The Saint in Trouble by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online Page A

for which he could find no ready answers.
    Cartwright’s interest in Demmell he could understand, but what was Demmell’s interest in Maclett? And why hijack a sailor? Why not take Demmell? Simon again ran over the conversations he had had with Maclett and Curdon, and an idea began to form in his mind. He rejected it at first, but it refused to be dismissed, and the more it was considered the more plausible it became.
    He arrived back at the Bellevue without any clear-cut solutions but was the proud possessor of a theory supported more by intuition than by evidence and he had the absolutely firm conviction that there would be more fun and games before the night was over.
    6
    Gaby swung his car through the obligatory one-way detours to the main road that climbs towards Mougins. Samantha turned to the Saint.
    “Where are we going?”
    “To the best of the new restaurants on this coast, where they say you can gorge like a discriminating glutton without getting fat. I hope your appetite is up to the challenge.”
    “I hope my figure can stand it.”
    Again Simon detected the trace of an accent. Scandinavian perhaps, he reflected; that would certainly go with the hair and the eyes.
    They had only made the smallest of small talk since leaving the hotel, while each discreetly studied the other. Simon frequently caught her sidelong glances, noticing that behind the ready smile her eyes were suspicious. Her lack of conversation came not from shyness or reserve but was the caution of a businessman intent on not revealing anything which might help a rival.
    She had appeared in the lobby precisely at the appointed hour. Such punctuality had not surprised him, somehow it was in keeping with the vibrations he had registered. She had exchanged the sheer white dress of the afternoon for a flowing lemon silk evening gown that swept about her as she moved, reminding him of an exotic butterfly. Her only jewellery was a thin gold chain that hung around a neck which needed no other adornment to underline its grace, and a solitaire diamond ring on her right hand. A more subtle fragrance had replaced the perfume that had invaded his return to consciousness a few hours before.
    The car stopped outside a refurbished old stone building a little below the road on one slope of a small ravine which had been worn geological eons ago by the millstream from which the building had originally been designed to profit. Inside, the decor and furnishings were luxurious in a Provencal-antique style and a world away from the functional modernism of equivalent restaurants in Cannes.
    They were conducted to a table set for two by an open window overlooking a small lawn and the reed-grown valley.
    “An ap6ritif?” Simon asked, echoing the maitre d’hotel’s automatic question. “Or are you a straight champagne addict?”
    “As a compromise, I’ll have a champagne cocktail.”
    “For me, a vodka martini-shaken, stirred, on the rocks, and with a twist of lemon.”
    The Saint had chosen the Vieux Moulin with care. It was a favourite retreat of his when the constant movement of Cannes began to irritate. It had the advantage of allowing two people to talk without sharing their conversation with hovering waiters and too proximate fellow-diners. The food was sublime and the setting was deliberately, almost overtly, romantic. Modesty had never been one of the Saint’s failings and he knew to the finest part of a degree the effect his personality could have on even the hardest of feminine hearts, especially when aided by fine food and wine and artistic lighting.
    Samantha nibbled at an olive.
    “For a scientist, you certainly have style.”
    “Well, I used to be a marine biologist, but I got in trouble for eating the specimens. Especially the caviar.”
    Samantha giggled.
    “I don’t believe you’re a scientist at all.”
    Simon was saved from finding an instant reply by the arrival of their drinks. When he had ordered their meal, he asked: “What do you do