The Saint in Europe (2 page)

He was a stout man with a face that was unfortunately reminiscent of a well-fed rat, although the only fur on it was a carefully trimmed black mustache, the rest of the skin having that glossy pink patina which can only be produced by the best barbers. From the points of his polнished shoes, up through his studiously tailored blue suit and studiously manicured fingernails, to the top of his pomaded head, he exuded an aroma of cologne and solid prosperity. He spoke English in an aggressive way which somehow gave the impression that he was extremely proud of his accent, which was atrocious. And just as the Saint had liked Valerie North at first glance, from the first glance he disliked M Olivant.

“This is quite a surprise,” the girl was saying politely. “How did you know about me, and how did you find me so quickly?”

“I read about your trip in ze newspapers,” Olivant said. “So of course I am waiting for you. Eet was not difficult. Zere are not so many ‘otel in Paris where ze Americans descend.”

She seemed to take the reference to a newspaper story on her trip so matter-of-factly that a tiny line creased between the Saint’s brows. Her name had meant nothing to him, and he thought he was aware of most celebrities.

“Then you must have known my brother,” the girl said.

“Alas, no. I am in Belgium, on business, when I read ze newspaper. It is ze first I ‘ear of you bose since ze war. I mean to look for ‘im, of course. But as soon as I return, before I can look, I read in ze newspaper about ‘im again, and ‘e is dead.” Olivant allowed an expression of grief to dwell on his face for a measured period of time, and then bravely set it aside. “‘Owever, I come to place myself at your service. For finding ze murderers, we can only ‘ope ze police ‘ave success. But anysing else I can do … You will, per’aps, ‘ave lunch wiz me?”

The girl’s eyes went to the Saint, and Simon made a faint negative movement with his head.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’ve already promised … May I introduce Mr-“

“Tombs,” said the Saint promptly, holding out his hand.

The same kind of impulse that had made him introduce himself with complete candor to Valerie North now made him duck behind the alias which often afforded him a morнbid private amusement; but this time his inward smile vanнished abruptly as Olivant shook hands. From a man who looked like Olivant, he had expected a fleshy and probably moist and limp contact; but the palm that touched his own was hard and rough like a laborer’s.

Deep in the Saint’s brain a little premonitory pulse began to beat, like the signal of some psychic Geiger counter; but his face was a mask of conventional amiability.

“Mr Tombs,” Olivant repeated, like a man who made a practise of memorizing names. “Zen per’aps bose of you-“

“I don’t want to be rude,” said the Saint firmly, “but my job depends on this exclusive interview. You know how newspapers, are.”

M Olivant made a visible effort to look like a man who knew how newspapers are.

“I am desolate.” He turned back to the girl. “For cockнtails, zen, per’aps? I ‘ave look forward so much to zis meetнing-“

“Excuse me,” said the Saint.

He strolled across the lobby to the little newsstand and glanced quickly over its wares. A guide book with a shiny stiff paper cover caught his eye, and he bought it, and wiped the cover briskly with his handkerchief while he waited for his change. He walked back, holding the book by one corнner, to where M Olivant was taking his talkative leave of Valerie North.

“I come ‘ere, zen, at five o’clock. I ‘ave so much to tell you about your poor fahzer, and what ‘e does for us in ze Resistance before ze Gestapo take ‘im … To sink I ‘ave not see you since you were such a leetle girl!”

“I’ll look forward to it,” said the girl, selfconsciously letнting her hand be kissed, and looked at the Saint. “May I run upstairs just for a minute and see my room before we go?”

“Sure.”

As she left, Simon showed M Olivant his book, holding it in such a way that the other was practically forced to take it.

“M Olivant, would you say this was any good?”

Olivant took the book and thumbed perfunctorily through a few pages.

“Eet is probably quite ‘elpful, Mr Tombs. So you don’t work ‘ere all ze time?”

“No, this is a special assignment.”

“Ah. I ‘ope you make a good story.”

“At least it’s a chance to travel,” said the Saint conversaнtionally. “But I don’t suppose that means much to you. From what you were saying, it sounds as if you spent most of your time doing it. What sort of business are you in?”

