The Saint in Trouble (4 page)

As impassive as before, the hound-faced driver steered the car only a little farther along a high grey stone wall, following its contours until they led to an impressive arched gateway, into wMch he turned.

Carefully manicured lawns, dotted here and there with geometric flower beds and sculptured bushes, ran down to the drive that curved its way up to the front of a long, low, whitewashed villa that spread itself across a terrace cut into the hillside. Set to one side of the building, in a southern-exposed alcove, was an oval swimming pool. Roman-style mosaics were set into the marble surround; towering columns, entwined with vines and interspersed with classical statues of satyrs and nymphs, embraced a scene that could have come straight from a Hollywood set for a period spectacle.

In perfect harmony with the decor, there seemed to be girls everywhere, walking across the grass verges, swimming in the pool, or sunbathing beside it. And watching them like some Roman emperor was Sir William Curdon.

The Saint recognised him at once.

His heavy frame filled the thronelike chair he sat in, a Montecristo cigar in one hand and a champagne glass in the other, and he looked very much the part. He watched as the car stopped in front of the villa and the Saint shepherded his charges across the drive.

Curdon’s grey eyes were as revealing as a sea fog. A girl swam to the edge of the pool, and he put down his cigar and glass and obligingly poured champagne into her waiting mouth, while his free hand slid under the cushion at his side and clicked off the safety catch of an automatic.

The two kidnappers turned hostages followed the movement of the Saint’s gun barrel, and moved to one side to allow Curdon and the Saint an uninterrupted view of each other.

Simon smiled his most Saintly smile, but his eyes never strayed from the scene, keeping all three males within his field of vision, and paying particular attention to the cushion that Curdon’s hand rested on.

“You sent for me, did you, chum? I must say, the Secret Service are living well these days. I thought that was only in the movies,”

Curdon ignored him, taming instead to the executive kidnapper who was shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. The effort Curdon was making to remain calm showed in the grating of his voice.

“Cartwright, I do not expect to have my operatives brought back to me as the prisoners of those they were sent to bring in.”

The Saint nodded understandingly.

“Oh, I do know how you feel, Willie. But don’t blame yourself. So hard to get reliable help these days. Even D16 evidently has to take what it can get.”

Curdon’s control cracked at last, and he shouted at the hapless aide: “Tell me, Cartwright, just who do you suppose this person to be?”

The mid-Atlantic drawl disappeared, making Cartwright sound like a truant offering excuses to his housemaster.

“It’s Sebastian Tombs, sir. The man who threatened Professor Maclett at the conference.”

Curdon’s eyes closed as if in pain. When he opened them again they were fixed on the Saint.

“All right, Templar, what’s your play in this game?”

Simon used a free hand to pour himself a glass of champagne which he raised in a mocking toast.

“Emma Maclett was worried about her father. She asked me to look after him.”

“Calling him a fraud in public is an odd way of doing that.”

“Oh really, Willie! It’s ploy number three in your beginner’s manual.” Simon paused. “You are past that by now, I hope.”

“Looking after Professor Maclett happens to be my department’s job.”

“Perhaps if you’d let Emma Maclett know that, she wouldn’t have felt she needed me.” The Saint looked at Cartwright and the Renault driver, and sighed. “Or maybe she would have felt she needed me. Mind you, I couldn’t do my protesting half as handsomely.”

“This villa belongs to a rich cousin of mine. Sells swamp land in Florida.”

“And the girls?”

“He’s very selective about his staff.”

“So I can see. Two redheads, two blondes, two brunettes. Just like the civil service, everything in duplicate.”

Sir William Curdon’s tone was defensive, almost apologetic.

“One gets a bit sick of being considered disqualified from living because one happens to work for the government. The only thing the department’s paying for is the champagne, and even that’s non-vintage.”

“I don’t know how you manage.”

The rage that was bubbling near the surface finally boiled over as the Saint had expected it would.

“I don’t like you, Templar. I don’t like your attitude to authority. I don’t like your meddling in the affairs of the Service. Most of all, I don’t trust your motives in this affair. I’m warning you, put one foot wrong and I’ll have it nailed to the floor.”

