The Saint Abroad

by Leslie Charteris

  “And maybe her taste in men is improving,” said the Saint.

  There was every sign of an imminent explosion, but Mary Bannerman stopped it.

  “Wait a minute, Jeff.” She looked at Simon seriously. “If you did come to see me, you’d better tell me who you are and why you’re here.”

  “My name is Simon Templar,” he said, “and my reason for coming to see you is confidential.”

  He glanced meaningfully at the other man.

  “Good heavens,” Mary Bannerman said with a sophisticated lack of vehemence. “Simon Templar…the Saint. Are you kidding?”

  Simon shook his head.

  “Don’t you see the halo?” he asked.

  “No, but now that you mention it, the face is familiar.”

  “Saint?” the director asked blankly.

  “You colonials,” Mary Bannerman said to him. “You’re really out of it. Haven’t you ever heard of Simon Templar?”

  “No.”

  “Fair enough,” said the Saint. “I’ve never heard of you, either.”

  “This is Jeff Peterson,” the girl said.

  There was no handshake, and Simon decided to get down to business.

  “May I speak to you alone, Miss Bannerman? It is important.”

  Mary Bannerman looked hesitantly at Peterson.

  “Well, Jeff is…” she began, but Peterson interrupted her.

  “If you’re going to talk to him you might as well get it over with,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I’ve got to get an early start in the morning.”

  “Fine,” said the Saint. “Good night.”

  He had taken as instant a dislike to Peterson as Peterson had clearly taken to him, and he had very little desire to hide it. It was one of those moods that seemed best given free rein, especially since Mary Bannerman appeared to be completely enjoying the conflict.

  “I’ll see you, darling,” she said to Peterson.

  “Right,” snapped the other. “Good night.”

  She closed the door behind him and turned to the Saint.

  “Won’t you have a seat, Mr Templar?” she asked. “Drink?”

  “Neither, thank you,” he answered. “I’ve come here a little late for a social call—as pleasant as that would be.”

  He preferred to stay on his feet for more reasons than one. If Mary Bannerman was in on the blackmail plot against Liskard, Simon wanted to be as mobile as possible in case of a sudden outbreak of hostilities. Standing, he could also get a more completely panoramic view of the room and the adjoining kitchen and sleeping sections—the latter of which consisted of an alcove separated from the main room by half-drawn gold curtains. On a rumpled double bed sat a teddy bear large enough to have frightened off a moderately muscled lion. The rest of the furniture was new and expensive. Most of the walnut shelf space was devoted to pop records, and the only reading matter seemed to be magazines with pictures of Mary Bannerman on the covers.

  “I must say my heart’s going pitapat,” she said, perching on the edge of a chair. “If this isn’t a social call, what is it?”

  “I’ve just come from Thomas Liskard.”

  Mary Bannerman’s face—which until then had worn a provocative smile that apparently was the big gun in her public relations arsenal—went blank for an instant, and then hardened into a scowl. She stood up abruptly.

  “No friend of Tom Liskard’s is a friend of mine.”

  “We’re not friends, exactly,” Simon said without the slightest ripple in his own calm.

  “He sent you here?”

  Simon was deliberately holding back to see if she would betray anything.

  “In a way,” he said noncommittally.

  His cat-and-mouse game was having part of its intended effect, even if it was not producing any information. Mary Bannerman’s eyes were bright with impatient anger.

  “Why?” she demanded sharply.

  “I think you know.”

  “I do not know! I haven’t even seen that—that two-faced rat for years. So come to the point, won’t you? Just hearing his name makes me want to fumigate the place.”

  Simon leaned casually back against one of the shelves of records.

  “If you’re so anxious to forget him, why did you keep his letters?”

  Her angry face showed nothing new but a trace of puzzlement.

  “How did you know anything about it in the first place…and in the second place, what business is it of yours or his?”

  Simon’s lips wore a faint and he was sure very irritating smile.

