“Nobody knows,” she said, wanting to contradict him in any way she could.
“Exactly,” said the Saint. “You, too, could disappear.”
She was determined not to give in.
“And so could you—if you could take a fortune with you! I think I’ve heard a few things about the Saint’s affinity for loot.” She stalked to the door and threw it open. “And now will you kindly leave, or have I got to call for help? There’s no reason on earth why you should be so anxious to save my skin. You’re just trying to get your hands on something that doesn’t belong to you.”
“And that may not belong to you either,” he pointed out.
“The difference is that I know more about it than you do, and you won’t fool me into giving up that advantage.”
Simon took a very deep breath, and finally walked past her into the hall. He turned again after he had assured himself that it was deserted and that no other doors seemed to be ajar.
“I can’t say I don’t admire your nerve,” he said. “I just wonder if you’ve got the muscle to back it up. Well, if things start to look too tough, just let out a reasonably loud scream, and I’ll try to be within range.”
“I don’t believe your story about some other gang being after the same thing at all,” she returned defiantly. “I think you’re just trying to scare me!”
She closed the door hurriedly, turned the key in the lock, and leaned against the varnished woodwork with one hand over her pounding heart as her lips added soundlessly, “…and you’ve done quite a job of it!”
2
The Saint was awakened next morning by the ringing of the telephone beside his bed.
“Good morning!” said a booming baritone.
“Is it?” inquired the Saint, with reasonable curiosity.
“This is Jim Wade—Embassy. Just thought I’d check in and see how it’s going.”
Simon looked at his wristwatch and the almost horizontal rays of sunlight which slipped between the drawn curtains that covered the French windows.
“You boys must have a long working day,” he remarked. “Do you always hit the desk by seven-thirty in the morning?”
“Not always, but I’ve got big brass breathing down my neck on this thing. Any luck yet?”
“No more than usual, but I had a couple of middle-aged delinquents with full-grown switch knives breathing down my neck in an alley last night.”
“You mean there’s somebody else in on this too?”
“In brief, Colonel, we are not alone. There are more bloodhounds on Vicky Kinian’s trail than you could shake a steak at. I wouldn’t be surprised to see TV cameras being set up down in the lobby for live coverage.”
He quickly filled in the intelligence officer on the events of the night before.
“So you see,” he concluded, “it’s something of a standoff so far—but that was only the first round.”
“These men who jumped you—could you figure anything else about them? I’ll check with the local police, of course.”
Simon, already sitting up in bed, punched a second pillow behind his back to make himself more comfortable.
“They were local talent, I’d say, from their looks and accent, but hoof-and-knife men only. They were obviously recruited by somebody who knew what to tell them to look for.”
“And with the only one who was caught dead, nobody’s likely to get much information out of him,” the colonel reasoned unimpressively.
“I could make two guesses about their employer, and they could both be right,” Simon said. “Obviously there were Nazis who knew what Major Kinian was trying to find out—and they, or some of them, may still be around.”
“Besides which,” Colonel Wade put in, “other intelligence services than ours may have been on the same track that Kinian was.”
“Exactly. So we may still have both oppositions to cope with today. And so could the gal. There’s a character staying here with the intriguing name of Curt Jaeger—Swiss passport—that she’s already gotten friendly with, or who’s gotten friendly with her. Took her out last night. Of course, it could be just a harmless pick-up, but you might try to find out more about him.”
“Curt Jaeger.” Simon could visualize Wade jotting down the name. “Okay…It would make our job a lot easier if we had some idea of exactly what Kinian may have gotten on to before he disappeared. Any ideas yet?”
“A few. While Miss Kinian was gently throwing me out of her chambers, she let the word ‘loot’ slip out—and something about my wanting to get away with a fortune. Any escape hatch a Nazi bigwig was counting on would’ve certainly had plenty of boodle stashed along the route.”
Wade’s voice was suddenly grimmer.