“I ‘ave many affairs,” Olivant said impressively, and seemed to think that was an adequate answer.

He held out the book, and Simon took it back again by the corner.

“Maybe you’d let me talk to you later, Monsieur Olivant. You should have some interesting things to tell about Miss North’s family.”

“Ah, yes, eet is a most interesting story.” Olivant seemed curiously uninterested. He extended his hand briskly. “Now, I ‘ave anozzer appointment. Eet ‘as been a pleasure to meet you. Au revoir, Mr Tombs.”

The Saint watched him go, with the sensation of that inнappropriately calloused hand lingering on his fingers; and then he turned to the concierge and asked for a large enveнlope, into which he slid his newly acquired guide book, being careful not to touch the book again except by the one corner he was holding it by.

4

“Tell me,” said the Saint, “as the most ignorant reporter in this town, what put you in the news. I mean, even before anything happened to your brother.”

They sat in opposite armchairs across a table in the tiny downstairs room of the Restaurant Chataignier, sniffing the savory bouquet of its incomparable homard au beurre blanc rising from the plates in front of them, while the chef and proprietor himself uncorked a bottle of cool rose.

“It sounds silly,” said Valerie North, “but I was on one of those radio quiz programs. I happened to know the anнswer to who was the painter of the Mona Lisa, and the prize I won was a free trip to Europe. They asked me what I planned to do with it, and I said it’d give me the chance I’ve always hoped for to get to know my brother.”

“It does sound a little unusual,” Simon admitted. “Hadn’t you ever met?”

“Not since we were kids. We were born and lived here, till 1940, when the Germans were advancing on Paris. I was too young to remember much about it, but everyone was very frightened, and my father said we must go away. He wouldn’t go himself, but he sent us with the wife of a neighbor-my mother died when we were very young. Someнwhere on the road we were strafed by a plane, and the woman was killed. Charles and I went on alone.”

“Was he older or younger than you?”

“Two years older. But we were both children. Somehow, presently, we got separated. I just went on, helplessly I guess, with the stream of refugees who were trudging away to the southwest. Somewhere, after that-it all seems so far away and confused-I was picked up by an American couple who’d also been caught in the blitz. They took me to Borнdeaux, and then afterwards to America. They were sweet people-they still are-and they hadn’t any children, and they treated me like their own. Later on, they were able to find out somehow that my father had died in a concentration camp. They adopted me legally, and I took their name.”

“So for all practical purposes, you really are an Ameriнcan.”

“I went to school in Chicago-Mr North is an accountant there-and now I’m a secretary in a mail-order house. And the only French I know is from high school.”

“Who was your father?”

“All I know about him is his name, Eli Rosepierre. And he was some sort of working jeweler.”

The Saint paused with his wine-glass halfway to his lips.

“Was he Jewish?”

“I think so.”

“I told Quercy there might be something in the name,” he observed. “Of course, the name Eli fixes it. Now I get the Rosepierre. A literal translation of Rosenstein. I wonder … He must have been very brave or very foolish to stay here, with the Nazis coming.”

“Perhaps he was only too optimistic,” she said. “You know, I’d never thought of that, about the name.”

“Was he rich?”

“I dont think so. He worked very hard. But he may have been thrifty. I don’t really know. As far as I can remember we lived in an ordinary decent way, not poverty-stricken and not specially luxurious.”

“But it’s at least a possibility,”

“What difference does it make? Whatever he had, the Nazis must have confiscated.”

“If they could find it.”

“I suppose,” she said, “you’re looking for a motive.”

“There must be one. And I’ve got to find it.”

She watched him subdividing the last succulent pieces of lobster with loving regret.

“When did you locate your brother again?” he asked.

“Only a few months ago. The Norths had tried from time to time, without any luck. Last winter, I thought I’d try just once more, on my own. I had an advertisement translated into French, and sent it to all the Paris newspapers. Of course, for all I knew, he might have been anywhere else in France, if he was alive at all. But just by a miracle, he saw it. We exchanged letters and snapshots. He’d thought I was probably dead, too. And then, when I won that prize on the radio, it seemed as if everything was set for a real Hollyнwood ending.”