  “I think the Prime Minister was bound to develop a certain interest in his old correspondence with you when he got a letter from somebody threatening to show the whole lot to his wife and the newspapers.”

  “That’s a lie, or a bluff, or something…”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure, because I still have the letters.”

  Simon gave her a slightly apologetic look as he answered, “That doesn’t prove the threat was a lie or a bluff, I’m afraid.”

  She glared.

  “I’ll prove it, then. He can have them back—right now! Just a second…”

  She whirled and went to one of the wall shelves and slammed a whole stack of records onto the sofa. She hesitated a moment, and then snatched down another armful of discs. A white envelope—small and unlike the one Liskard had received—fell to the floor, but there was no sign of any secret nest of billets doux.

  Mary Bannerman turned to face the Saint with an entirely transformed expression.

  “They’re gone,” she said.

  “That did seem likely,” Simon replied impassively.

  He was leaning down to pick up the small envelope from the floor. It was heavy with metal. The girl took it from his hand and tossed it back on the shelf.

  “Those are the keys to my wardrobes,” she said. “Do you believe me, or should I…”

  “What about the letters?” Simon interrupted.

  The girl was no longer defiant and outraged, but stunned and frightened.

  “I know you’ll never believe me,” she said, “but I don’t have the slightest idea where they are. I put them down behind those records months ago when I first moved into this apartment. I remember seeing them there a few weeks back.”

  “I suppose any number of people could have taken them.”

  “But who’d want to? No one knew about them. I’ve never even discussed Tom with other people, even when I realized that he didn’t love me and had just been using me. He’s terribly selfish and ambitious, but I wouldn’t do a thing like blackmail him. After all, I was…very fond of him.”

  Simon felt a growing sense of frustration. No amount of conversation with Mary Bannerman at the moment seemed likely to get him much nearer the truth.

  “No theories, then?” he persisted.

  “Wait a minute! Yes. I had a robbery here three weeks ago. They stole some jewelry and furs and cash. It never occurred to me that they might have taken the letters.”

  “Maybe they were after the letters, and the rest was a blind. Did the thieves get caught?”

  “No.”

  “And you don’t know of anybody who could have wanted to get the letters?”

  “Not a soul.”

  “That covers the field of suspects pretty thoroughly. What are you doing for dinner tomorrow night?”

  She was startled into truth.

  “I…nothing,” she said flatly.

  “I’ll pick you up at eight. Think this business over between now and then. Maybe you’ll come up with some ideas. If not, we’ll at least have fun.”

  He turned to the door. She watched him step into the hall, and even though he would not have bet a tin cufflink on her honesty, he felt a little sorry for her. She looked sadly distressed and preoccupied, just as a woman might be expected to look when a tormenting part of her past was brought suddenly to the surface of her thoughts.

  “Mr Templar…I know I’m labelled a sinner…Go
d knows what Tom has told you about me. But it doesn’t follow that I am a pushover for Saints.”

  Simon smiled.

  “Message received. We’ll worry about these theological questions as they come up.”

  6

  The next morning the Saint reported his progress—or lack of it—to Liskard by telephone.

  “Is it true about the robbery?” Liskard asked when Simon had finished. “Do you think the letters were really stolen?”

  “I’ll have to check on it. I’ll say one thing: either your friend is a first-rate actress or she’s in the clear. But which it is I wouldn’t care to guess yet.”

  “What about this man with her?” Liskard asked. “Who was that?”

  “His name was Jeff Peterson,” Simon answered. “Does that ring a bell?”

  Liskard hesitated, then became suddenly excited.

  “Yes. Very likely. Is he from Nagawiland?”

  “Mary Bannerman did refer to him as a colonial.”

  “Then he must be the one. He’s a sort of black sheep of a good family back there.”

  “You know him?” Simon asked.

  “No. But I know his father. I sacked him from my cabinet six months ago.”

  Simon seemed to feel horizons expanding around him.

