Blagot set down the leather case and pulled
off the
ring,
which the Saint put on his own finger. Then Simon
took the briefcase to a table by the window and worked over it for a
moment with a letter opener.
“What are you doing?” Smolenko
demanded harshly, and then in reaction to Blagot’s astonished stare she
moderated her tone and asked with much more respect,
“Do you need help, Colonel? You
frighten us.”
“I have finished already,” Simon said. “I have
simply broken the connection between the firing device and the
explosive. Now we can speak without fear of violent
in
terruption.”
He turned suddenly on Blagot, peering at him
with
intense eyes that were all blue ice.
“Comrade, tell me. Who in our
organization knew the
details of my trip to Paris?”
“Me. And of course Claude Moli
è
re.”
“Ah, yes. I have read his file. Nobody else?”
“Naturally not, Colonel. Your orders were
that we
maintain top security.”
“Which was not maintained.”
“It is unpardonable, Colonel, but…”
Blagot gave another of his shrugs and
protruded his
lips. Simon felt a desire to step on him as he would a
cockroach.
His moment of bloody fantasy was inter
rupted, however, by a
thin, high-pitched sound—a sound
he had expected as surely as he would have
expected
day to follow dawn.
“Here,” he said quickly, pointing
to the table on which the briefcase lay.
They gathered around, all but Simon staring,
per
plexed. The faint little whine grew higher and louder until its pitch
almost rose above human hearing. Then
the room was abruptly silent.
“At that moment when the sound
stopped,” the Saint explained, “we would all have been blown into
small
pieces.”
He watched with satisfaction as the effect of
his somewhat exaggerated description of the explosive’s power
registered
on the semicircle of faces. Then he went on
to explain the means
by which such devastating effects
were achieved.
Comrade Blagot mopped his oily brow with an
unclean
handkerchief.
“But it is impossible that anyone could
have tampered
with this case. I received it only today from our sup
plier.”
“No one needed to tamper with it,”
the Saint said
firmly. “The radio signal receiver was built into
it. And the same with the lighter-cameras and the miniature
communications
equipment. Now I think I shall pay a
call on your supplier.”
“But the purchaser is a reliable man. I
cannot believe
that Moli
è
re
…”
“Where is this Moli
è
re?”
asked Simon.
“But, Colonel, you said you had read his
file.”
“I read many files.”
“But Claude Moli
è
re is Assistant Controller for the
whole
d
é
partement.”
“Imbecile! I mean where is he now, at
this very mo
ment?”
Blagot was properly abashed.
“I am sorry, my Colonel. I believe he
should be at
his shop. Let me telephone to make sure.”
“No. I should prefer to pay him a visit
unannounced.
And if I were you I would not be so quick to defend
him. He may
be a simple dupe, like yourself. On the
other hand it is
possible that he was standing somewhere
down on the street
broadcasting the request that this
bomb blast us to our deaths.”
Blagot gulped.
“So now,” Simon announced,
“you will take us to your friend, Moli
è
re.
If you please.”
5
“Oh, brave old world, that hath such
creatures in it.”
Such was Simon Templar’s reflection on his
first view
of Moli
è
re’s Musique
à Go-Go. The small narrow shop
was a churning three-dimensional kaleidoscope
of
squirming and twitching teen-agers in boots, lavishly
bell-bottomed
trousers, miniskirts, yellow checked jack
ets, and Edwardian neckwear. Like victims
of tarantism,
they could not rest even in a
place which was not meant
for dancing
but for the sale of phonograph records. The
savage sounds which moved them issued from three auditioning booths in
the rear of the store, each scream
ing out the agony of a different
disk. On the walls hung
electric guitars,
bongos, radios, and television sets. A
couple
of exhausted female clerks had apparently long
ago given up trying to keep any kind of order, and con
tented themselves with watching the door in an
effort
to keep anybody from stealing
anything.
Blagot shoved his way through the jerking
crowd to
ward an office which looked out on the rest of the shop
through a
large window. Simon took Smolenko’s hand
to pull her up ahead
of him when it appeared they would
be separated in the crush. It was a
surprisingly soft,
warm hand, but it abruptly denied him the pleasure of
any
prolonged contact.
Ivan was so fascinated with the miniskirts
that Igor
had to be sent back to fetch him through the mob.
“Colonel Smolenko,” Blagot said to
Simon, ushering
him
into the little office, “allow me to present Comrade Claude Moli
è
re.”
If Moli
è
re
had believed that the Smolenko party had
been recently
despatched by a radio-controlled bomb, he did not betray the fact.
Unfortunately, it was most likely
that he would have been aware of the
failure by now in
any case. He was a birdlike man of about thirty-five,
with a
hooked beak and glittering black eyes, and his twittering nervousness seemed
more a permanent char
acteristic than the result of a surprise
confrontation.
“Colonel, Colonel,” he said,
jumping to his feet and
extending a moist, delicate hand, “what
a pleasure.
