The Saint in Trouble (5 page)

“Question time.”

Perhaps it was something in Demmell’s expression, some spark of hope lighting his eyes, perhaps it was a sixth sense awakening too late to be helpful, but suddenly Simon knew that he hadn’t won. Instinct told him to turn, but there was no time to obey before the blow fell. Constellations spun in front of him, and long before his body collapsed all consciousness had gone and he was free-f alling into oblivion.

5

Gradually the darkness lightened.

The Saint lay perfectly still. Someone appeared to be hammering nails into the base of his skull. He was aware that he was lying on his back, with something soft beneath his head. His senses were stirred by two separate sensations that managed to filter through the haze enveloping his brain. A delicate aroma of expensive perfume was wafting across his face, and his taste buds were approving the smoothness of the champagne that was being gently trickled into his mouth.

Full consciousness returned, but he delayed opening his eyes for fear that the vision the two sensations conjured up would be dispersed by reality.

“Bollinger, I believe.”

“Nothing but the best.” The voice was soft and low, containing the tantalising hint of an accent he could not readily identify. He could feel the lips that framed the words almost caressing his ear. He opened one eye and then the other, to focus on the face above.

Sapphire blue eyes sparkled from flawless tanned skin, the full lips were slightly parted, and the vision was framed by cascading flaxen hair that caught and trapped the sun like a halo.

Simon shook his head, closed his eyes and opened them again but the vision remained. He levered himself into a sitting position, wincing at the pain in his neck and back.

“I’ve heard of ministering angels-but champagne?”

The vision poured out a glass and handed it to Mm. “For the fevered brow, it’s the only thing.”

The Saint rubbed his neck.

“How is it for the fevered neck?”

“Best applied internally.”

The vision held out her hand and helped Simon to his feet. The Saint’s eyes narrowed fractionally as he felt the strength of the fingers and the bone-hard skin along the edge of the palm, but he was too intent on absorbing the rest of the picture to pay immediate attention to either.

The vision smoothed the front of a white cotton dress that appeared to consist of little except a neckline and a hem. Nature had been generous with her gifts, and Simon agreed it would have been ungracious to hide them.

The girl raised her glass.

“Cheers, I’m Samantha Lord.”

Simon returned the gesture.

“Sebastian Tombs.”

He rested on the arm of a chair and Samantha sat opposite him, one seemingly endless leg crossed over the other. She took a slim platinum case from her bag and proffered a cigaret. He shook his head.

“No longer one of my vices.”

“Well, perhaps it leaves you more energy for your remaining ones.” Samantha selected a cigaret, lit it, and watched the exhaled smoke rise towards the ceiling until it finally disappeared.

Her gaze travelled slowly round the room.

“You must have had an untidy upbringing.”

“I mislaid a cufflink.”

Samantha leaned forward and removed his glasses. “Maybe you’d have a better chance of finding it without those.”

He decided for the moment not to confirm or deny her apparent diagnosis of his natural vision.

“Where did you spring from anyway?”

“I have a suite on this floor. I’d just come in to get something, and when I passed your room the door was open and I saw you. I never could resist a gentleman in distress.”

Samantha had stood up as she talked, and the Saint also rose, taking her empty champagne glass and placing it alongside his own on the table.

“What makes you think I’m a gentleman?”

His hands rested on her shoulders, and her mouth opened as he moved closer. Their eyes held each other’s as their lips met.

The crash of the door being slammed shattered the spell. Emma Maclett walked purposefully into the room, ignored Samantha, and spoke directly to the Saint.

“Hi! I’m from the Herald Tribune.”

Samantha’s voice was as sweet as vinegar.

“Cancel my subscription.”

The Saint stepped out of the line of Ire, assuming the professional indifference of a tennis umpire.

Emma’s green eyes flashed.

“I do hope I’m breaking something up.”

Samantha looked at the Saint inquiringly.

“Sweet thing. Your aunt?”

“I’m just a local science correspondent.”

Samantha shrugged.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to stand here in the way of a Nobel Prize.”

