“I can’t help wondering,” he began, “Would it be too inquisitive to ask what you did that might have angered your girlfriend so much?”
Vicky wished he hadn’t brought the subject up again; she had been trying to forget it completely.
“Oh, it was nothing much,” she said. “It’s hardly worth talking about.”
Jaeger sat back in his chair and raised his champagne glass to his lips.
“I see,” he said gently. “I thought maybe you were still worrying about it. You looked a thousand miles away.”
Vicky realized that she had been staring beyond Jaeger without really seeing anything. She quickly put down her glass and turned all her attention to him.
“I’m so sorry!” she hurried to say. “I suppose there is something on my mind, and it is tied up with Freda. I might as well tell you, since it’s bound to make me act a little funny, and I don’t want you to think I’m rude.”
“I hope it was nothing so momentous as the fact that both you girls were wearing the same dress when you met to go shopping,” Jaeger said with a smile.
Vicky forced herself to laugh and took up her champagne again with relief. She was bursting to share her secrets—and the burden of the tremendous decision her father’s second letter asked her to make—just as she had been eager to confide in Freda when they had talked on the plane.
“Nothing as bad as that,” she said. She imbibed a large sip from her glass and took the plunge. “It was about a rather mysterious letter that she partly helped me to find. And then when I’d gotten it, I couldn’t tell her what was in it. At least I couldn’t tell her at the time without thinking it over first. She was hurt, I think—and that was the last I saw of her.”
The wine was making her feel more indifferent than disconsolate when she remembered Freda’s reaction. She hoped the waiter would bring the Vichyssoise before she started getting dizzy. One cocktail before dinner had always been her limit—and when she had last drunk champagne, at a wedding reception, she had found the whole world swooping and dipping around her head like a carnival run wild.
“This letter—it indeed sounds very mysterious,” Jaeger said, with no sign of unseemly curiosity. “Are you sure it would not help to talk it over with a friend?”
“I’m sure it would,” she admitted.
To her relief, the soup arrived just then to preserve her higher cerebral processes from alcoholic annihilation.
“Many problems that seem impossible alone become much easier if one talks about them,” Jaeger observed in the most fatherly of tones.
“But this is such a special problem!”
“All problems are special to the person who has them. But I am a special kind of friend.”
“But I hardly know you at all,” Vicky blurted. Then she lowered her spoon and earnestly added, “Not that I mean anything by that. It’s just…”
Curt Jaeger raised a reassuring hand.
“Don’t apologize. What you say is quite true. On the other hand, the fact that we aren’t old friends is my greatest advantage. I’ve often thought, in fact, that a stranger is the best friend one can have, assuming that he—or she—is particularly simpatico. Because you can believe a stranger to be anything you like. For a little while, at least, a stranger can be one’s ideal.”
He tapped a cigarette from a pack and added ironically, “Which probably explains love-at-first-sight—and the fact that one falls very easily in love with people one doesn’t really know, but has a devil of a time becoming, or staying, infatuated with people who’ve been around for quite a while.”
“You’re right,” said Vicky, impressed with the exposition but a little confused about what he was driving at.
“So, in brief,” her companion said, “it’s just because you don’t know me that you can consult me about anything as impersonally as a doctor or a confessor. My disapproval—which I guarantee you won’t have to face—couldn’t bother you, but you could be sure that my advice would be quite impartial.”
A waiter topped up their wineglasses while another took away the soup bowls.
“I’m not trying to pry, of course. If you want to tell me anything, put it in general terms, and I won’t possibly be able to guess what you are referring to.”
Vicky settled back against her cushion.
“Well, suppose you had a clue that might lead you to a fortune, like a buried treasure, but you didn’t really have a right to it. I mean, it didn’t really belong to you or anybody at the moment, but the only people who would have a legal right would be some government or other. What would you do?”
“You mean like these cases of sunken ships, where divers do all the work and then the government that controls the coastline steps in and scrapes off most of the profits? I assure you I would help myself to the treasure and let the government worry about its own welfare. They would certainly hear nothing from me.”
Vicky smiled and raised her moisture-beaded glass to her lips with both hands.
“Well, that’s a straight answer,” she said. “I think I can probably swing my conscience around to that point of view.”
“Yes,” Jaeger concurred. “What could be less worthy of your guilty conscience than a government?”
“Especially when I don’t even know which government,” said Vicky, feeling more lighthearted than she had since leaving Iowa. “You’re right. Why turn over anything to a bunch of stuffed-shirt bureaucrats?”
“Bravo!” Jaeger applauded. “And naturally you couldn’t show your stewardess friend the mysterious letter telling about the pirate’s gold, because then she would have been able to use the map to find her way there before you.”
“She might, I suppose,” Vicky said. “But…”
Suddenly Jaeger seemed struck by a disturbing thought that fitted aptly into her hesitation.
“I’m just thinking,” he said. “Your friend, with all respect, probably has the same weaknesses as the rest of us, and her disappearance was rather abrupt. You don’t suppose she could somehow have taken the letter—or perhaps be planning to take it while you’re out?”