“Better do it yourself, then,” the Saint replied coolly, and jerked his thumb at Cartwright. “This one’d probably hit his own thumb. By the way, how did your bloodhounds find me?”

“Cartwright was at the conference and he followed you back to the hotel.”

Simon shook his head at his own shortcoming in having only looked for one tail. Cartwright must have been behind the Mercedes all the time. He helped himself to a cigar from the box on the table and smiled.

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you again, Willie. But next time you want a chat, you needn’t send the strong-arm squad. Just call me.”

He turned to go, and saw Cartwright’s foot move as he passed. Not wishing to pass up such an excuse, he allowed himself to be partly tripped, and stumbled forward without going down.

“How are you without a fire extinguisher?” Cartwright asked, with some of his former cockiness.

The Saint turned back, straightening as he did so. His left hand pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose as his right streaked out a stiff-fingered thrust into the gap at the base of Cartwright’s ribs. The man folded backwards onto the sun lounger. The Saint casually swung his foot and tipped it into the pool. Cartwright disappeared beneath the water, and Simon waited for him to surface before replying to his question.

“Oh, I get by.”

He removed the clip from the automatic and tossed it into the pool beside Cartwright.

“You shouldn’t give the children toys like that, Willie- they’re dangerous.”

Gaby had parked his cab behind the Renault, and the Saint climbed in beside him.

“You’re beginning to grow on me, Gaby.”

Simon handed him Curdon’s cigar. The driver accepted it, sniffed it, and put it in his mouth, but made no move to light it.

“I saw what happened outside the hotel,” was the brief explanation he offered as he sent the car speeding back towards Cannes.

“But how did you know I was not being arrested? That those men were not the police?”

“I know the police in Cannes-and they know me.”

Simon decided it was politic not to enquire too deeply into their relationship. He lapsed into silence as he considered Curdon’s involvement and how it might affect his own plans for Maclett’s safety.

Presently Gaby said: “The man in the Mercedes, his name is Jacques Demmell.”

“How do you know that?”

The Saint did not try to hide his surprise and Gaby’s face split in a rare grin.

“I recognised the car. It belongs to a hire company I used to drive for, so I made enquiries.”

“Anything besides the name?”

“Not a great deal. He often comes here during the season. He has a reputation as a friend of lonely ladies, especially the rich kind. He has a flat in the town but he’s been spending most of his time on a yacht called Protege. It is moored in the Port Canto.”

“Yes, I’ve seen it. Is it his?”

“No, it belongs to a woman, and believe me she is quite a woman.” Gaby raised one hand from the wheel long enough to draw a curving outline in the air. “Not the usual type of woman he attracts.”

The Mercedes was parked outside the hotel when they returned. Simon touched the grill; the engine was cold. There was no sign of Demmell in the lounges and bars, and the Saint was thoughtful as he prudently rode the elevator up to the floor immediately above his own, and walked back down the stairs to his floor.

4

The Saint passed silently along the corridor and stood motionless outside his room, his ears straining to identify the muffled sounds that reached him through the door and to fix in his mind the exact location of his uninvited guest. He took the key from his pocket, but before he could move, a room service waiter clattered around the comer pushing a trolley, and immediately the noises ceased. The Saint cursed the unsuspecting man all the way into the elevator.

Simon stood with his back pressed against the wall, fitting his key into the spring lock with the tips of his fingers, and sent the door crashing inwards the instant the catch was released. He entered the room with a fluid sidestep that removed him from the line of fire, registering the chaos of his surroundings in a single sweeping glance as he swivelled in a half crouch towards the space behind the slowly closing door.

The edge of the door had caught Demmell near the middle of the face, splitting his nose and lip. A workmanlike .44 Bulldog revolver was held across his body and had he been blessed with faster reflexes he might have followed Bob Ford into the ranks of those who have written finis to the careers of the greatest outlaws of their age, but the Saint gave him no time to achieve such distinction. As Simon turned, pivoting on the ball of his right foot, his left came up in a swinging arc that smashed into Demmell’s gun hand with the speed and force of an unleashed flail. The revolver spun from Demmell’s suddenly lifeless fingers, and he cried out as the searing pain ripped through his arm.

