THE ADVENTURES OF THE SAINT
Enter the Saint (1930), The Saint Closes the Case (1930), The Avenging Saint (1930), Featuring the Saint (1931), Alias the Saint (1931), The Saint Meets His Match (1931), The Saint Versus Scotland Yard (1932), The Saint’s Getaway (1932), The Saint and Mr Teal (1933), The Brighter Buccaneer (1933), The Saint in London (1934), The Saint Intervenes (1934), The Saint Goes On (1934), The Saint in New York (1935), Saint Overboard (1936), The Saint in Action (1937), The Saint Bids Diamonds (1937), The Saint Plays with Fire (1938), Follow the Saint (1938), The Happy Highwayman (1939), The Saint in Miami (1940), The Saint Goes West (1942), The Saint Steps In (1943), The Saint on Guard (1944), The Saint Sees It Through (1946), Call for the Saint (1948), Saint Errant (1948), The Saint in Europe (1953), The Saint on the Spanish Main (1955), The Saint Around the World (1956), Thanks to the Saint (1957), Señor Saint (1958), Saint to the Rescue (1959), Trust the Saint (1962), The Saint in the Sun (1963), Vendetta for the Saint (1964), The Saint on TV (1968), The Saint Returns (1968), The Saint and the Fiction Makers (1968), The Saint Abroad (1969), The Saint in Pursuit (1970), The Saint and the People Importers (1971), Catch the Saint (1975), The Saint and the Hapsburg Necklace (1976), Send for the Saint (1977), The Saint in Trouble (1978), The Saint and the Templar Treasure (1978), Count On the Saint (1980), Salvage for the Saint (1983)
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2014 Interfund (London) Ltd.
Foreword © 2014 Mick Davis
Publication History and Author Biography © 2014 Ian Dickerson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
ISBN-13: 9781477842959
ISBN-10: 1477842950
Cover design by David Drummond, www.salamanderhill.com
To John Paddy Carstairs,
with thanks for many nice things done for the Saint, and especially for suggesting this title
CONTENTS
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
FOREWORD TO THE NEW EDITION
CANNES: THE BETTER MOUSETRAP
ST TROPEZ: THE UGLY IMPRESARIO
ENGLAND: THE PRODIGAL MISER
NASSAU: THE FAST WOMEN
FLORIDA: THE JOLLY
LUCERNE: THE RUSSIAN
PROVENCE: THE HOPELESS HEIRESS
PUBLICATION HISTORY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WATCH FOR THE SIGN OF THE SAINT!
THE SAINT CLUB
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
The text of this book has been preserved from the original edition and includes vocabulary, grammar, style, and punctuation that might differ from modern publishing practices. Every care has been taken to preserve the author’s tone and meaning, allowing only minimal changes to punctuation and wording to ensure a fluent experience for modern readers.
FOREWORD TO THE NEW EDITION
Growing up in a working class family, in the city of Glasgow, was about as tough as it gets. Throw in a dose of asthma, four people in a one-bedroom apartment with no bath or shower, unemployment, and a daily diet of uncertainty (apart from the rain), what’s left but to dream? And my dream was very simple: I was going to live in Hollywood and make movies and TV shows. Of course if I shared that dream with anyone around me it was grounds for insanity, so it remained my secret. A secret I shared only with my heroes, who I sat cross-legged before, watching them in black and white, walk across our 12-inch screen to save the day…my day. My life. But there was one hero who stood out more than any other for me—the guy who looked up at the halo above his head as if to say, “Really? C’mon, you know how naughty I am.”
Simon Templar was a Saint, but it was that devilish side of his cavalier, charismatic, bad-boy persona that I felt drawn to. A good old-fashioned cad whose guard was his cheeky smile and quick retort, and yet, underneath it all, I felt he was really quite lonely. I identified with that and it helped me to understand what a great, multi-dimensional character he really was. That was the genius of Charteris for me.
Cut to a few decades later and here I am living my dream in Hollywood, but did I ever imagine I’d get to meet Simon Templar, even write for Simon Templar, put words in his mouth, and have the privilege of mining that delicious melancholy I always thought he kept hidden? No chance!
And yet, I did.
And I have to tell you, he is exactly as I thought he’d be, a true Saint, with a little bit of devil tucked away for a rainy day.
—Mick Davis
CANNES: THE BETTER MOUSETRAP
Until his unfortunate accident, Mr Daniel Tench, in spite of having been christened with such an unglamorous name (though he had used others) had managed to lead what some people would consider quite a glamorous life. Born in a caravan on an English fairground, he had grown up with a traveling circus, and spent several years as a merely second-rate acrobat, by Ringling standards, before he graduated to become one of the most successful jewel thieves who ever operated in Europe.
A few small but profitable experiments during his last season under canvas had shown him that the limited athletic gifts which would never get him billing at Madison Square Garden were more than adequate for making illegal entries by various improbable routes, and when a neat second-story job in Deauville produced a pearl choker that brought a million francs even in the market where he had to sell it, Mr Tench decided that he had found a better way to use his nerve and muscle than by swinging on a trapeze for the niggardly applause of a small crowd of yokels.