“Oh, no, Freda wouldn’t have thought of such a thing! And even if she had, it wouldn’t do her any good to try to find the letter.”
“You hid it well?” Jaeger asked. “Or better still, put it in the hotel vault for safe-keeping?”
“Even better than that,” Vicky said proudly. “I cut out the paragraph with all the important things in it—with all the directions—and memorized it, and burned it!”
Curt Jaeger’s admiration was so very far from boundless that only the longest swig of champagne could quench the fire of rage and disappointment that rose unbidden into his face.
“That was really brilliant of you,” he commented, with grim honesty hardening his smile. “I’m glad I am not some kind of foreign agent trying to pick your brain.”
4
For Simon Templar, entering Vicky Kinian’s hotel room was about as difficult an operation as sliding a hot spoon into a dollop of ice cream. But only paranormal powers of observation or intuition could have warned him that the girl whose private correspondence he intended to investigate was already being orbited by such a galaxy of variegated snoopers that it would have been impossible to approach within visiting range of her or her lodgings without entering the purview of at least one of them.
From the moment when he left his own room and crossed the corridor, he was, in fact, under the surveillance of the white-whiskered bald man who made such practical use of the aids to his infirmities: the cane was already fitted with its periscope extension, and the oversized hearing-amplifier was already switched on when the door to Vicky Kinian’s dark room swung quietly inward. It had been partially by luck that the plump eavesdropper had detected Simon’s movement across the passage, but now, with his gadgets fully activated, he set about systematically following the Saint’s explorations.
Once in Vicky Kinian’s room Simon turned on the lights, glanced at the general layout
, and began his search as coolly as if he were paying the bill for room 302 himself. First, the obvious: empty suitcases, underneath the underclothes in the chest-of-drawers…Success already amongst the lacy silks. His hand brought forth an envelope slightly yellowed with age. There was a typed directive on the front which read: “For Victoria Kinian, on her 25th birthday, c/o William F. Grey, Attorney-at-Law.” Inside was a cryptic note telling daughter Vicky to visit Portugal and pick up a box at an antique shop in Lisbon. Hardly what could be called a cliff-hanging letter. Almost certainly Vicky Kinian had already gone there in the morning and come back to the Tagus Hotel with something much more informative.
Simon kept on looking. Underneath the mattress of the bed there was nothing but a chewing-gum wrapper. His attention turned then to the massive mahogany wardrobe which seemed to loom over the rest of the room as if it considered itself immeasurably superior. Such old-fashioned examples of the cabinetmaker’s art, with double doors surmounted by a carved cornice, had flat recessed tops ideally designed for concealing dust, dead flies, and highly personal correspondence.
The Saint drew up a chair, stood on it, and looked down on to the upper surface of the armoire. There his search ended. Another envelope, larger and much fatter than the first one, lay waiting for his attention. He took it, stepped down, and pulled out the folded pages. There were nine in all, closely written by hand, and sections had been cut out of two of them.
“Darling Vicky,” he read. “What I am going to tell you can make you a multimillionaire, but it may also lead you into great danger. Others will be after the same prize, and they aren’t playing for fun…”
Certain that he had found what he was looking for, Simon decided that there was no need to push his good fortune by lounging there while he waded through the whole long missive. Even if there was very little chance of Vicky Kinian herself returning so soon, a maid might come in to turn down the bed. He could continue reading in his own room. He moved towards the door and turned out the lights.
And behind him—without his ever having been aware of it—an angled combination of mirrors was quietly withdrawn from Vicky Kinian’s balcony…
There had seemed to be no need to sneak furtively into the hotel’s public corridor, and Simon stepped boldly out, intending to cross straight over to his own room. Then he quickly changed his plans, for coming down the hall towards him, and looking momentarily surprised when they saw him, were two of the most unsavory-looking beings ever to scuff the carpets of a respectable inn. One was small and scrawny, with moustaches like black stilettoes and a nose like the operational end of a poleaxe. His crony was bigger and more unwieldy, with overhanging brows and an under-slung lower lip giving the middle portion of his countenance a positively recessive look, as if an impatient parent had once reprimanded him with a well-aimed billiard ball.
Neither of them said anything to the other as they approached, and Simon did not think that they recognized him, but at the same time he was sure that his appearance had startled them. They trooped on past him, looking dourly unconcerned, perhaps intent on some petty knavery which—so long as it did not involve him—the Saint did not have the time or inclination to worry himself about. But just in case they did have some special interest in him or in Vicky Kinian, he decided not to open his own door, which would have marked him as an obvious room-hopper, but instead to continue down the hall and downstairs into the lobby. If the two creeps he had just encountered had other business to attend to, they would assume that he had been just another guest leaving his own quarters.
He became aware even as he walked from the stairs into the lobby that he was being followed. Reflected in the glass door which led on to the street, he could see the same two worthies keeping what they must have considered a discreet distance behind him.
Simon went ahead out the door. He would walk around the block and see just how persistent his escort was.
