The Saint Abroad: The Art Collectors/ the Persistent Patriots by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online Page A

exas peration, and LeGrand looked more impatient
than worried.
    “What angle?” he asked. “What
would they have to do with Paul Clarneau? Are you suggesting that he … No. That is impossible. He has been
my friend since we were boys!”
    “I’m not suggesting anything—and
certainly not that your chum Clarneau is a crook. I’m just wondering whether or
not somebody might be using him as bait for a trap that you’re about to
drive right into.”
    LeGrand gave a nasal snorting laugh and shook his head as he put the car in gear.
    “Apparently you read too many crime
stories, Monsieur Templar—or live too many. You can’t believe an ordinary automobile
breakdown when you hear about one.” He gunned the engine, then looked at the
Saint again sardon ically. “Of course
if you would like to come along to protect me, or to protect Mademoiselle Lambrini’s interests …”
    Annabella firmly caught Simon’s arm and held
him close beside her.
    “He can protect my interests quite well
enough by staying here,” she said. “Just hurry, please, and send
your friend along as soon as possible.”
    “A votre service!” LeGrand
said, with mock humility. His car’s wheels threw up gravel. “And
don’t let Monsieur Templar dream up any ghosts to steal our paintings before Clarneau
comes to take them!”
    6
    Twenty-five minutes after Marcel LeGrand had
driven away, an American station wagon of venerable vintage crunched up the
drive and stopped at the front door. Simon and Annabella went
outside, and the driver of the car all but ran to meet them. He
was a small elderly man, but powerfully knobby, with the
look of one who ate little and trotted two miles every day before breakfast.
    “I am so sorry, mademoiselle,
monsieur!” he cried. “The gods would of course do such a thing
to me on this day!”
    Simon shook his hand and Annabella protested
that auto mobile trouble was nobody’s fault.
    “She is old but usually
dependable,” the man said. “In my work I need the
space for carrying paintings and statues from place to
place.” He suddenly stopped himself. “But I have not even
introduced myself! I am Professor Paul Clarneau.”
    “We guessed,” the Saint said.
    “Do come in,” Annabella Lambrini
urged him. “The paint ings are only a few minutes older, after
all.”
    “Of course!”
    Simon followed them into the front room and
watched as Clarneau went into similar ecstacies to those of LeGrand.
    “I assure you they are genuine,”
Annabella said. “But you are welcome to make whatever tests you
have to do in order to check.”
    “I would not for a moment doubt your
word,” Professor Clarneau replied gallantly. “If you
don’t mind, though, I shall look more closely …”
    He waited with eyebrows raised, until
Annabella had given him her go-ahead. Then, blinking rapidly, as if the blink were an essential part of
his investigatory technique, the little man
began to crawl around on the floor peering at parts of the canvases through
a magnifying glass, studying the surface of
the paint at various angles, and inspecting the backs of the frames. After a few minutes, during which Annabella was speechless with suspense, he
scrambled back to his feet.
    “Voila,” he said
happily. “It is done. They are beautiful— beautifully
genuine!”
    Annabella broke into a broad smile and then
tried to maintain it as the Saint put in a comment.
    “I thought you had to use X-rays and
chemical analysis and all that sort of thing.”
    Clarneau answered indulgently.
    “Only when my own opinion is
doubtful,” he said. “In this case I am quite satisfied. A
person who has devoted his life to art develops an instinct for true
masterpieces. Chemi cals have been wrong. When my eye is convinced, it has never been mistaken.”
    “I’m very happy for both of you
then,” Simon said to him and Annabella. “Shall we start the
celebration?”
    “After I have something to
celebrate,” Annabella an swered.
    Clarneau looked