One day, someone with more patience and earnestness than this reporter may write an original monograph on the influence of architectural styles upon trends in crime. It is quite possible that the frustrations of the Victorian home were responsible for the popularity of wife-poisoning as an indoor sport during that era. It is certain that the art of Mr Tench could only have reached its apogee in Europe, where most of the flossiest hotels are still monuments to a period in which ornateness was a synonym for luxury, and no caravanserai was considered palatial that did not have an abundance of balconies, ledges, cornices, gables, buttresses, groovings, ornaments, and curlicues that were made to order for a man of his somewhat simian talents. On the stark facade of the latest Hilton construction he would have been as confused as a cat on roller skates.
In fact, the obvious vulnerability of such gilded barracks long ago created a specialist known in French as a souris d’hôtel, or hotel mouse, who would stealthily make off with any valuables that careless guests left unlocked in their rooms. Traditionally, this operator wore only a suit of black tights, to be able to move without rustling and to be as invisible as possible in the dark; and in the merrier myths the tights were always filled to capacity by a beauteous female who, if caught in the act, always had one last card to play against the penalty of being turned over to the police. Mr Tench, of course, did not have the benefit of what we might call this ace in the hole, in normal situations, but he made up for it with a physical agility that consistently kept the problem from arising. Until the night when his hand slipped.
Personally he was not at all the gay and charming type that would have been portrayed in any self-respecting movie, and even his widow did not waste a minute mourning for him, though she was most annoyed to be so abruptly deprived of the loot
he provided, especially the assortment that was his objective on the expedition which he concluded by falling four floors down the front of the Carlton Hotel in Cannes.
None of this might ever have concerned the Saint very much, but for the fact that the place where Mr Tench made his spectacularly unsuccessful attempt to bounce off a slab of concrete was situated vertically underneath the window of a room in which Simon Templar happened to be registered at the time. As a result, Simon was subjected to a long and hostile interrogation by an inspector of the Police Judiciaire, who was convinced that all thieves of Tench’s type had an accomplice, and could see no suspect more obvious than a person of such notoriously equivocal reputation.
“Not that I can altogether blame him,” Simon said to Natalie Sheridan. “Danny-boy could have fallen right off my balcony, so to any cop’s way of thinking my room could have been his headquarters. This should teach me to stay away from places where the guests have jewels.”
He usually stayed at the less showy but just as comfortable Majestic, but he had backed his luck too hard by arriving without a reservation at the height of the season, and had had to take anything he was lucky enough to get. But for that, he might not even have met Natalie as he had only two days ago, when he felt too lazy to go any further than the bar downstairs for his first apéritif.
The terrace of the Carlton at cocktail time is about the busiest place in Cannes, and some of the business is not the kind that the best hotels are conventionally supposed to welcome. But in France, a country with a realistic approach to everything except politics, it is recognized that the very classiest ladies of accommodating virtue, or poules de luxe, will inevitably forgather in the very classiest places, where they can expect to meet friends of equal distinction in other fields, and nothing much can be done about it. This does not mean that they are conspicuous, except by being often better looking, better dressed, and better behaved than most of the more strait-laced customers, or that their importunities are a menace to respectable citizens; but a man who looks lonely there always has a chance of catching a not indifferent eye.
Simon Templar was not on the prowl in that way, but he never said No to anything without a second look, and his second look at Natalie was what stopped him. At the first, she was only one of the sea of faces that he automatically scanned with extraordinary selectivity while he seemed to be merely looking for a vacant table—this was the habit of a lifetime whose duration could sometimes depend on seeing everyone before anyone saw him—and her eyes were not the first in which he could sense a possibility of welcome, or her lips the only ones that seemed on the verge of a tentative smile. But these features were so exceptionally attractive that after the first comprehensive glance he had to look at them again individually. And that was when the mouth actually smiled, with a quite brazen forthrightness that was not according to protocol for that place at all, and the possibility of invitation in the eyes bared itself as almost shameless pleading.
The Saint smiled back as if he had just seen her. Dismissing with a casual gesture the intrusive attentions of a waiter who was trying to sell him a seat on the other side of the terrace, he steered as direct a course towards her as the intervening tables permitted, and watched the near-panic in her eyes relax into simple nervousness as he approached.
“Darling,” he murmured. “Have you been waiting long?”
“Long enough,” she said.
He sat down.
“What would you have done if I hadn’t shown up?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Or if you’d turned out to speak nothing but French…But why did you speak to me in English? How did you know I wasn’t—”
“Us old roués have educated hunches that pay off sometimes.”
Another waiter intruded himself, a disinterested mercenary concerned only with one aspect of the encounter. Simon glanced at the Martini in front of the girl, which she had scarcely touched, and ordered a St Raphael.
“But you don’t know,” she said almost feverishly, as the waiter went away. “I’ve got to explain. I’m not the kind of girl you think!”
“Really?” Simon offered a cigarette. “Well, I’ve got nothing but time. Tell me the story of your life.”
