“I
have some other equipment to show you,”
offered Moli
è
re nervously. “Very
interesting.”
“Not as interesting as this bizarre
spectacle, surely.
Just one moment. When I have finished the roll.”
Turning for his next shot, the Saint muttered
to Igor in English, pushing him firmly in the direction of the
back of the
shop.
“Watch that door. Stop Moli
è
re if he tries to get away.”
The choreomaniacs were reaching heights of rhythmic
abandon rarely seen north of Nigeria. It was quite
under
standable that a travelling
Russian should want to pre
serve a few
images of such exotic native customs with
which to regale the folks back home. But Comrade
Moli
è
re did
not seem to sympathize with the desire.
His dislike of the whole business became more and more
obvious as
Simon counted off his photographs.
“Almost finished now. Eight… nine…”
The Saint did not exactly see Moli
è
re run for the rear
of the shop. Like a
startled bird, the terrified man was
halfway out of sight before anyone
saw him move. Simon
watched with calm approval, locking the shutter mechanism
of the camera.
“What is happening?” Smolenko asked. “This has gone
far enough. You play with us.”
“Apparently our comrade doesn’t feel like playing. But
don’t worry. He won’t get away. Igor’s covering
the back entrance.”
Smolenko looked with a puzzled expression
over the
Saint’s shoulder.
“Igor?”
Simon turned. Igor was standing there,
beaming com
placently.
“Igor covering
you,
comrade. Not
so stupid as you
think.”
“You pinheaded baboon—he’s getting
away!”
The Saint shoved the man aside and raced
toward the
back door.
“Halt!” Igor cried, going for his
pistol.
Smolenko’s hand darted toward the guard’s
wrist, but
Simon had already halted. Moli
è
re was bouncing out of
sight down the alley in an old
Renault. The Saint turned
on Igor.
“Get Ivan to help you, and catch that
man. I don’t
care if it takes you the rest of your life … find
Moli
è
re!”
“I demand to know what is going on,”
Smolenko said.
“Okay, I’ll show you. Watch.”
Simon brought out the lighter.
“You see, this has a delayed action
adjustment on it.
You can press the shutter release button and the shutter
won’t
actually open for ten seconds. I’ll set it on delayed
action. I’ve taken
nine pictures. This will be the tenth
and last.”
He walked several yards along the alley to a
waist-
high garbage pail. Setting the delayed-action switch and
pressing
the shutter button, he dropped the miniature
camera into the metal
pail and came quickly away.
“Stay over here, now, and in just about
three
seconds …”
There was a loud, muffled boom, and the walls
of
the pail bulged fatly outward as the lid took off for
housetop
level. The Saint’s and Smolenko’s eyes, along
with Igor’s and
Ivan’s, followed the trajectory of the
metal disk until it
clattered back to the cobblestones of
the alley.
“There but for the grace of God go
I,” Simon said
soberly.
“Igor,” Smolenko said, her eyes full
of fire, her voice
like a saber blade slashing air, “go and find that
man.”
She slipped into Russian, but it was clear
from her
tone if
nothing else that Comrade Moli
è
re could
not look
forward to a very happy life in the
near future, and that that future might not be very extensive.
Smolenko confronted the Saint as Ivan and Igor
pounded away on the double.
“Now,” she said. “How do you
know this?”
She jerked her head toward the bulging
garbage can. Her voice was dangerous, but the Saint was not easily
awed.
“I saw the device demonstrated in Berlin,
by a gentle
man working with Western intelligence: A lighter ex
actly like
that one, exploding on the tenth frame.”
“So,” she said, “it is your
people behind this.”
“No. They were merely trying to
understand the work
ings of your equipment—the equipment, I mean, which
has
developed such a nasty habit of blowing up in your
agents’ faces of late.
I already explained to you on the
train about the British fear of pointless bloodshed among
their agents and yours.”
“Very humane. And I am supposed to
believe your
stories?”
“How many times do I have to save your
life before
you begin to have a little faith in me?”
“Faith is stupidity.”
“I think it would also be slightly stupid
to wait here until some cop who heard the explosion comes looking
for what
made it.”
She looked at him as he hurried her away from
the
music shop.
When she finally spoke again, her voice was more subdued.
“I thank you. For saving my life.”
“I suppose you’re welcome. I haven’t
decided yet.”
They continued on for several minutes through
a
tangle of back streets.
“I’ll say one thing for you,”
Simon remarked. “You’re
probably the first woman I’ve ever met who can
keep
up with my pace when I’m evading the law.”
“I walk three miles every morning.”
“If you’d like to compete,” Simon said, “we could
try
wrestling.”
Smolenko smiled, and it was the first time
the Saint
had seen
in her expression the vestiges of the child which
linger in the faces of most really beautiful women.
“I might injure you,” she said.
“I shudder to think what I might do to
you.”
