Saint and the Templar Treasure by Leslie Charteris, Charles King, Graham Weaver Read Free Book Online
his personality into his voice, speaking his words of reassurance quietly but firmly, staying where he was rather than pressuring the girl by moving closer.
For a full minute she continued to stare out into the garden, until at last she turned and met his eyes. When she spoke there was a strange weariness behind her response. “Why not? What have I got to lose?” She walked slowly back to the sofa and sat down. “I’m not sure where to start. It all seems so inexplicable.
Someone is trying to make us bankrupt, to force us to leave In-gare. I think …”
But the Saint was not yet to know what she thought. The rap of a discreet knock and the opening of the door made her stop abruptly, as the man-servant entered.
Mimette stood up, becoming once again the ice-blooded mistress of the house.
“Charles, will you take Monsieur Templar to a guest room and run a bath for him. When he is ready, show him to the main salon.”
The servant held the door open and there was nothing for Simon to do but go with him. With a parting nod to Mimette he turned and trailed the major-domo up to the second floor and through another minor labyrinth to the chamber assigned to him.
The Saint wondered about the daffodil painted on the centre of the door but its significance became apparent as soon as he entered the room. It was completely decorated in varying shades of yellow. Curtains, carpet, bedspread were all pale gold, while the chairs were upholstered in a lemon-coloured velvet. Even the wardrobe doors were painted with yellow panels. Simon stood for a moment taking it all in.
“The only thing it needs is a canary,” he observed dryly.
“In the old days when servants were illiterate it was found convenient to identify rooms by colour rather than numbers or letters, sir,” Charles explained with the practised fluency of one used to providing the information.
The Saint crossed to the window and looked out while the servant ran his bath. Immediately in front of him was a curved balcony which jutted out over the remains of the castle wall that ran from the chateau to the tower. From the tower the rear wall ran almost to the other end of the house before meeting a huddle of one-level outbuildings that undoubtedly served for pressing and vatting the wine. Below them would be a series of cellars where the wine would be bottled and stored.
The servant returned from the adjoining bathroom and asked: “Can I help you undress, m’sieu?”
“No, thank you,” said the Saint. “But perhaps you would fetch my valise from the car.”
He handed over the car keys and waited until Charles had gone before starting to remove his shirt. It was not that he was bashful about undressing in front of a stranger, but he had no wish to excite comment, and the six-inch throwing knife strapped to his left forearm would certainly have done just that. After hiding the sheath under a pillow he hung up his clothes and walked through to the bathroom, which was an anachronistic conversion to ultra-modern plumbing.
It was full of steam, and he opened the window to let it out. The sight that greeted him made him step quickly back and stand very still.
On the track that led from the castle down towards the river was parked a black Citroen identical to the one he had seen beside the burning barn, and walking towards it from the tower were two men whose shapes he clearly recognised even at that distance.
2
In a movie, Simon Templar would have leapt from the window on to the balcony below, then swung like Errol Flynn across to the battlements, and after running along the crumbling catwalk would have dived like an avenging angel on to the two unsuspecting miscreants. In real life, the Saint stayed where he was and watched.
It was not that he lacked the athletic agility and strength to perform the required gymnastics. The main restraining factor was that he wanted to win the confidence of the Florian family, and such trust is not normally given to guests who
For a full minute she continued to stare out into the garden, until at last she turned and met his eyes. When she spoke there was a strange weariness behind her response. “Why not? What have I got to lose?” She walked slowly back to the sofa and sat down. “I’m not sure where to start. It all seems so inexplicable.
Someone is trying to make us bankrupt, to force us to leave In-gare. I think …”
But the Saint was not yet to know what she thought. The rap of a discreet knock and the opening of the door made her stop abruptly, as the man-servant entered.
Mimette stood up, becoming once again the ice-blooded mistress of the house.
“Charles, will you take Monsieur Templar to a guest room and run a bath for him. When he is ready, show him to the main salon.”
The servant held the door open and there was nothing for Simon to do but go with him. With a parting nod to Mimette he turned and trailed the major-domo up to the second floor and through another minor labyrinth to the chamber assigned to him.
The Saint wondered about the daffodil painted on the centre of the door but its significance became apparent as soon as he entered the room. It was completely decorated in varying shades of yellow. Curtains, carpet, bedspread were all pale gold, while the chairs were upholstered in a lemon-coloured velvet. Even the wardrobe doors were painted with yellow panels. Simon stood for a moment taking it all in.
“The only thing it needs is a canary,” he observed dryly.
“In the old days when servants were illiterate it was found convenient to identify rooms by colour rather than numbers or letters, sir,” Charles explained with the practised fluency of one used to providing the information.
The Saint crossed to the window and looked out while the servant ran his bath. Immediately in front of him was a curved balcony which jutted out over the remains of the castle wall that ran from the chateau to the tower. From the tower the rear wall ran almost to the other end of the house before meeting a huddle of one-level outbuildings that undoubtedly served for pressing and vatting the wine. Below them would be a series of cellars where the wine would be bottled and stored.
The servant returned from the adjoining bathroom and asked: “Can I help you undress, m’sieu?”
“No, thank you,” said the Saint. “But perhaps you would fetch my valise from the car.”
He handed over the car keys and waited until Charles had gone before starting to remove his shirt. It was not that he was bashful about undressing in front of a stranger, but he had no wish to excite comment, and the six-inch throwing knife strapped to his left forearm would certainly have done just that. After hiding the sheath under a pillow he hung up his clothes and walked through to the bathroom, which was an anachronistic conversion to ultra-modern plumbing.
It was full of steam, and he opened the window to let it out. The sight that greeted him made him step quickly back and stand very still.
On the track that led from the castle down towards the river was parked a black Citroen identical to the one he had seen beside the burning barn, and walking towards it from the tower were two men whose shapes he clearly recognised even at that distance.
2
In a movie, Simon Templar would have leapt from the window on to the balcony below, then swung like Errol Flynn across to the battlements, and after running along the crumbling catwalk would have dived like an avenging angel on to the two unsuspecting miscreants. In real life, the Saint stayed where he was and watched.
It was not that he lacked the athletic agility and strength to perform the required gymnastics. The main restraining factor was that he wanted to win the confidence of the Florian family, and such trust is not normally given to guests who
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