Saint and the Templar Treasure (8 page)

“Then we can be sure you will succeed if you only have enough time,” Henri said with studiously veiled sarcasm.

Mrs. Charles brought the platter to each place in turn for the guests to help themselves, while Charles himself circulated with a bottle of the chateau’s white wine; and Yves turned courteously to the Saint to interpret the cryptic conversation.

“The Templars were believed to have amassed a tremendous fortune at the height of their prosperity. Louis Norbert has a theory that some of it could well have been stored in such a Templar stronghold as this.”

“If it had been, everyone would have been looking for it when the castle fell,” Philippe said confidently. “It is hardly likely that it would still be hidden after six hundred and forty years.”

“More likely the Templars took it with them,” Henri said.

“Perhaps they did not have the opportunity,” ventured Gaston.

“At any rate, it is an interesting dream,” said Yves, with soothing impartiality. “And it harms nobody.”

The Saint was not so sure about that, but he said nothing.

In a few minutes, he had been presented with more information than he should have dared to hope for, but he did not propose to take sides in the debate. On the contrary, he had a sudden urge to efface himself as much as possible.

It was almost a relief when Mimette changed the subject by asking her father if he had heard the weather forecast for the next day, and Simon’s rampant curiosity could take a breather while the conversation reverted to banalities.

The trout were followed by rare roast beef, presliced in the kitchen and presented in the same style by Mrs. Charles on a similar platter with its garniture of fresh vegetables. The Saint suppressed a pang at the reminder that French custom and cuisine, for all its artistry and refinement, would never admit that the best and only way to roast rare beef is on the rib, under its natural overcoat of self-basting fat, instead of trimming it down to a totally cholesterol-free dietician’s boneless dream, dried on the outside and without richness within. The vegetables, however, were expectable perfection, a classic contrast to the Anglo-American school of stick-‘em-in-a-quart-of-water-and-boil-to-a-pulp. As an uninvited guest, it was up to him to enjoy the fare, and the spirit in which it had been offered.

Mimette and Philippe appeared to have called a truce for the duration of the dinner. She talked with her father about the prospects for the harvest while her uncle became engrossed in a conversation with Henri about some new laws about labelling that were apparently about to come into force. Norbert spoke only when spoken to, which was not often.

Simon complimented Gaston on the red wine which Charles poured to accompany the beef, the same wine that had been recommended to him at lunch. From that it was an easy transition to the problems of a winery in wartime, and he found that once the old man’s natural reserve was breached he made a fascinating companion. The Saint heard about his soldiering in the first war and his activities with the Resistance in the second. They were not the boasts of the dinner-table general but the mostly amusing, sometimes poignant, anecdotes of a private soldier. The more they talked the more the Saint warmed to him. But despite the soothing effects of the food and wine and his genuine interest in the stories, he also heard the conversations of the others around the table and was constantly alert for any additional background knowledge that he could pick up directly or indirectly.

Henri Pichot was apparently the local boy made good. His uncle Gaston had brought him up at Ingare; Philippe had spotted his potential and paid for him to study law in Paris. Having recently qualified, he was now waiting to join a practice and in the meantime was working for one of Philippe’s companies.

Philippe ran a number of companies and they made him a lot of money. He enjoyed talking about both, to the barely concealed boredom of Mimette.

After the meal came the formal adjournment to the salon, where Mrs. Charles brought coffee and her husband served balloon glasses of brandy. Yves Florian took Simon by the arm and offered a cigar.

“If you don’t mind, I’m trying to give up at least one vice every twenty years,” Simon declined. “In that way I should achieve perfect purity by the time I’m a hundred.”

“I’m afraid I have been neglecting you. Mimette is always badgering me about the business. Even at meal times I get no peace.”

Yves looked across at his daughter and smiled fondly. There was clearly a very strong bond between them.

“Please don’t feel guilty,” said the Saint. “If I’m to stay for another day or two, there will be plenty of time for us to talk.”

“I hope so. Because of the association with Ingare, your name has always caught my attention. I have followed your career, and I shall insist on boring you by asking you for the details that were not reported.”

“I should be delighted to tell you all, but if I do it may be I who turns out to be the bore.”

“I doubt it. I want particularly to hear about that affair of the Sons of France, ten years ago. You should have been given the Legion d’Honneur for that.”

The Saint laughed.

“I don’t think it would have been politic at the time.”

“I suppose you are right,” Yves said sadly. “There were too many powerful people involved. Fortunately most, if not all, came into the open during the occupation and have since been dealt with.”

As he spoke he seemed to glance towards Philippe. His words came through an unfortunate break in other conversations, and an uncomfortable stillness descended on the room.

It was Mimette who broke the silence. She made a play of looking at her watch and then stood up.

“Now, Papa, this is no time to start reminiscing about the war,” she said firmly. “It’s getting late, and as some of us have to make an early start in the morning I think we should make it an early night.”

Her father nodded, and the others who had been seated also rose.

“If you will excuse us,” he said, “we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

They walked out of the salon together.

“I could do with some fresh air,” Philippe announced. “Come for a stroll in the garden, Henri. We can finish our discussion there.”

Pichot wished the Saint a good night. Philippe merely turned his back on the company and walked unsteadily into the garden.

Gaston and Norbert both bade the Saint their bonnes nuits, and Simon could think of nothing else to do but follow the example of the majority and wander back to his room.

He did not feel in the least tired, and his mind was too active to be ready for sleep. He took off his coat and tie but otherwise made no move to undress. He felt too restless even to lie on the bed, and slowly paced the room while he sorted over the clues that he had collected.