“I can see why that story would get a play in the papers,” said the Saint thoughtfully. “And the correspondents of the French news agencies would naturally pick it up and send it back here.”

“They did. Charles’s last letter said he was quite embarнrassed about the publicity he was getting.”

“So after that, anyone with any interest in the Rosepierre family, whether they read advertisements or not, would know a good deal about both of you.”

“I suppose so.”

Simon shamelessly used a piece of bread to mop up the last delectable traces of the ambrosial sauce.

“Are you reasonably sure that this Charles Rosepierre was your brother?”

Valerie stared at him.

“He must have been! … I mean, he seemed to remember the same things that I did. And people here knew him by that name, didn’t they? And there’s quite a resemblance-look!”

She took out her wallet and extracted a photograph which she passed to him. It showed a dark, rather delicate-featured young man with an engaging smile. Simon dispassionately compared it, detail by detail, with the face of the girl oppoнsite him.

“There’s a great likeness,” he conceded finally. “It’s probнably true. I was only groping in the dark.”

“Here’s another thing.” She was fumbling in her purse again, an she came out with a small round piece of silver like a coin. “My father gave it to me just before he sent us away. It’s one of those things that stand out in this disjointed kind of childhood memory. He gave both Charles and me one. And Charles mentioned it in his first letter answering my advertisement. He said he still had his, and he wonнdered if I still had mine.”

“That’s pretty convincing.”

Simon took the piece of silver and looked at it, and a slight frown of puzzlement began to wrinkle his forehead.

“But if he was Jewish,” he said, “why a Saint Christopher medal?”

She shrugged.

“Maybe he’d been converted. Or maybe he hoped it would bluff the Gestapo, if they caught us.”

“Or maybe,” said the Saint, in a faraway voice, “it was just the handiest thing he had in the shop.”

She gazed at him blankly, while he examined the medal more closely and turned it over, half hoping to find some inscription on the back. But on the back was only a little quarter-inch indented square, much like a hallmark, except that the indentation was filled only with what looked like a cuneiform pattern of microscopic scratches which conveyed nothing to the keenest naked eye, if they had any signifiнcance at all.

And yet, for the first time, the darkness in which he had been groping did not seem so dark. There were vital pieces missing in the jigsaw which he was trying to put together, but at last he was beginning to perceive the outlines into which they would have to fit.

He was very silent while they finished the meal and the wine, so that by the time he called for the check the girl was fidgeting with understandable impatience.

“May I keep this just for a few hours?” he said at last, and dropped the medallion into his pocket without waiting for her permission.

“Have you thought of anything?” she asked.

He stood up.

“A lot of things. I’m not tantalizing you just to be mysнterious, but they’ll take the rest of the afternoon to check on, and I don’t want to raise any false excitement until I’ve got facts to go on.”

He walked with her to the Boulevard Raspail, the nearest thoroughfare where they would be likely to find taxis, and only his quiet air of being so absolutely certain of what he was doing somehow forced her to control her exasperation.

“I’m telling the driver to take you to the Place Venнdome,” he said, as he opened the door of the first cab. “You’ll find dozens of fascinating shops in all directions from there, which will keep you amused until your feet hurt. At five o’clock, wherever you are, grab another taxi and tell him to take you to a restaurant called Carrere, in the Rue Pierre Charron. Will you repeat that?” She did so. “I’ll meet you there at the bar. Until then, you must not on any account go back to the Georges Cinq.”

“But why not?”

“Because as long as you’re wandering around the town, the killer isn’t likely to bump into you. At the hotel, he knows where to find you. And I like your head where it is. I don’t want it cut off.”

Her eyes grew big and round.

“You don’t think it could happen to me?”

“I’ll answer that when I know why it happened to your brother. Meanwhile, don’t take any chances.”

“But remember, I promised to meet that Mr. Olivant at five-thirty.”

“I want to be around when you do it. That’s what I’m talking about.”

Her breath broke in a gasp of incredulity.

“You mean you suspect him?”

“Darling,” said the Saint, “this isn’t one of those storyнbook mysteries, with half a dozen convenient suspects. I’ve known ever since friend Olivant showed up that he had to be a good bet. The only problem still is to find the motive and prove it on him.”