“You’re thinking Major Kinian stumbled on a cache like that and planned to pick it up for himself?”
“Or left a clue for the folks back home in case he sevened out—which I have a strong feeling he did.”
The colonel grunted thoughtfully.
“I hate to think one of our guys could’ve decided to take a profit like that, but it’s the most likely possibility. Weirder things have happened. A lot weirder. Now…if this gal is just an ordinary kid, she might respond to the ‘good citizen’ approach. After all, she’s led a perfectly respectable life until now.”
“It might work,” Simon agreed, “but only you could make that pitch. She might trust the uniform, and if you could bring along a small flag to wave it wouldn’t hurt either. I suggest you hurry, though. I have a feeling she’s not going to waste any time.”
“Don’t worry,” Wade said smugly. “She can’t fly the coop without us knowing it. I’ve got a man watching the hotel. I’ll give her a call now and shoot right on over there.”
“Maybe you should just shoot over without calling first,” the Saint advised. “She’s pretty jumpy.”
“Will do,” replied the colonel smartly. “You sit tight, okay?”
“Okay, but don’t let on to the girl that you know me, in case a good healthy streak of self-interest proves stronger than philanthropic patriotism. After all, the government dumps a few million down rat-holes every month, and she puts in eight-hour days for ninety dollars a week. I have a feeling you’ll still be needing me after you try the friendly persuasion.”
In order to stay out of the way while the officially certified forces of righteousness had their go at Vicky Kinian’s conscience, Simon had breakfast sent to his room. He had scarcely finished the last bite of a juicy pear when his telephone rang again.
“This is Wade,” said a defeated baritone. “She turned me down.”
“No go, hm? Didn’t take long.”
“No. I got her to meet me in the lobby, and she just kept claiming she didn’t have any idea what I was talking about.” Wade coughed unhappily. “The only thing else was, she started complaining that the army and the government never did anything special for her father’s dependents—and what was I doing turning up now trying to get something out of her?”
Simon chuckled.
“I’m beginning to think she’s got the coldest shoulder this side of Point Barrow. What next?”
“I’m dumping it back in your lap, Saint. Like you said, she still thinks you’re on your own, and maybe if she runs into real trouble she’ll be only too glad to turn to you for a helping hand. In the meantime, we’ve got contacts at your hotel and the travel agencies. If she should be thinking of leaving town I think I’ll hear about it pretty fast and I’ll let you know.”
“Good. You say you’ve got a man watching the hotel?”
“Right.”
“Then why don’t you have him keep an eye on her movements? They’re nice movements, but she knows me now and she’s liable to spot me if I stay too close for too long. I’ll hang around in the background until we see what’s up, and I’ll phone the hotel desk occasionally in case you’ve left any messages for me.”
The Saint shaved and dressed, and about half an hour later he went downstairs to the lobby.
Leaving his own key at the desk, he observed that the key to room 302 was in its slot.
The same clerk to whom he had confessed his admiration of Vicky Kinian the day before was on duty again.
“Miss Kinian is already out?” Simon remarked disappointedly. “I don’t suppose you have any idea where she went?”
He gave his question additional priority by extending an example of the national currency halfway across the counter between two fingers as he asked it.
“I gave her the name of a travel agency, senhor,” answered the clerk, making the bill disappear on his own side of the desk with consummately unobtrusive prestidigitation. She also asked my advice about sightseeing and I recommended a few places of interest.”
“A travel agent?” Simon asked with unhappy surprise. “She is leaving, then?”
“She is leaving the hotel this afternoon, senhor. She wishes to fly to Switzerland. If you wished to begin a friendship with her, senhor, I am afraid you have not had enough time.”
“Perhaps I shall have to follow her to Switzerland,” Simon said jokingly. “You don’t know which flight she’s taking?”
The clerk shook his head and glanced at another customer who was waiting his turn.
