Saint and the Templar Treasure (23 page)

“What are you doing here?” he rasped.

“I just came to have another look—”

“N’importe,” Henri cut him off. “Templar, this is—two!”

Perhaps the professor’s appearance broke the spell or the first shock simply subsided, but at that moment Mimette snapped back into full personality.

“Simon?” she cried. “Simon—if you are there, don’t listen! This no-good—”

She began to strain furiously against the cord that bound her wrists. Henri grabbed her roughly around the waist and held her body against his own. His lips began to shape “Three.”

The Saint stepped out into the light.

He stood completely relaxed and regarded Henri Pichot with the ghost of a mocking smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“You’ve been watching too many old B movies, Henri. One, two, three, fire? How very unoriginal!”

Pichot ignored the taunt. The sight of the Saint apparently surrendering injected a new confidence into his voice and actions. He called to the professor to turn on the lamps, and when the crypt was fully lit he shoved the girl towards the Saint, at the same time side-stepping so that he could keep them both covered.

“So the great Simon Templar isn’t so clever after all,” he sneered, but the Saint only shook his head reproachfully.

“I’m sorry, Henri, but that isn’t a unique observation either. You must get another writer. It’s the stock line at the end of Act Three, Scene Two. I’ve seen the play more times than you.”

He put his arm around Mimette and drew her close. His main hope now was to play on Pichot’s nerves until he goaded the lawyer into a mistake, while at the same time building up the girl’s confidence until he could rely on her reactions. As a plan of campaign it was about as watertight as the Titanic but there was no alternative.

Henri gestured towards the tomb.

“Get over there.”

Still holding Mimette, Simon backtracked towards the foot of the sarcophagus until he felt the cold stone behind him. Nor-bert was standing on the other side of the tomb, his eyes switching uncertainly from Henri to the Saint. Pichot spoke without looking at him.

“Search him.”

The professor opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and in the end said nothing. He scuttled around the casket table and patted the Saint’s clothes in the same way he himself had been checked over a short while before. His clumsiness made it impossible for Pichot to keep a steady bead on the Saint, and it would have been ridiculously easy to grab the little man and use him as a shield if it would not have meant leaving Mimette unprotected. Regretfully Simon let the opportunity pass.

Norbert turned to shake his head at Henri and the young lawyer smiled.

“No weapon? How reckless of you,” he observed, with a little more assurance.

Silently the Saint agreed, although he was inclined to place the oversight in the category of criminal negligence rather than mere recklessness. Aloud he said: “I didn’t know it was going to be this kind of party. Anyway, I thought pokers were more in your line.”

He was surprised by the effect his words had on Norbert. As soon as Henri had entered the crypt, Simon had accepted the lawyer’s guilt as a matter of fact and had since been mentally fitting the final pieces of the pattern into place. He knew that Mimette must already have observed the revelation, and in the same way he had assumed the professor to be Henri’s full partner and had not given that association a second thought. Now he realised that his assumption had been wrong.

“Henri! No! You killed Gaston?”

There was no doubting the genuineness of Norbert’s shocked disbelief.

Henri’s lips curled. He was clearly beginning to enjoy his moment in the centre of the stage.

“Why so astonished, Professor?” His tone was bitingly sarcastic. “Scruples? They never bothered you before.”

“But not murder!” Norbert protested vehemently. “You told me-“

“What I thought you would accept. To keep you quiet, while I could use you.”

“But why kill Gaston, Henri?” demanded Mimette fiercely. “What did your uncle ever do to hurt you?”

Simon supplied the answer, working out the details as he spoke them.

“He realised that Henri was trying to ruin the business, but he hesitated to expose his own nephew. He tried to warn me by telling me not to trust anyone, whoever they might be, but I was still thinking about Philippe. I should have realised that Henri was the only one who could have stirred up the workers against me. He was the only one they would have listened to. They were his friends and he’d grown up among them.”

