Saint and the Templar Treasure (20 page)

There was an appreciable pause before the answer he was expecting crackled along the line.

“We do not have much demand for those old works today.”

“Mais ou sont les neiges d’antan?” sighed the Saint.

There was another pause before the other requested him to repeat his words.

“But where are the snows of yesteryear?” Simon quoted again, and laughed softly. “Do you forget so easily?”

“Simon! Where are you?”

“In Provence, in Carpentras, and it would take too long to explain why, but I’m going to bother you again.”

“It is so good to hear from you. You are coming to Paris?”

“Not right now, Antoine. But I need some information and you may be able to help me.”

“Tu n’as qu’a demander, cher ami.”

“I want you to think back to the war, to the Occupation. Does the name Florian mean anything to you? Philippe Florian?”

Again there was a pause and the Saint added: “Dark, stockily built, about forty-five. Apparently had links with the black market in Paris.”

Louvois chuckled.

“Ah, you mean Le Cameleon.”

The sobriquet seemed particularly inappropriate. Somehow the Saint could not imagine the portly figure of Philippe Florian merging into any background, but he remembered that members of the Resistance had used many strange nicknames to protect themselves. Louvois himself had been known as Colonel Eglantine.

“Alors?” Simon prompted.

“A brave and useful man,” said Louvois seriously. “He was big in the black market, it is true, but that was a good cover. The Germans thought he was a collaborator, so they tolerated his activities, but the information he gained he passed on to the Resistance. His connections helped us in many ways.”

“Then why did he run when the Allies took Paris?”

“He was in the middle. Not many people knew of his work. He had to go to ground until his name was cleared. Only a few collaborators ever got to trial,” Louvois added pointedly.

“You don’t know anything about what he has been doing since the war ended, I suppose,” asked the Saint hopefully.

“A wealthy man, I believe,” Louvois replied. “I think he has several successful businesses, but I could find out more if you like.”

“I’d be very grateful. Can I phone you again after lunch? Also anything on his assistant, Henri Pichot.”

“Bien volontiers. I will see what I can do.”

The Saint emerged from the gloom of the post office and went in search of sustenance. A stroll down the Rue de la Republique brought him to the only restaurant listed in his edition of the Guide Michelin, the Univers, a modest but comfortable hostelry overlooking the Place Aristide Briand, on the perimeter of the old town. He enjoyed an eminently satisfying meal of pate maison followed by a robustly garlicked preparation of tripes for which he had an uninhibited affection, but in the interests of dental hygiene eschewed a toffee-flavoured dessert which paid tribute to the town’s traditional product. He took his time to finish the bottle of ice-cold rose which he had ordered at the beginning of the repast, until he estimated that it was not too soon for a leisured return to the Place d’Inguimbert and his second call to Antoine Louvois.

Again he wrote down the number and waited until the clerk announced that despite the efforts of the French telephone system his call had been connected.

“Any luck?” Simon asked as soon as he was put through.

This time he did not have to identify himself.

“A little,” Louvois replied guardedly. “Florian owns a couple of factories, light engineering. He started after the war with a small government contract and never looked back. Recently bought into a chain of American-style snack bars, they’re doing well too.”

“Quelle horreur!” said the Saint, with feeling. “But does anything shady seem to be involved?”

“Nothing you could be definite about. There was talk that his government contracts were payment for something someone didn’t want made public, probably to do with the war. And I’m told that some of his financial dealings have been pretty close to the borderline. He got into the snack business after a couple of fires almost bankrupted the company. There is always gossip when things like that happen.”

“And Pichot?”

“Apparently he handles the legal side for Florian. Very sharp and very ambitious, so I’m told. Lives well, too. An apartment near the Etoile, likes his nights out in the best places, and has a petite amie with expensive tastes.”

The Saint thought of Jeanne Corday and smiled.

“Thanks, that’s enough for now. Antoine, you have been a great help.”

“Are you in trouble, Simon?”

Simon laughed.