The Saint, fearing a full-scale battle, stepped between them.

“Sam, I really don’t know how to thank you.”

Emma’s eyes flashed.

“I thought you were doing that when I walked in.”

Samantha spared her a long, withering look.

“Bitterness is a terrible thing, dear,” she cautioned, and turned back to the Saint. “I’m very easy to thank. Just take me to dinner tonight.”

“I’d love to. Where can I find you?”

“The lobby, eight sharp.”

“Till tonight then.”

Samantha turned as she reached the door, and winked at the Saint.

“Help yourselves to the champagne, it can brighten up the dullest occasion.”

After the door closed, Emma still could not hide her jealousy.

“Who was she-your leg man?”

“I found some eager character ransacking my room. I was about to ask Mm some questions when I was knocked out. She revived me.”

“That part I saw. And while you were out, my father also went out.”

“Where? With whom?”

To see someone called Curdon. He wouldn’t tell me any more.”

The Saint relaxed.

“It’s all right. Curdon is a section head with D16. He’s here to look out for your father too.”

“D16! But why didn’t he tell me he already had protection?”

“I don’t know, just as I don’t know why our recently departed vision of loveliness should knock me out and then revive me.”

“She knocked you out!”

“I didn’t actually see who it was, but she said she was passing and just happened to glance in, not very easy considering the door was shut. Also she has hard hands, the kind of hardness that comes from practising karate by demolishing the odd housebrick, and the blow that laid me out was as expertly delivered a karate chop as it has ever been my misfortune to receive.”

“But you’re still going to meet her tonight.”

“Of course. How else can I find out what game she’s playing? Now I’ve got a room to clear up and a shower to take. I’m interviewing for chambermaids and backscrubbers, if you’d like to apply.”

“It’s a tempting offer, but I’ve had better. I’ll keep in touch.”

Simon escorted her to the elevator and returned to repair the havoc in his room. When most of the mess had been straightened out he showered, the needle-thin jets of cold water stinging and revitalising his body. He dressed in a lightweight jacket and slacks and carefully combed his hair back into place. Anyone witnessing his actions would have found it difficult to believe that less than an hour before he had been fighting for his life, and even to the Saint the memory of his clash with Demmell was rapidly fading. There were too few minutes in any day to spend even one of them thinking about what might have been.

He left the hotel by a back door and cut quickly through a side street until he reached the Croisette. He crossed to the sidewalk on the shore side and headed towards the Palm Beach Casino. There was still an hour to go before he was due to meet Samantha, and he hoped to enjoy some fresh air and leisurely exercise.

The town seemed to hang in limbo, a no-man’s-time, a long pause in which to reflect or prepare. The beach was deserted except for a handful of diehard sunworshippers soaking up the last rays. In the sidewalk bars and restaurants, waiters were sweeping and laying tables in readiness for the evening trade. There were fewer cars on the road, and fewer people on the esplanade. It was as if a truce had suddenly been agreed, and the Saint welcomed the lull.

It was cooler now, and the leaves of the palm trees along the Boulevard rustled in a freshening breeze. Simon breathed deeply as he walked, to clear his mind and cleanse his body.

He turned in at the driveway entrance of the private marina and began to stroll along its quais, choosing a course that showed no conspicuous purpose but which could not fail to bring him eventually in sight of the Protege, wherever it was berthed. As, much sooner than later, it did.

For a cabin cruiser, Protege looked even more opulent at close range than when he had just spotted it that afternoon. Five noughts’ worth of powered luxury were calculated to gladden the heart of any man whose knowledge of the sea and ships extended past the municipal boating lake. Simon stood on the far side of the wharf behind a stack of barrels, ready to duck out of sight if Demmell appeared, but the only activity came from a crewman leaning over the stern rail and sending a grey pall of smoke into the air from an ancient pipe.

He was about to retrace his steps when he saw the black Renault turn through the parking lot. He sank down behind the nearest cover as it cruised up to the stern of the Protege.