Outside it was dark except for an occasional street light, and the sidewalks glinted with a sprinkling of rain just beginning to fall. There was thunder not far away out over the estuary, and a fresh breeze accompanied the summer shower. Sticking close beneath awnings and architectural outcroppings, the Saint could stroll casually without getting too wet. Then when he reached the corner the rain started to build towards its climax. He stood under a stone archway in deep shadow, watching the drops dance on the pavement. Half a block away, two other men, a small one and a bulkier one, stopped and waited in the shelter of a doorway. There was a five-minute pause, a silence relieved by rumbles of thunder and the occasional hiss of the tires of a passing car, and then the shower was over as abruptly as it had begun. Simon sauntered on his way, turning into a darker side street. In the strip of sky which showed overhead between rows of tiled eaves, the stars were already appearing between patches of scudding cloud.
Behind the Saint there was a distinct sound of footsteps.
“If those characters are just out for an innocent stroll, I’ll give them a chance for a little more privacy,” he mused.
He turned under an archway which led into a short alley which opened at its opposite end on to another dimly lit street. About halfway along the deserted arcade, he paused to listen.
After a few seconds of silence, a single pair of footsteps came quickly along behind him.
Without showing any visible indication, the Saint’s body and mind went on combat alert. His muscles were relaxed and ready for swift movement in any direction, to meet any threat—including the rather clumsy threat that immediately became an actuality.
The man with the hypodermic-needle moustache and the Halloween nose was holding the point of a knife in the immediate vicinity of his jugular vein.
“At once, senhor!” the little man ordered hoarsely. “Give me what you have in your pockets!”
The Saint, wishing to keep his blood to himself, thought it wise to eliminate the threat of the knife-tip before proceeding to deal with the comedian who was aiming it. He pretended to acquiesce, reached into one of his jacket pockets, and brought out the letter he had taken from the top of Vicky Kinian’s wardrobe. With a sudden dramatic gesture he flung the white envelope aside into the shadows.
“Is that what you were after?” he asked mildly.
In the first instant that this enemy’s attention was distracted, Simon struck like a snake. The rigid edge of one of his hands smashed the knife arm of the other man aside, and then with a twisting swinging combination of movements he flipped his opponent into the air, yanked him through a completely graceful somersault, and helped him to as ungentle a landing as possible flat on his face on the cobblestones.
As might have been predicted, the second attack wave lumbered on to the field as soon as the first had crunched to a temporary standstill. Arms flying, the bigger of the two strangers—obviously bringing into play all the subtle chivalric skills learned in a lifetime of a dockyard brawls—hurled himself into the combat. Hoping to achieve an outflanking triumph he lunged to whip a thick arm around the Saint’s throat from behind. But the Saint caught the arm before its trap-like action was completed, brought the elbow joint against the fulcrum of his shoulder, and all in one magnificently flowing gesture levered his huge assailant up and over and dropped all two hundred pounds of him flat on the pavement not far from the site of his colleague’s plunge.
The said colleague, in the meantime, was dazedly scrambling to his feet, clawing at the Saint’s coat. The bigger thug gasping for breath, grabbed for Simon’s ankle. The battle, though now distinctly onesided in favor of the outnumbered force, was far from over, and it swayed and thudded along the whole length of the dark arcade.
There was a fourth, unseen, participant in the episode, who then moved in to take advantage of the confusion for his own purposes. Only a single element in the drama interested him at all, and that was the white envelope which now lay abandoned in the deep shadows where the fight had begun. He waited his chance, then sidled swiftly along the stone wall, snatched the letter off t
he ground, and darted away again with an agility amazing in a man of his stout build.
He emerged into one of the side streets on which the alley opened, and the faint rays of a street lamp fell across the whiteness of his Vandyke beard. At the opposite end of the alley he could see the combatants silhouetted in an archway. One of them fell heavily and cried out, and in a moment of sudden alarm the plump man with the beard was afraid he had been seen. He turned and ran, and was still running when he rounded the corner leading on to the main street and ran almost directly into the unsuspecting arms of a pair of damp-shouldered policemen whose minds, until that moment, had been on nothing more violent than the latest international football match.
The bald and bearded runner, so obviously in full flight, knew that he had to come up with an instant explanation.
“Policia!” he cried breathlessly. “In there! Murder! Men fighting!”
His Portuguese left much to be desired so far as elegance of phrase was concerned, but the gist of his meaning was quite clear. The cops propped their caps more firmly into place and took off at a run, while the public-spirited civilian who had given the alarm was left behind shouting and pointing.
“In there! Someone is being killed!”
The policemen disappeared into the arched alley, and the bearded man, tucking the white envelope into an inside pocket, could not suppress a smile of unmitigated smugness. Then, like a busy fat crab, he scuttled away into the shadows.
The gendarmerie, meanwhile, had arrived on the scene of the crime with billy clubs waving, only to find a single tall unruffled man turning from two groaning hulks prostrated at his feet. Sizing up the situation instantly, they each grabbed one of the arms of the tall man and pulled him away from his victims.
“Villain!” keened one of the officers indignantly. “What are you doing assaulting these citizens?”
Simon was able to reply in faultlessly colloquial Portuguese.
“You’ve got it upside down, boys,” he answered calmly. “I’m the one who was getting assaulted.”
The Saint in Pursuit Page 6