She looked away and slowed her steps as they
passed
the display window of a
parfumerie.
“These goods are very expensive, I suppose,” she said
with elaborate casualness.
“I’m surprised you’d notice.”
“Mr. Templar, your insinuations to the
contrary, I am
not quite a total automaton. I notice the colors of
fabrics.
I enjoy
nice smells. If I were a man I should use shaving
lotions, which are pleasant and effective. Since I am a
woman I use perfume, on some suitable occasions,
and
I wear dresses and often
stockings. I even have experi
enced a
love life, it may astonish you to learn. We have
no need of false inhibitions in the socialist state.”
“And you accept that some love life is
necessary for
the procreation of the race.”
“Of course, but …” She broke off
abruptly. “This is
a ridiculous conversation. Are we going to the
hotel by
this route?”
“Eventually. For the moment we’re
probably safer
wandering around here than sitting back at the
hotel.”
“Safer?” she asked. “But
certainly Moli
è
re will not
think of
trying to harm us now that we know about him. He will be too busy trying to
save himself.”
“Colonel, I’m surprised at you. Do you
seriously think
that
Moli
è
re is the root of the problem, or
even the most
important part of it? He was
much too easy a nut to
crack. He gave himself away almost from the
instant we
walked into that shop. He was
inept and practically
shaking with
fear when the scheme he’d been taking part
in at a comfortable distance moved onto his own door
step. He’s only a piece in the puzzle.”
“Igor and Ivan will find him—and see that
he talks.”
“Before that, he may talk to his own
associates, and
they will reorganize to have another go at us. Probably
they have
something in the works already, since they
know they flunked out
on the train. In the meantime,
we may as well amuse ourselves. The shops
will still be
open for another couple of hours, and I need to do a
little
shopping. I didn’t have time to pack a bag before
I caught that train in
Berlin.”
“We shall part here then,” Smolenko
said.
“For safety’s sake, let’s meet at this
spot in two hours
and go back to the hotel together. Then I shall have the
privilege, I hope, of taking the most beautiful colonel in
the world
out for one of the most beautiful dinners in
the world. Assuming we
don’t get our heads blown off
over cocktails.”
6
“There is no such company as Grossmeyer,
Cardin et Fils,” said Simon, “in Zurich or anywhere near it.”
They had just come back to the suite. The
golden
light of a setting sun fell directly through the windows, giving a touch
of splendor to the otherwise uninspiring
rooms.
“So that is why you went to the telegraph
office and
looked
at the directories,” Smolenko said.
His blue eyes opened wide and mocking.
“Do you actually admit that you were
following me?”
She smiled.
“Why, of course.”
“I somehow sensed those lovely brown eyes
on the
back of my
neck,” Simon said calmly, “but I figured you
were safer toddling along after me than getting yourself
lost in the big, bad city. Didn’t I lose you right
after
the wineshop?”
“Yes, but I picked up your trail again
as you came
from the clothing store.”
“Which one? The men’s or the
women’s?”
“The men’s,” Smolenko said matter-of-factly.
“Why
would you go to a store for women?”
She hesitated, momentarily flustered as he
simply
looked at her tolerantly.
“Of course,” she said.
“Presents for some friend. But
that is not my affair. I am glad I
discovered nothing that
would make it necessary for me to consider
you my
enemy. I must admit that I am now inclined to trust you, for the
present, and to believe that other elements must
have somehow
infiltrated my own organization.”
“Brilliant, Colonel. Better late than never. Incidentally,
what is your name?”
“You know it.”
“Don’t tell me you have only one. In
Russian novels
they always have five or six at the very least, and they
get called
something different on every page.”
She smiled, and again there was that
reflection of inner
warmth and irrepressible youth the Saint had noticed
on the
street that afternoon.
“It’s Tanya,” she said. “Very common. Very
easy.”
She was standing by one of the tables, and
Simon
stepped toward her.
“But there’s nothing common about you,
tovarishtch,”
he said
softly.
She took a step backward, turned, and moved to
the
door of her room. For him the retreat was a form of
flattery. If she had been
uninterested—as women never
seemed to be in
a man so almost impossibly handsome
as
Simon Templar—she would most likely have stood her
ground to freeze him off.
“I take a bath now,” she said.
“It is very warm here,
after Moscow.”
“Please don’t consider my bourgeois
sensitivities, any time you feel like undressing accordingly. As you were
saying…”
A knock at the door interrupted him, and in an
instant his hand was on the lock.
“Who’s there?” he asked,
“Packages for you,
m’sieu.”
Simon’s sensitive ears recognized the voice of
one of
the
chasseurs
who had brought them to the suite earlier
in the day.
The man came into the room, both arms sup
porting a heap of
parcels retained by his chin. The Saint
sorted through the
pile as Tanya watched from the door
of her room and the bellhop went
happily away with his
pourboire.