  “That’s a fascinating bit of news, to say the least. Why did you toss him out?”

  “I’m allergic to alcoholics.” His voice became momentarily acid. “I seem to attract them.”

  “And Jeff Peterson seems to attract Mary Bannerman.”

  Liskard was silent for an abnormally long time.

  “How…is she?” he asked.

  “She seems well enough.”

  “What is her attitude toward me?”

  Simon, as much as he respected Liskard’s political position, felt no particular sympathy for his self-inflicted romantic complications.

  “I get the impression that she hates your guts and would gladly put a knife between your ribs if you came within range.”

  Liskard grunted.

  “She’s not the only one,” he said half-humorously. “I think I’m the most popular man to hit England since the Luftwaffe.”

  “That’s because you’re a political realist,” the Saint told him. “The world hates political realists. Everybody loves a liar if they love his lies. So buck up; the same fringe adores you, and you can always say you went down telling the truth.”

  “An optimistic thought.”

  “Well, you’re not going down,” Simon said. “Not if I can do anything about it. Time’s short, though. I’ll be in touch.”

  Not long after talking to the Prime Minister, who that afternoon would begin his negotiations with the British government, Simon drove over to Chelsea and checked on Mary Bannerman’s theft story with the police there. Her tale was confirmed. The robbery had taken place one night about three weeks before, and several thousand pounds’ worth of female frippery—mostly heavy metals and animal pelts—had been carted off to parts unknown. Not surprisingly, the police had made no progress toward apprehending the thieves.

  The Saint had affairs of his own to attend to during the rest of the day which have nothing to do with this story. He got back to Upper Berkeley Mews at about four, as the cold winter evening already was descending on wet misty streets. With fond recollections of the sunny expanses of Africa, he settled down at a desk overlooking the mews to catch up on some bills which had accumulated while he was away.

  Not long afterward he noticed, there below, plowing slowly along through the murk, a small gaily decorated van with pictures of ice cream cones and the words Mister Snowball inscribed on its side panels. Odd as it was, Simon devoted very little thought to that specimen of unseasonal traffic on his almost untraveled backwater until it passed again a quarter of an hour later going in the opposite direction. By the time it had come back again, and again, and then once more while he was dressing for dinner, he had developed a fairly complete theory as to its origin and contents. Its orbit was so regular that he decided to intercept it on its next passage.

  He was about to step out his front door when his telephone rang. The Mister Snowball van crept by right on schedule, but Simon was forced to watch it from a window.

  “Mr Templar,” a man’s muffled voice said through the earpiece of the phone. “I understand that Mr Liskard is anxious to recover certain letters.”

  “And where did you pick up that idea?” Simon asked coolly.

  The caller was momentarily stymied.

  “He’ll need those letters if he doesn’t want to be in very bad trouble. Go to Belfort Close. Park your car at the circle at the end. There is a gate into a small churchyard. You’ll be met there.”

  “Sounds delightful,” said the Saint. “Who brings the Maypole?”

  “If Liskard wants the letters, you’d better be there…in an hour.”

  “Wouldn’t it be simpler if you just dropped them by his headquarters? He might give you a reward.”

  “We’ll discuss rewards when we see you.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me to whom I have the pleasure of speaking?”

  “Be at Belfort Close in an hour.”

  If a click can be dramatic, the click at the other end of the line had a certain well-timed theatrical abruptness to it.

  Simon hung up and went to a mirror and straightened his tie as he thought over the situation.

  The amateurishness of his opponents was laughable. But it was also dangerous. The Saint was one of the most adaptable of men, but he was accustomed to fighting a sword with a sword, or a pistol with a pistol. The present opposition was placing him in the position of a fencer with a rapier encountering a wild-eyed peasant flailing the air with a pitchfork. He had to adjust his tactics to the non-professional mentality, which meant, among other things, adjusting to an enemy who was going to be stupidly logical as long as he thought things were going his way, but stupidly and unpredictably erratic as soon as he got confused.