Pichot said tonelessly: “He kept going on about loyalty, about the family. Like all the Pichots he was a serf at heart. He couldn’t understand that the Florians are not royalty and Ingare is not a kingdom. Only I had the will and the brains to outgrow that antiquated mental bondage. He wouldn’t see that we had as much right to the treasure as the Florians, if we found it. He told me he was going to show the map to Yves. I couldn’t let that happen.”

The Saint had always been mildly sceptical about the propensity of story-book villains for unravelling their own mysteries in the final showdown scene, but if Henri was determined to conform to that convenient convention he was not going to discourage him.

“After all,” he prompted, “you’d gone to a lot of trouble to get it.”

“For years I’ve searched for it,” said Pichot forcefully. “Why do you think 1 kept coming back here, Mimette? So you and your father could patronise me?”

“We should have known better than to expect any gratitude for all we’d done for you,” she retorted scornfully.

Norbert sagged against the side of the tomb. His face was grey and he clutched at the stone to steady himself. The self-satisfaction of a few minutes before was gone as if it had never existed.

“But you said there would be no violence. You promised!” he protested furiously. “Just let Philippe get control of the chateau, and he would put you in charge and we could look for the treasure openly …”

Pichot’s clipped humourless laugh cut through the professor’s spluttering.

“And you believed me. You’re a fool, Professor. You even thought the seance was for real. Philippe’s interest in buying In-gare was waning. I had to use the treasure as a bait to make him stay. A message from the dead. It was a good idea, but Templar spoiled it, just as he threatened to spoil everything.”

“So when you went prepared to kill Gaston, you also went prepared to frame me for it,” said the Saint. “And when even that didn’t work, you tried to kill Yves by jiggering the brakes on his Mercedes. Which didn’t kill either of us. Not having a great deal of success, are you, Henri?” he concluded with mocking sympathy.

“Success?” Pichot seemed to savour the word. “Perhaps not at first, but it could not have worked out better. I heard you and Mimette talking about exploring the tunnel, and then I saw how I could still get Ingare and dispose of you both as well.”

The nervous tension that he had shown when he pushed Mimette into the crypt was only a shadow behind his eyes. He was confident now of his control of the situation and relishing the power it gave him.

“Do tell us how,” Simon invited.

“You and Mimette will simply disappear. Have you eloped together? No—you have kidnapped her. In a few days the ransom notes begin to arrive. One from Marseille, I think—yes— and the next from Paris. A piece of Mimette’s jewellery with each one. And then, nothing.”

“Except my car left here.”

“Abandoned because it was too conspicuous. When you went to Carpentras, you arranged to be picked up by an accomplice.”

“Very neat.”

“Without his precious daughter, Yves will not have the heart to hold out for long against Philippe, and I will be free to find the treasure. So you see I do win in the end.”

“But I have found the treasure,” Norbert insisted. “I told you.”

Pichot snorted derisively. He pointed with his free hand to the casket, but his gun never wavered from its aim at the Saint’s chest.

“That scroll? You must think me as naive as you are, Professor. But the box, that is valuable, and there will be more like it, with more precious things in them.”

“But the map was a trick, don’t you understand?” pleaded Norbert passionately.

Pichot’s pudgy face set into harder lines, and there was a more dangerous coldness in his eyes.

“It is you who are trying to trick me. You want the treasure for yourself. Be careful, Professor, or perhaps the Saint will shoot you as he kidnaps Mimette.”

For a moment he appeared to be thinking out that possibility, and then slowly he nodded.

“Yes, it might be better that way in any case. I don’t need you any more. I can’t trust you. We shall see. Open the tomb, Professor. It will be a fitting resting place for a Florian and a Templar.”

“I would prefer it to the company of at least one Pichot,” said Mimette disdainfully.

Simon Templar knew that he had to make his final assessment of the situation, but from whichever angle he considered it the scales were always tipped in the lawyer’s favour. He and Mimette were standing near the altar, while Norbert was towards the other end of the tomb, a few feet from Henri. The way Henri gripped his automatic told the Saint that he was not accustomed to handling firearms, but with only a dozen feet between them he could hardly miss even a moving target. To attempt to tackle him without any diversion would merely hasten the end for both himself and Mimette.