“I am sorry I cannot tell you more. Perhaps at the agency just around the corner…”
“Fine.” The Saint hesitated before leaving. “The sightseeing she mentioned—do you know…”
“She wanted to know how she could see the most places in a short time, and I suggested to her the bus which makes a tour of the city in three hours.” The clerk glanced at his wristwatch. “It stops in front of the hotel here to take on passengers at eleven.”
“Is it one of those tours that herds the sheep from church to church and gallery to gallery and allows them fifteen seconds to gawk at each masterpiece?”
The clerk smiled deferentially.
“I am afraid so, senhor.”
“I think Miss Kinian will be very occupied, then, and well taken care of without any help from me,” Simon reflected aloud. “Maybe I shall have better luck later.”
He had just thanked his informant and turned from the reception counter when the clerk called him back from the switchboard with which he also had to divide his attention.
“Senhor! Please, a call for you. Would you like to take it in your room or here?”
“In my room, I think. Have them hold the line for just a minute.”
As Simon climbed the stairs he considered the relative advantages and disadvantages of joining Vicky Kinian on her sightseeing tour. It seemed probable that she was motivated by a real desire to see some of the sights of Lisbon before leaving. With only a few hours left before she flew to Switzerland, she would want to fill in the time as touristically as she could. After all, she might be zeroing in on a fortune, but while she was in the process she was just a thrifty Iowa girl bedazzled by her first glimpse of Europe. If she expected to pocket her bonanza in Lisbon, she wasn’t likely to choose to do it in the company of forty other rubbernecks.
The Saint unlocked the door to his room, locked it again behind him, and picked up his telephone.
“Hullo, Mother,” he said brightly.
“It’s Wade again,” replied a disconcerted, low-pitched voice.
“Just thought I’d fool any wire tappers, but now you’ve given the game away. What’s up?”
“The girl, she’s made reservations to—”
“Fly to Switzerland?” Simon suggested.
“How did you know?”
“A pal of mine decided to sing for his vinho. But I didn’t get the hour of departure.”
“She’s leaving on the Air Europe flight at four-thirty, for Geneva. I just got a call from our contact at one of the travel agencies. She seems to be travelling with that man you mentioned—Curt Jaeger. He bought a ticket on the same flight. Know anything more about him?”
“I’m afraid not,” Simon answered. I’m counting on your organization for that. In the meantime, our gal is booked on a sightseeing bus tour which leaves here at eleven. Do you think your watchdog on the spot could trail along? She’s liable to drop the whole idea if I show up and try to hold her hand, but I’d like to feel that somebody was protecting her.”
“Affirmative,” said the colonel efficiently. “Will do. What’s your next move?”
“I’ll try to catch a plane earlier in the day and pick up my gorgeous little prey and her friend again at the Geneva airport. I’ll give you a ring from there to be sure nothing catastrophic happened after I left.”
“Sounds like the best program,” Colonel Wade agreed. “If nothing else happens, I’ll hear from you from Switzerland. I’m afraid you’ll have to be on your own there until I can arrange…”
“I’d prefer it that way,” Simon said. “Don’t arrange anything. Just see that Vicky gets on her plane safely. I’ll take care of the rest at the other end of the line.”
3
The Saint landed at the Geneva airport at five-twenty in the afternoon—by which time Vicky Kinian would have taken off from Lisbon in another plane headed for the same destination. As soon as he had cleared Customs he found a telephone booth and rang up Colonel Wade back in Portugal.
“The girl left on schedule,” the intelligence officer told him over the crackling line. This Jaeger character was with her. From what my man could overhear on the sightseeing bus they’re just friends—and not very close ones at that. Jaeger’s a respectable businessman as far as we can find out up till now. Sales manager of some kind of Swiss watch export company, which explains why he’s going to Geneva.”
“But not why Vicky is,” said the Saint. “I’ll be waiting under the Welcome mat when they light here. You’ll be hearing from me.”
“Good luck, Saint!”