“Nothing I can’t handle, mon pote. Next time I’m in Paris I’ll tell you all about it.”

“I shall look forward to it.”

“Moi aussi.”

He walked back to the garage with a new lightness in his step. The information he had gleaned was nothing substantial but it had been just enough to brush away some of the cobwebs of theories that had hampered him. He was in no hurry to return to Ingare. His next move was already decided upon, and that was not scheduled until later in the day.

The Mercedes was in the workshop, a pathetically crumpled appendage to the crane on the breakdown truck. After a long silent survey, the Saint was able to make his own painful prognosis.

“Maybe we could sell it to some art gallery as a piece of modern sculpture,” he said.

“It could perhaps be completely rebuilt,” the garagiste told him hopefully.

“You had better keep it until Monsieur Florian decides what is to be done with it,” said the Saint.

He paid his bill and added a generous tip, and pointed the Hirondel back towards Chateau Ingare.

His return journey was undertaken at a conservative pace, and the first shades of evening were spreading across the hillside by the time he retraced the rough road by which he had first entered the domaine. A group of workmen were standing talking beside the burnt-out barn, but as the Saint passed their conversation ceased abruptly, and they watched him in sullen silence as he drove on to the chateau.

Mimette was talking to the watchdog gendarme at the top of the steps outside the front door as Simon braked to a halt, which happily solved a couple of potential problems. She smoothly suppressed any visible surprise at his return in a different car, as if in any case his day-long absence was nothing remarkable, and went in with him through the hall to the salon.

Only there did she say: “You have a lot to tell me.”

The Saint helped himself to a Scotch of the generous proportions that he felt his day had earned him.

“It’s going to be a bit harder,” he said, “to tell your father about his precious Merc.”

As he undramatically related the day’s events, the revelation of Philippe’s wartime activities shook her only slightly less than the sabotaging of the car.

“You could have been killed,” she said.

“I almost was. And your father certainly would have been.”

“You saved his life.”

“Pas du tout. I wrecked his car.”

She bowed her head with a barely perceptible shudder.

“It doesn’t make sense,” she said at last. “Why should anyone want to kill my father?”

“No Yves, no Ingare,” Simon answered succinctly. “Whoever did it knew that your father always went to that Confrerie lunch on the same day every week. The fact that he didn’t go today, and I borrowed the car, was unfortunate—for them.”

“And Philippe, why did he not tell his own family what he had done? Why did he allow us to think he was a collaborator?”

“Perhaps you never gave him the chance,” suggested the Saint. “I’m not as surprised as you. The way he helped me get Gaston out of the vat made me think that he’d dealt with death before. In my experience, collaborators don’t usually have such strong stomachs.”

“But if Philippe isn’t—what I thought he was … then it must be someone else who’s behind all the trouble we’ve been having here.”

He shook his head slowly.

“Au contraire. Unhappily, even a war hero isn’t necessarily an angel. What I wanted to check on was what Philippe might have on his conscience that would make him so very eager to get me out of the picture. And it seems that since he was able to return to Paris his operations have been on the sharp side, to say the least. Exactly how sharp, we don’t know. But the report I got seems to show that he could still be a double-dealer. So instead of being ruled out, he’s still very much ruled in.”

“Then what can we do now?” she asked despondently.

Simon consulted his watch, and finished his drink. He stood up and stretched himself catlike.

“Personally, I’m going to do a little exploring before dinner,” he told her cheerfully, and made a quick exit before she could press him further.

Back in his room, he changed quickly into the trousers which had been expendably damaged on his arrival, changed also into a pair of light but sturdy sneakers, and slipped into his hip pocket the flashlight which was as indispensable a part of his travelling necessities as the ordinary man’s razor.

He left the chateau by the front door, with a nonchalantly affable wave to the gendarme standing there, who by this time seemed to have graduated from bewilderment to boredom with his comings and goings and changes of vehicle and costume. He headed around the side and downhill to the outbuilding where the late Gaston Pichot had fallen into the Hecate crypt.