It could hardly cover much more than a quarter of a century, he estimated, and any debauchery that she might have crowded into the later years had not yet left any telltale marks on her face. Even at close quarters, her flawless skin did not betray an indebtedness to artful cosmetics. A master coiffeur had done ethereal sculpture to her hair, but would have mortgaged his soul to be able to duplicate with bleach and dye and rinse its cheerfully inconsistent shades of honey-blonde. And if her figure relied on prosthetic support or increment for its extremely interesting contours, that was a remotely potential disillusionment which in these days only nudists never have to risk. From all angles that could be determined in a respectable public place, she was as promising a temptation as any buccaneer ever made no exaggerated effort to resist.
“Natalie Sheridan,” she said. “Canadian. Divorced one year. No torch, but I did feel like a fling, and I’d read so much about Europe. The only thing I hadn’t thought about, practically, was just how a gal would make out from day to day, traveling alone. It was all right in London and Paris, because I was with friends all the time—but then they were going to Scandinavia and I wanted to see the Riviera. It was even all right in Monte Carlo, though, because I met an English woman on the train coming down, and we sort of stuck together. But I’ve been here on my own now for three days, and tonight I got desperate.”
“It can be a problem, I imagine.”
“The first night, I had dinner here and went straight to bed. Lunch wasn’t so difficult, somehow. But the second night, I was afraid to go to any fancy place: I went into another restaurant very early, it was almost empty, and then I went to a movie and went to bed. Tonight I decided it was just silly. I could waste a whole vacation like that, and why shouldn’t I act like a healthy modern gal with her own traveler’s checks? So I got all dressed up and swore I would have some fun. But—”
“Other people had other ideas about the kind of fun you ought to have?”
“Over here, they don’t seem to understand that a gal can be alone because she wants to. If she isn’t waiting for one man, she must be waiting for any man. I’ve never had so many strange men trying to be so charming. Of course, most of them were just devastatingly discreet, but all the same…after a while, it gets to be like a kind of nightmare. And then when I felt the waiters beginning to worry about me, it was the end.”
“So you decided that if everyone was thinking it, you might as well be it?” he asked, with lazy wickedness.
“Oh, no! But when you came in, I was about frantic, and you looked English or American or—or as if you might understand, anyway. And I did try to pick you up, and I shouldn’t be wasting your time. But if you would just have your drink, so that I can sit here for a little while and enjoy staring at everyone else instead of them staring at me, and let me pay for it, and then escort me out so I can make a graceful exit—”
The Saint finally laughed, cutting off her spate of headlong clauses with a muted outburst of sheer delight. He threw back his head and shook with it irrepressibly, subduing only the sound of the guffaw, while the waiter delivered his St Raphael and went phlegmatically away.
“Natalie, I love you. I thought I’d been picked up in every way there was, in the course of a misspent life, but you’ve shown me that there can always be new things to live for.” He sat up again, still smiling, and not unkindly. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll have this drink, and then another, on me, and enjoy the passing show together. And after that, if you can still stand the company, I’d like to introduce you to a little side-street restaurant, Chez Francis, where you can eat the best Provencal sea-foods in this town. Until you’ve tasted Francis’s coquillages farcis, you’ve only been gastronomically slumming.”
That had been the beginning of what looked at first
like the most beautifully innocuous friendship in the Saint’s life story. Her ignorance of everything European was abysmal, but her lively interest made kindergarten instruction surprisingly enjoyable. Experiencing for the first time places and foods and wines that were so familiar to him, she made them new to him again with the spice of her own excitement. He got almost a proprietary kick out of first emphasizing the murky waters and overcrowded sands of the Croisette beaches, until she was as saddened as a child with a broken toy, and then taking her on a mere fifteen-minute ferry ride to the Ile Ste Marguerite and over the eucalyptus-shaded walks to the clean rocky coves on the other side which only a few fortunate tourists ever find. And when he gave her one of the glass-and-rubber masks which are almost one of the minimum garments required of Mediterranean bathers today, and she made her personal discovery of the underwater fairyland that only encumbered divers had even glimpsed before this generation, she clung to him with real sexless tears flooding her big hazel eyes.
Except for that one spontaneous clutch, she was neither cold nor coquettish. It must be faced—or who are we kidding?—that few women could be with the Saint for long and want to leave him alone, and that passes had been made at him in more ways than a modest man would try to remember, and that he could scarcely help revealing even in subtle ways that he was prepared for the worst and poised for evasive action. But Natalie Sheridan gave him nothing to fight. She made no overt attempt to bring him closer to her bed, while at the same time leaving no doubt that he might be very welcome there, some other night, when certain other conjunctions were auspicious. This alone was a refreshing change from more hackneyed hazards.
Nor was she asking to be rescued from any dragons or dead-falls, except the almost adolescent insecurity which had made her beseech him in the first place.
He had told her soon enough, inevitably, but with all the misgivings that could be rooted in a hundred prologues like this: “My name is Sebastian Tombs, believe it or not.”
The Saint in the Sun (The Saint Series) Page 1