The Saint straightened, and took in the upheaval around him in greater detail. Drawers had been pulled out and their contents spilled onto the floor, his suitcase had been upturned and the few things he had left in it scattered around the room; cushions, pictures, books, ornaments, anything that could conceivably serve as a hiding place had been pulled apart.

The scene angered him not so much because of its untidiness as because it bore all the hallmarks of the amateur, and the Saint disliked dealing with amateurs. Searching a room is both an art and a science. It calls for a lightness of touch, a photographic memory, and the ability to analyse the psychology of the occupier to determine where the objects of the search are most likely to be hidden. An experienced professional investigator will turn over a room, miss nothing, and leave it as tidy as when he entered, aware that the extra care taken will give a valuable margin of time before his intrusion is discovered. Should he not find what he is looking for, he knows that by not making his visit obvious he has left open the probability for a return call. The amateur, on the other hand, blunders about, not only making life more difficult for himself but also causing unnecessary distress to the victim of his attention.

“The maid service here has just gone to hell,” Simon observed, as he picked up a favourite sports jacket and replaced it carefully on its hanger.

He had shown his contempt for Demmell by almost turning his back on him. The revolver still lay in the centre of the room, an equal distance from both of them. Demmell saw his chance and took it, as the Saint had expected him to.

The man moved with creditable speed, but he had covered only half the distance before a strange medley of sensations overwhelmed him. One moment he was in the middle of a diving roll, fingers outstretched towards the butt of the gun; the next, he met an irresistible force coming in the opposite direction with the speed of an express train: for one transfixed instant he felt himself flying backwards, and then the wall Mt him and he sank to his knees, with a sickening breathless agony in his stomach eclipsing the pain in his arm.

Simon’s heel came gently to rest and he turned to face the retching man now climbing groggiiy back to the vertical.

The Saint’s voice was a mocking drawl: “Enough?”

In answer Demmell catapulted himself off the wall, his shoulder catching Simon in the chest and the momentum sending them both crashing to the floor. The Saint was impressed. He had kicked men in that way before, and they had rarely risen so quickly. It boded well for Demmell’s fitness and the exercise still to come.

Just as his back touched the floor the Saint twisted his whole body, sending them both rolling over. His fist shot upwards towards the other’s head in a vicious right hook that should have ended the fight, but the blow never connected. Demmell broke Its force with his arm and his heel whipped backwards to explode at the base of the Saint’s spine.

The Saint’s body arched like a bow and a freezing numbness seemed to grip every muscle. He relaxed his grip and Demmell wriggled free, aiming a kick at the Saint’s head as he rose. Instinctively Simon’s arms crossed to block the blow, and he rolled away from his opponent and pulled himself to his feet with an effort that was more mental than physical.

Demmell was grinning as he waded in for the next round, and Simon returned his smile. The numbness was passing, to be replaced by the invigorating glow of pumping adrenalin.

Demmell’s arm sped from his shoulder in a straight karate punch to the Saint’s temples. Simon fended it easily with his forearm and replied with a slashing chop to the ribs. Demmell grunted and stepped back, lashing out with a wild kick as he did so. Simon sidestepped and caught the heel of the other’s shoe as it completed its trajectory. For an instant their eyes locked, and for the first time Simon saw fear on his antagonist’s face. The Saint smiled, and pulled.

Demmell fell heavily, and the Saint, keeping hold of the foot, followed him down, twisting the heel and toe as he went. Demmell’s body jackknifed. His hands reached forward to take the strain off his buckled leg, and the Saint’s fist hit him flush on the side of the face, sending his head banging back to the floor. Simon rested his weight on Demmell’s ribs, forcing the air from his body. He released the foot with a final excruciating wrench, and his forearm descended like a guillotine on the other’s throat.

Simon grinned into Demmell’s bulging eyes, lifting the pressure of his forearm slightly to allow the passage of a modicum of air. His voice was hard and low.