Cartwright was sitting in the back, apparently engaged in a heated argument with his driver. A map was produced, and although the conversation was inaudible the gestures of the two men plainly pantomimed their disagreement. The Protege’s crewman watched the scene with a half smile, and when the driver wound down the window and in pidgin French asked for his advice he was happy to leave the boat and walk over.

It was one of the slickest models of kidnapping that the Saint had ever had the pleasure of watching, and it appealed to the artist in his soul.

The crewman walked to the car, and as he approached, the driver got out and spread the map on top of the trunk. The sailor bent over to consider it and Cartwright simply opened his door and hoisted the startled man backwards into the car. The driver jumped back in and was slewing the car around even before the rear door was closed. Simon saw Cartwright’s arm rise and fall once, and the sailor gave no further sign of resistance.

The Saint waited until the car had disappeared before rising from his hiding place and turning back from the port, his brain vibrating with questions for which he could find no ready answers.

Cartwright’s interest in Demmell he could understand, but what was Demmell’s interest in Maclett? And why hijack a sailor? Why not take Demmell? Simon again ran over the conversations he had had with Maclett and Curdon, and an idea began to form in his mind. He rejected it at first, but it refused to be dismissed, and the more it was considered the more plausible it became.

He arrived back at the Bellevue without any clear-cut solutions but was the proud possessor of a theory supported more by intuition than by evidence and he had the absolutely firm conviction that there would be more fun and games before the night was over.

6

Gaby swung his car through the obligatory one-way detours to the main road that climbs towards Mougins. Samantha turned to the Saint.

“Where are we going?”

“To the best of the new restaurants on this coast, where they say you can gorge like a discriminating glutton without getting fat. I hope your appetite is up to the challenge.”

“I hope my figure can stand it.”

Again Simon detected the trace of an accent. Scandinavian perhaps, he reflected; that would certainly go with the hair and the eyes.

They had only made the smallest of small talk since leaving the hotel, while each discreetly studied the other. Simon frequently caught her sidelong glances, noticing that behind the ready smile her eyes were suspicious. Her lack of conversation came not from shyness or reserve but was the caution of a businessman intent on not revealing anything which might help a rival.

She had appeared in the lobby precisely at the appointed hour. Such punctuality had not surprised him, somehow it was in keeping with the vibrations he had registered. She had exchanged the sheer white dress of the afternoon for a flowing lemon silk evening gown that swept about her as she moved, reminding him of an exotic butterfly. Her only jewellery was a thin gold chain that hung around a neck which needed no other adornment to underline its grace, and a solitaire diamond ring on her right hand. A more subtle fragrance had replaced the perfume that had invaded his return to consciousness a few hours before.

The car stopped outside a refurbished old stone building a little below the road on one slope of a small ravine which had been worn geological eons ago by the millstream from which the building had originally been designed to profit. Inside, the decor and furnishings were luxurious in a Provencal-antique style and a world away from the functional modernism of equivalent restaurants in Cannes.

They were conducted to a table set for two by an open window overlooking a small lawn and the reed-grown valley.

“An ap6ritif?” Simon asked, echoing the maitre d’hotel’s automatic question. “Or are you a straight champagne addict?”

“As a compromise, I’ll have a champagne cocktail.”

“For me, a vodka martini-shaken, stirred, on the rocks, and with a twist of lemon.”

The Saint had chosen the Vieux Moulin with care. It was a favourite retreat of his when the constant movement of Cannes began to irritate. It had the advantage of allowing two people to talk without sharing their conversation with hovering waiters and too proximate fellow-diners. The food was sublime and the setting was deliberately, almost overtly, romantic. Modesty had never been one of the Saint’s failings and he knew to the finest part of a degree the effect his personality could have on even the hardest of feminine hearts, especially when aided by fine food and wine and artistic lighting.

Samantha nibbled at an olive.

“For a scientist, you certainly have style.”

“Well, I used to be a marine biologist, but I got in trouble for eating the specimens. Especially the caviar.”

Samantha giggled.

“I don’t believe you’re a scientist at all.”