It was nearly eleven, but the night was still very warm. He opened the double doors and walked out on to the balcony. He surveyed the cloudless star-sprinkled sky for a long while and then lowered his gaze to roam over the valley. He followed the slope of the hill up to the chateau where the white of the castle walls stood out starkly against the blackness of the land. He thought again about the third man he had seen by the tower, and as he did so a faint light caught his eye. It was no bigger or brighter than the flare of a match and was just as quickly extinguished. It had appeared in one of the ground-floor windows of the tower, and as he watched it burned again. This time it did not go out but moved slowly from side to side, creating a rhythmic pendulum of luminance. It looked like some kind of signal.

III

How Henri Pichot conducted an Experiment, and Professor Norbert explained a Name.

1

A half-moon added to the starlight of a cloudless sky revealed the garden and the walls clearly enough for the Saint’s feline night vision. The light in the tower was stationary now, a faint flicker no more powerful than the glow of a candle but as bright as a beacon as far as he was concerned. It attracted him like a moth, and the thought of ignoring it never entered his head. His restlessness of a few minutes before was gone, submerged in the exhilarating prospect of direct action.

For a moment he considered returning to the dining-room and entering the garden that way, but he dismissed the idea almost immediately. It would be unwise to be found wandering through the chateau while his hosts and others slept, and there was also the risk of running into Philippe and Henri returning from their nocturnal stroll. But what would have been imprudent a few hours earlier was now a practical alternative.

The balcony on which he stood was directly above the one on the floor below, and he estimated that once he was hanging at full stretch he would have to drop no more than four or five feet to reach it. He would then be on a level with the top of the wall that ran from the chateau to the tower, and the ten feet of brickwork separating the two was covered with a dense growth of ivy. The catwalk that had provided a beat for the castle’s sentries was now only a couple of feet wide, but looked solid enough to serve his purpose.

The Saint went back into his room and took a dark blue pull-over from his case to hide the whiteness of his shirt. He retrieved his throwing knife from beneath the pillow and strapped it on to his forearm as casually as another man might strap on a watch. He could perform tricks with that slender steel blade that would have guaranteed him a job in any circus, and he could draw and throw it faster than most men can produce a gun from a holster. He did not expect to have to demonstrate his skill that night but he believed in being prepared, and the gentle pressure of the leather sheath against his skin was quietly reassuring.

Back on the balcony he wasted no time reconsidering the course of action he had decided upon but swung a leg over the top of the balustrade and wedged his foot between two of the uprights. He repeated the manoeuvre so that he was balanced on the outside of the balcony facing towards the chateau and then carefully slid his hands down the supports until he was almost touching his toes. Calmly he stepped backwards into space with his fingers taking the strain of the deadweight of his body. Gently he began to rock his legs by kicking from the knees. With his face pressed against the deep base of the balcony he was unable to see the target he was aiming for and steadily increased the arc of his swing. As he swung in for the third time he released his hold. His momentum took him neatly over the edge, and he landed on his toes in the centre of the balcony below.

Fortunately the room it belonged to was in darkness, but he remained motionless in his crouch as he listened for any indication that he had been seen. Even when confident that he had not been observed, he kept below the height of the capstone until he reached the corner where it joined the chateau.

In the shadow of the wall he stood up and tugged at the ivy. The creepers had forced themselves deep between the bricks and only a few leaves came away. Satisfied that they would bear his weight, he stepped over the balustrade and reached out as far as he could to grasp one of the thick main stems of the vine.

His progress was quicker and easier than he had expected. The ivy was strong and well achored, and its centuries of probing the mortar had opened up a score of fingerholds. Less than a minute after leaving the balcony the Saint dropped nimbly on to the catwalk and turned towards the tower. Bending low so as not to be silhouetted against the sky, he moved quickly along the wall until he reached the steps beside the tower. He took his time going down, taking the crumbling stairs one at a time and being careful not to dislodge the loose stones that littered them.

He sidled stealthily around the tower until he reached the window and just as cautiously ducked down and peered over the sill. When he had set out he had not bothered to speculate about what he might find, but the sight that greeted him was certainly stranger than any he would have imagined.

The tower was a hollow shell. The floors had long since collapsed, and the only clues to where they had once been were the positions of the arrow slits, the landings on the stone staircase that wound around the walls, and a single remaining joist that ran from just above the window to the opposite side of the room. From the centre, a slender stone pillar reached up halfway to the battlements.

The light that had caught his attention came from a small oil lamp hanging from the centre of the joist beside the pillar. Sitting around a table in its dim pool of light were Philippe, Henri, and Louis Norbert. In front of them lay a circle of cards bearing the letters of the alphabet, together with others on which had been scrawled the numbers from one to nine. The words oui and non had been written on two larger cards placed at opposite sides of the circle. An upturned wine-glass was in the center of the cards and the three men were staring intently at it as they rested the tips of their index fingers on its base.

The worldly Philippe Florian, the pedantic professor, and the diffident young lawyer were solemnly invoking the spirits… .

With the sort of portentous gravity that politicians adopt when declaring war or raising taxes, Henri Pichot began to speak.

“Is anybody there?”

The Saint had to compress his lips to prevent the laughter escaping. He had always wondered what would happen at a seance if the medium’s first question was answered in the negative.

The glass shivered and jerkily moved across the table to oui and then slid more smoothly back to the centre.

“Identify yourself,” Henri commanded, and the glass began to glide around the circle of cards, making a series of brief stops.

The professor read out the letters it visited:

“J.A.C.Q.U.E.S. D.E. M.O.L.A.Y.”

A sudden stillness descended on the group as the name registered. It lasted no more than a few seconds, but to the three men at the table it might as well have been an hour. They stared at the glass, and even in the half light the Saint could see Philippe stiffen and Norbert’s eyes open wide in astonishment.

The movement of the glass back to the middle of the table broke the spell.

Philippe snatched his hand away as quickly as if the glass had become red hot, exclaiming: “Mon Dieu!”