Simon put his left arm across Mimette and pressed her back so that his body partly shielded her. He moved smoothly, easily, intent on making his action look like a chivalrous gesture rather than a threat, but combining it with a step of his own that brought him half a pace closer to the casket.

“Stay where you are,” rasped Henri. “Professor, I said open the tomb.”

Pichot raised his gun, and his finger looked tight on the trigger. The Saint braced himself for the spring that he had to make even though he knew it would almost certainly be useless. And at that instant something seemed to snap inside the professor.

“No!” he shouted, and launched himself towards Pichot like an infuriated elf.

Henri had been concentrating on the Saint and Mimette and had to turn sideways to meet the unexpected attack. Norbert was blundering and clumsy, but his hands were already clawing at the gun when Henri fired.

Norbert screamed and fell, still clinging to the sleeve of Henri’s coat, but the lawyer kicked viciously at his chest as he went down and the hold was broken. Henri swung around to face the Saint again, but the Saint was no longer there.

He did not try to reach Henri. Even with the advantage of the distraction Norbert had caused, he could not have covered the ground fast enough. But the casket he could reach in one stride. Pushing Mimette away, he leapt towards the altar as Henri turned.

He picked up the heavy casket with both hands and in the same continuous flowing movement sent it hurtling through the air.

Pichot fired, but it was a wild reflex action, and the bullet scraped the top of the tomb and ricocheted harmlessly away. He had no time for another shot. The casket smashed into the side of his head and he went down without a sound. The automatic spun from his hand, and the Saint dived for it and caught it before it reached the floor.

Simon rolled over and up to his feet, but when he saw Henri’s face he knew he would not need the gun.

4

The edge of the casket had opened a gash from Henri’s cheekbone to his chin as it smashed into the side of his face and most probably broke his jaw. He lay on his back, his arms flung out, and only the rasp of irregular breathing showed that he remained to be counted among the living.

Simon retrieved and pocketed the automatic as he stepped over him, and knelt beside the professor. Norbert was moaning faintly, lying on his side and clutching at the top of his leg. Unceremonious pulling down of his trousers revealed that the slug had passed through the fleshy inside of his thigh but managed to miss both bone and artery. It was a fairly tidy wound and not dangerous providing the bleeding was stopped soon.

Mimette came over, and the Saint stood up and greeted her with a grim smile.

“He’ll live, they both will,” he said tersely as he untied her hands.

She gazed down at Henri and shuddered.

“I’ve known him all my life. I still can hardly believe he did such things. The family was always so good to him.”

“Perhaps that was the trouble. To some people, kindness is an unforgivable insult,” Simon remarked cynically. “I’ll see to these two while you go and summon our amiable gendarme and call an ambulance.”

Mimette nodded and turned towards the tunnel, but he stopped her and pointed to the ladder.

“You’d better use the professor’s private entrance. It’ll be shorter.”

She saw the trap-door for the first time and her brow furrowed, but the Saint forestalled her questions.

“You’ll understand as soon as you get out. Just do it quickly.”

She hurried towards the far end of the room and Simon turned back to Norbert. He commandeered the professor’s large handkerchief and tore it into three equal strips which he knotted together, and bound the improvised bandage around Norbert’s leg, to hold pads of cloth ripped from the professor’s shirt-tails in place over the bullet’s entrance and larger exit hole, which staunched the worst of the bleeding.

The old man was returning to full awareness as the shock that had helped mask the pain was wearing off. He whimpered as the necessary pressure was applied to the dressing, and his face was pale and drawn as he looked up at the Saint.

“I’m sorry,” he began weakly. “I didn’t understand. I was a fool. I …”

Simon cut him short.

“Save it. It isn’t me you’re going to have to make your excuses to. As far as I’m concerned, we can call it quits. If you hadn’t gone for Henri when you did, I probably couldn’t have taken him.”

He took another look at the lawyer. Pichot was still unconscious and was likely to remain so for some time. The Saint had no idea how efficient the local ambulance service might be, but given the chateau’s isolation there was likely to be a considerable delay before they arrived. If the professor was going to get the prompt treatment he needed, a car might be a faster solution.