words of reassurance quietly but firmly, staying where he was rather than pressuring the girl by moving closer.

For a full minute she continued to stare out into the garden, until at last she turned and met his eyes. When she spoke there was a strange weariness behind her response. “Why not? What have I got to lose?” She walked slowly back to the sofa and sat down. “I’m not sure where to start. It all seems so inexplicable.

Someone is trying to make us bankrupt, to force us to leave In-gare. I think …”

But the Saint was not yet to know what she thought. The rap of a discreet knock and the opening of the door made her stop abruptly, as the man-servant entered.

Mimette stood up, becoming once again the ice-blooded mistress of the house.

“Charles, will you take Monsieur Templar to a guest room and run a bath for him. When he is ready, show him to the main salon.”

The servant held the door open and there was nothing for Simon to do but go with him. With a parting nod to Mimette he turned and trailed the major-domo up to the second floor and through another minor labyrinth to the chamber assigned to him.

The Saint wondered about the daffodil painted on the centre of the door but its significance became apparent as soon as he entered the room. It was completely decorated in varying shades of yellow. Curtains, carpet, bedspread were all pale gold, while the chairs were upholstered in a lemon-coloured velvet. Even the wardrobe doors were painted with yellow panels. Simon stood for a moment taking it all in.

“The only thing it needs is a canary,” he observed dryly.

“In the old days when servants were illiterate it was found convenient to identify rooms by colour rather than numbers or letters, sir,” Charles explained with the practised fluency of one used to providing the information.

The Saint crossed to the window and looked out while the servant ran his bath. Immediately in front of him was a curved balcony which jutted out over the remains of the castle wall that ran from the chateau to the tower. From the tower the rear wall ran almost to the other end of the house before meeting a huddle of one-level outbuildings that undoubtedly served for pressing and vatting the wine. Below them would be a series of cellars where the wine would be bottled and stored.

The servant returned from the adjoining bathroom and asked: “Can I help you undress, m’sieu?”

“No, thank you,” said the Saint. “But perhaps you would fetch my valise from the car.”

He handed over the car keys and waited until Charles had gone before starting to remove his shirt. It was not that he was bashful about undressing in front of a stranger, but he had no wish to excite comment, and the six-inch throwing knife strapped to his left forearm would certainly have done just that. After hiding the sheath under a pillow he hung up his clothes and walked through to the bathroom, which was an anachronistic conversion to ultra-modern plumbing.

It was full of steam, and he opened the window to let it out. The sight that greeted him made him step quickly back and stand very still.

On the track that led from the castle down towards the river was parked a black Citroen identical to the one he had seen beside the burning barn, and walking towards it from the tower were two men whose shapes he clearly recognised even at that distance.

2

In a movie, Simon Templar would have leapt from the window on to the balcony below, then swung like Errol Flynn across to the battlements, and after running along the crumbling catwalk would have dived like an avenging angel on to the two unsuspecting miscreants. In real life, the Saint stayed where he was and watched.

It was not that he lacked the athletic agility and strength to perform the required gymnastics. The main restraining factor was that he wanted to win the confidence of the Florian family, and such trust is not normally given to guests who leap stark naked from bathroom windows and jump on other men, however laudable their motives. There was also the equally practical consideration that they might well have gone away before he could reach them.

The men were climbing into their car when a third figure ran from the tower and pressed a package into the hands of the smaller of the other two. The combination of angle and distance prevented the Saint from getting anything more than a fleeting glimpse of the newcomer before he turned back and was again hidden by the tower.

The Citroen turned and accelerated away down the track. Simon did not waste time following its route but instead focused his attention on the tower. For several minutes he maintained his vigil but the third man did not re-appear. The Saint was disappointed but realised that his view of anyone leaving the tower by an outside door would have been screened by the walls.

When it was obvious that he was not likely to see any more, he lowered himself into the no longer scalding water and pondered every detail of what he had witnessed. There was a deduction to be made, but it only added to his collection of question marks.

The major-domo returned, and came as far as the bathroom door.

“I have brought your valise, m’sieu. Do you wish me to unpack it?”

“Non, merci,” Simon said. “I’d prefer to find what I want.”

“If you ring the bell when you are ready, m’sieu, I will come and show you to the principal salon.”

“Thank you.”

“A votre service.”

Service was a fine thing, Simon reflected, but he could soon have too much of it.

When he had completed his ablutions and dried himself, he returned to the bedroom and found his suitcase on a stool beside the bed. As he bent to unlock it he could not help looking out of the window at the panorama now suffused with the rosy tints of approaching sunset into which the Citroen had disappeared, and remembering how the third man had returned towards the tower and not been sighted again.

The inescapable conclusion was that he had come into the chateau. And was probably still inside. And very possibly had been all along.

An illuminating corollary was that there had been no attempt to hide the Citroen even though it could have been seen by anybody looking out of a window on the second or third storey. Which suggested that the accomplice was in a position to account for his actions if challenged, or that he knew the whereabouts of everyone else in the house.

“But how corny it would be,” Simon told his reflection in the mirror as he combed his hair, “to have the faithful old butler be the villain… .”

To replace the garments which had suffered the dishevelment of his salvage efforts, he selected an extravagantly patterned shirt from Nassau, a pair of light blue slacks, and a featherweight jacket. The combination restored the image of a disarm-ingly relaxed vacationing tourist which, in essence, was exactly what he was.

He ignored the bell-pull that would have summoned the major-domo to show him to the drawing-room and quietly turned the door handle and slipped out into the deserted corridor. His action might be frowned upon by his hostess and would certainly scandalise the worthy Charles, but he had had enough of being shepherded for a while, and he felt like doing a little exploring on his own. He reasoned that if he was found anywhere he should not be, he had the perfect excuse of being lost in a strange house—which, he mused as he remembered the maze of passages, he probably would be.

He was able to retrace the route the servant had taken until he arrived at the right-angled turn-off of a narrow corridor which seemed to connect the east wing with the main body of the chateau. He had a feeling that if there was anything to be discovered during his wandering it would be in the older section of the house.

Inside the main building, the corridor abruptly became a much wider passage, lighted by a tall window at the far end. From the number of doors along either side, it appeared to bisect the building, giving access to both front and back rooms.

The Saint moved swiftly along it, making less noise than a stalking cat. He opened doors at random, but found nothing more exciting than bedrooms and an occasional cupboard or lumber room.

The end of the passage, by the tall window, proved to be also a landing for a spiral stone staircase leading both upwards and downwards. Judging that the upper floor would be no more exciting than the one he was on, he took the stairs down to the first floor, which turned out to be an equally barren hunting ground. The only room of any interest was a large well-stocked library that would have taken far too long to search.