What an honor.”
The Saint shook the hand coolly.
“My secretary, Comrade Malakov.”
“Comrade.”
“Comrade,” said the real Smolenko
without enthusi
asm.
Simon motioned her to one of the wooden
chairs.
“My men will remain outside,” he
said with a wry
smile,
“keeping an eye on the quaint diversions of your
country.”
“My apologies, Colonel. At least in here
the sound is
not deafening.”
“It does not matter. I am a man of few
words and
good hearing. I am sure you have many more interesting
things to tell me than I could possibly tell you.”
Moli
è
re
almost visibly squirmed before the threaten
ing steel points of
the Saint’s eyes.
“Ah, Colonel, no,” he protested deprecatingly,
looking
as if he would have liked to change the subject entirely.
Simon was kind enough to help him. Glancing
around
the room,
his eyes had settled on a bottle of a curiously spiraled shape which stood on a
shelf between piles of
catalogues.
“Grand Abrouillac,”
Moli
è
re said observantly. “A most
distinguished
liqueur which may be new to you.”
“I know of it,” said Simon,
studying the label. “It does
not travel. I was not aware that it was
ever exported
from
Switzerland.”
“You are a connoisseur,” Moliere
said with approval.
“A business friend supplies me. Damaged though it may
be from its trip down the Alps, you may be surprised
at its
quality. May I pour you a glass? And your charming
secretary, of course.”
“Thank you, no. We have just had
champagne at our
hotel.”
“Ah, Colonel,” Moli
è
re
gushed, winking, “champagne.
You know
how to live.”
“I try,” said the Saint. “It
seems to be increasingly
difficult these days.”
Moli
è
re, feeling the
pressure applied once more, shriv
eled a bit.
His laugh was weak.
“And now,” Simon said brusquely,
“to business. In
Moscow we were struck—I might almost say shattered—
by the excellence of your miniaturized equipment.
Do
you make it yourself?”
Moli
è
re
hesitated, almost stammered.
“Uh … no.”
“Who does?”
“Ah
…
the firm
of Grossmeyer, Cardin et Fils. Of
Zurich.”
“Zurich. Good.”
Simon turned to Smolenko.
“Malakov, what was that thing we liked so
much but
had a little difficulty with—the lighter or the…”
“The lighter that takes pictures?”
Moli
è
re interrupted.
“A charming toy. It has
given you difficulties?”
“One could hardly call them
difficulties.”
Simon waited to see whether his ambiguous
statement
would bring additional sweat to the shop owner’s brow.
It did.
Then he went on:
“A tendency to jam temporarily after
several expo
sures. These things are not my field. They are handled
on a lower
level. But as long as I am here I thought …”
“Colonel, I am sure the difficulties of
which you speak
must have involved only a single defective item or so.
Our tests…”
“We cannot afford even one defective
item. I trust you
will see to the prevention of such oversights from now
on.”
“Certainly, Colonel. Absolutely.”
“May I please have one of the photographic
lighters?” the Saint asked.
“Now?” asked Moli
è
re with surprise.
“Yes. Now. If you please.”
“But of course,” Moli
è
re said with a notable mixture
of facial expressions.
“One moment.”
He reached into one of the drawers of his
desk and fumbled about as Simon turned and watched the display
of rocking
bodies which crammed the outer room. The
Saint’s mind was running in top gear, and
his every move was calculated.
“Here, Colonel. With my
compliments.”
“Thank you,” Simon said, taking the
little burnished
steel rectangle. “Is it ready for use?”
“Oh, yes. It is loaded. Ten exposures.
You can make a
record of your travels.”
“And also test the possibility of faults
in the mecha
nism.”
“Certainly.”
The Saint aimed the camera at Moli
è
re and pressed
the tiny spring
button in the hinge of the lid. Moli
è
re
fidgeted
and laughed.
“But, Colonel, is it wise? Photographs
of me and my
shop in your camera?”
“I shall not lose it.”
He took a picture of Smolenko, then he turned
in his
chair and made two shots of the dancing crowd beyond
the
window. He turned back and clicked the device
again in Moli
è
re’s direction. Moli
è
re blanched.
“The light here is poor,” he said.
“An espionage camera which will not make
photo
graphs in ordinary room light?” Simon asked incredu
lously.
“That would be inexcusable. Let us try it out
here.”
Moli
è
re
looked relieved until he discovered that “out there” meant the main
room of his shop. Simon snapped
Blagot, who seemed to have no fear of the
camera and
was obviously quite happy to let his comrade, Moli
è
re, remain the center of the testy Colonel
Smolenko’s atten
tion. The genuine Smolenko appeared bored and
vaguely
disgusted at the inexplicable antics of her
impersonator.
“Anti-capitalist propaganda,” said
Simon cheerfully, taking a frame of the dancers.
“Fantastique.”