  It was also true that the opposition, however obvious they were about laying an ambush, were devilishly subtle about their motives. There still seemed to be no point at all to the whole affair except a desire to torment Thomas Liskard with worry. Even now, in the telephone call, there had been no demand for money. Most blackmailers preferred to get their loot as rapidly as possible and clear out before they could be trapped.

  The Saint glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to seven. In a few minutes Mister Snowball would be cruising by again. Simon put on his raincoat, and slipped a small flashlight into his pocket. He stepped out onto the street just in time to see the ice cream van turn the corner, heading toward him. Then, as he appeared on the sidewalk it stopped several doors away and turned off its lights. If he had not been watching for it he might never have noticed it. The sky was totally dark now, and the street lamps were muted by a light fog.

  He turned not toward his garage door, but toward the van. He walked up to it and looked in at the white-capped, white-jacketed driver.

  “I’ll have a pint of vanilla, please,” he said politely.

  The driver gulped and looked sturdily straight ahead.

  “Closed,” he muttered. “All out of everything.”

  The wide opening behind the driver, which gave him easy access to the interior of the van, was covered by a heavy curtain.

  “Surely you must have something,” Simon insisted, drawing closer. “A slab of tripe…or a fat cheese?”

  “Nothing,” said the driver.

  But by then the Saint had put his hand on the door opposite the driver. He jerked it open and stepped quickly in to fling aside the hanging curtain. There like a great rosy-jowled toad squatted Chief Inspector Teal of Scotland Yard.

  “Well, ’pon my soul, if it isn’t ol’ Mister Snowball himself!” cried the Saint. “As I live and breathe! Will wonders never cease? It’s a small world.”

  “Would you at least shut the door?” growled Teal without moving.

  “Gladly.�
��

  There was no passenger seat in the van. Simon stepped inside, closed the door, and moved through the curtains into the cargo area, where he took a seat on a carton facing Teal. The detective regarded him with a baleful eye and kept his hands stuffed deep inside his overcoat pockets.

  “On closer inspection,” Simon said cannily, “I believe you’re not really Mister Snowball at all, but that old overweight operative, Claud Eustace Teal, disguised as Mister Snowball!”

  “What are you up to, Templar?” Teal asked coldly.

  “I might ask you the same, Claud,” the Saint said reproachfully. Simon glanced around the frigid interior of the van, which in addition to Inspector Teal contained nothing more comfortably padded than a cardboard box. There was a two-way radio in one corner and a few notepads and maps in another. “It’s not much, I suppose,” Simon observed, “but I’m sure it’s an improvement over what you used to do—at least from a moral point of view.”

  Chief Inspector Teal heaved a deep sigh and pulled a hand from his pocket. The hand contained a stick of chewing gum, which he proceeded to unwrap and fold into his mouth. “Are you through being funny?” he asked with exaggerated boredom.

  “I’m not sure,” said the Saint honestly.

  “You’ve gotten mixed up with the Prime Minister of Nagawiland,” Teal said.

  “I’ve been to dinner with him, if that’s what you mean,” Simon admitted.

  “And you went to the Chelsea Police Station today and asked a lot of questions.”

  “It was entirely a mission of mercy,” the Saint said. “I took along a food parcel and said a few cheery words. It’s the least one can do. Don’t you…”

  “You were asking questions about a burglary that was reported by Liskard’s old girlfriend.”

  “She’s hardly old,” Simon inserted. “I doubt that she’s a day over twenty-five.”

  “You won’t get me off the subject,” Teal said. “I know that Liskard got involved with this girl—romantically involved—when he was here before.”

  Simon leaned back and rested his shoulders comfortably against the side of the van.

  “Nosey old goat, aren’t you?”

  “It’s our job to know things about the men we’re supposed to protect,” Teal went on. “Apparently something funny is going on and you’re involved in it.”