The labourers whom he had seen at the barn were lounging outside. They appeared to ignore him as he passed, but continued to talk heatedly among themselves in hoarse patois, pitched too low for him to distinguish any words. Whatever the argument was about, there was evidently a clash of strongly held opinions.

It was almost dark inside the storehouse and the Saint switched on his flashlight and allowed the beam to roam along the tiers of barrels stacked against the walls before turning it down into the hole that Gaston’s fall had made. The underground chamber was empty—the professor had either finished for the day or was busy elsewhere. He was not expecting any trouble at that stage, and the sounds of movement behind him did not register as a threat until it was almost too late.

VI

How Simon quoted Francois Villon again, and the Templar Treasure came in Handy.

1

It nearly proved a painful lapse. The attack was swift and unexpected. Two powerful arms closed around his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs and almost lifting him clear off the ground.

Simon Templar’s response was equally rapid and far more effective. The bear hug is a crude hold and easily broken by anyone not inhibited by a devotion to fair play, and when attacked without warning from behind, the Saint considered himself absolved from the code of gentlemanly conduct.

His left heel lashed back in three drum-beat mule-kicks played on his attacker’s left shin. The man yelped with pain and involuntarily let him down, enough to enable the Saint to stamp his full weight on to the assailant’s right instep and grind it in. The reflex yelp hiccuped into a most satisfactory scream of real agony, and as the encircling pressure on him slackened, the Saint sent both elbows driving back into the other’s ribs. The restraining arms burst outwards like broken springs and he took one step forward and turned. The workman’s chin could not have been better posed to receive the full impact of the Saint’s uppercut.

Simon did not wait to watch him fall but sidestepped to meet the comrade who should by then have been using his body as a static punch bag. The man came in with an axe handle flailing in a wide swing that even the most amateur of self-defenders would have treated with contempt. The Saint ducked low to let it swipe over him, and sprang up again to reward the unbalanced wielder with a chop of the back of the neck that put him down like the proverbial pole-axed ox.

From beginning to end that phase of the exercise had lasted no more than twenty-five seconds.

The Saint eyed the two remaining members of the hospitality committee speculatively. He stood completely at ease, legs slightly apart, hands hanging loosely at waist height as they closed in from either side. It would have taken more than two men to unsettle him at any time, even had they been experienced fighters. He knew that odds of two to one sound more frightening than they actually are, for the advantage is frequently with the one: He only has to look out for himself, while the two have to be careful not to hamper each other.

These two who had not taken part in the original attack now looked less than eager to launch a second one. Only loyalty to their fallen colleagues drove them nearer, and they might have seemed almost relieved when Mimette’s shrill cry brought all the action to a sudden halt.

“Arretez! Stop it!”

Mimette ran between the two men and the Saint. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes blazed with anger as she faced the workmen.

“Dubois. Arnould. Vous etes fous? What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded harshly.

Her arrival drained the last of the fight from them as effectively as if the Saint had drawn a gun. They looked sheepishly at her without answering.

“They may only have been trying to teach me some steps in the harvest festival dance,” Simon hazarded.

He stepped aside so that Mimette could clearly see the other sleeping duo behind him. She stared at the crumpled bodies and her voice shook as she asked: “They’re not—?”

The Saint laughed.

“No, just taking a short rest… . Attendez vous deux!”

His voice cracked like a whip with authority, and the two workmen who were still on their feet stopped their furtive attempt to back away to the door.

Mimette faced them coldly.

“Pourquoi?”

The one called Dubois pointed rancorously at the Saint.

“Because he killed Gaston.”

“Really? So you know more than the police, do you?” she said sarcastically.

“Everything has gone wrong since he came here,” said the other sullenly. “The men are saying he has re-animated the curse of the Templars.”

“You mean you are saying it, Arnould,” Mimette retorted. “That is just superstitious nonsense. And Monsieur Templar did not kill Gaston.”