The first thing that impressed Simon when he emerged from finishing his business was the crisp freshness of the Swiss air as contrasted with the humid sea level atmosphere he had left behind. The second phenomenon that impressed him was a stout, bald, rather scholarly looking man whose facial topography was somewhat concealed between a Vandyke beard and a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. He left the telephone booth which shared a common wall with the one Simon had used, and stayed in the same area of the lobby. When the Saint paused to glance over the magazines displayed at the newsstand, the white-bearded man took an interest in a display of chocolates a few feet away. When the Saint moved on to study the arrival-and-departure boards, the stout man concerned himself with the purchase of a newspaper.
Simon felt certain he had seen the man—without paying any particular attention to him—on the same plane he had taken from Lisbon. Why should he hang around the terminal building and, by chance or design, not let any great expanse of waxed rubber tile get between him and the Saint?
Simon deliberately walked off at a brisk pace towards the far end of the lobby. The other man did not follow, although it was possible that his eyes tracked Simon’s changing position from behind his thin-framed glasses. A short while later, as the building became more crowded with passengers and their friends, the bearded man turned, tucked his paper under his arm, and strode out of one of the doors towards the taxi stand as if whatever mysterious business he had had in the lobby had suddenly been consummated.
Simon relaxed more completely and tried to decide whether the episode had really been an episode or whether it had been no more than a suspicion in an alert and uncharitable mind. If Grandpa Trotsky did not reappear, well and good. If he ever materialized as an innocent lurker again, it would be time to consider countermeasures.
There was a U-Drive car rental kiosk in the lobby not far from where the Saint was standing when his bewhiskered friend left the scene. Simon went over to it and spoke to the grey-uniformed brunette behind the counter.
“Salutations, Lieutenant,” he said cheerily. “I wonder if you have anything in the motor pool that would suit me.”
The girl touched her pert forage cap self-consciously and gave him a
smile that seemed to say, “If you’d like to see me in something more glamorous, just ask…” But as is usual with girls in real life, what she actually said was less exciting.
“I’m certain we do, m’sieur. What kind of automobile would you need?”
“I’d like to hire something that’s fairly fast but not too conspicuous. Bigger than a breadbox but smaller than those chrome-plated hearses you rent to couples from Miami.”
“A Volkswagen, m’sieur, or…”
“A Volkswagen is fine.”
The formalities took only a short while, and when he was putting his signature on the completed forms the counter girl asked him, “What hotel will you stay at here in Geneva?”
“I don’t know yet. Where I go depends on some friends who’ll be in a little later. As soon as I’ve settled on one I’ll phone you.”
“Can I do anything to help you?”
Simon regarded her.
“If I told you,” he said regretfully, “I’m afraid you’d tell me that your Hertz belongs to Daddy.”
When his friends did arrive, the Saint was waiting for them in his green Beetle near the terminal building’s entrance. He watched as Vicky Kinian and a tall man came out of the swinging glass doors and waited to step into a taxi. The girl’s companion—sharp-featured, with closely trimmed light hair—held the cab’s door for her, gave an order to the driver, and got into the back seat himself. Simon did not recognize him; even from a number of yards away he could be sure that their paths had never crossed before. There was no way to tell yet, then, whether Herr Jaeger’s main interest was in attractive American girls or some more negotiable and enduring embodiment of pleasure, perhaps in the form of several tons of SS gold at the bottom of an Alpine lake.
The taxi pulled away from the curb. Simon had already started his car. Now he accelerated after the cab, not hesitating to stick quite close behind it during its trip into the city.
While the Saint followed, Curt Jaeger was beginning to doubt his once considerable powers as an interrogator. All the way from the green-and-brown coast of Portugal to the white icy crags of the Alps he had been subtly trying, without the slightest success, to lead Vicky Kinian on to the subject of her treasure hunt, and in particular on to the events which he knew had taken place the night before.
The Saint in Pursuit Page 8
