The Saint in Trouble (2 page)

“Free energy is fine in theory, but it also means a lot of trouble, and a gigantic loss for a great many people-oil companies, ancillary industries who rely on them, governments, trade unions-and they are only the major ones. My father has been officially told to shelve his plans. Not in the public interest! How on earth can they say that?”

“I take it Daddy has no intention of buttoning up.”

“If you knew my father you wouldn’t even ask. This is his life’s work. Because he has insisted on carrying on with it, he was sacked from his chair at the university, and also lost the government grant that was paying for the research. He can’t say anything publicly in Britain but he is to be the principal speaker at an energy conference in Cannes, and he intends taking the opportunity to tell the world. I’m scared they’ll try to stop Mm. Also he’s already turned down offers from the Soviets, who want the process for themselves, and I’m frightened they won’t take no for an answer.”

“And you want me to tag along and keep an eye on him?”

“That’s right, just until after his speech. He’s very independent, he’d never agree to the idea, so we can’t tell Mm. You would somehow have to do it without his knowing.”

Simon had looked out at the drizzle falling from a stone-grey sky. Something only he saw there amused him, and he smiled.

“I’m free at the moment, and the Riviera looks an increasingly inviting alternative to London in which to expend some energy.”

And so it had been decided.

Simon caught the eye of his waiter, and made the international sign-language symbol of asking for his bill, holding up a flat-open left hand and miming the act of writing on it with his right. He rose as Emma reached the table and sat down.

After glancing cautiously each way she leaned across the table and whispered: “What have you found out?”

The Saint copied her actions, adding an exaggerated search under the table, and whispered: “Nothing.”

The girl looked into two mocking blue eyes that dispelled the send-up before it could offend. Simon sat back in his chair and finished his cognac.

“I’ve been here three days and I’m three thousand francs up at the casino, but of villains I have seen neither hide nor hair.”

Emma frowned.

“Then you think I was overreacting?”

“I didn’t say that. I haven’t found anything because I don’t know what I’m looking for. There are thousands of people in Cannes, and any of them could be a prospective kidnapper or assassin. It’s harder than looking for a needle in a haystack because at least you know what a needle looks like before you start.”

Emma’s face brightened.

“You’re not giving up, then?”

Simon looked shocked.

“Certainly not. I’ve no intention of wasting the time I’ve spent on this jaunt so far. But if I can’t go to the ungodly because I don’t know who they are, then they will have to come to me because they do know who I am, or think they do … This must be your father now.”

Emma turned her head to watch as a taxi stopped outside the Palais and her father emerged. To the casual observer the Saint would have appeared to be looking directly at his companion but he had carefully placed his chair so that he could see without being seen to be watching. It was the first time he had viewed the professor except from photographs, and he liked what he saw.

Maclett stood a head above the tallest of the welcoming committee, and looked as if he had been hewn from a Highland hillside. His shoulders strained against the confines of a check tweed sports jacket, a mop of reddish hair that hadn’t seen a brush since breakfast framed a strong, confident face that should have belonged to a trawler skipper or an oil prospector rather than to a physicist. The Saint could picture him wearing a kilt and wielding a claymore, and instantly believed his daughter’s account of his temper.

The introductions over, the party was mounting the steps.

“Who is he?” asked the Saint, indicating the little goateed man who led the way.

“Dr. Francis Riguard. He’s the president of the institute and the chairman of the conference.”

As the group disappeared inside the building, Emma turned back to the table to see the Saint vigorously tousling his hair.

“What are you doing?”

“I am engaged in practising the art of disguise, or rather creating a personality. It is a common myth that to change your appearance you have to hide behind a hedge of false hair, puff the cheeks out with rubber pads, and apply a coating of plaster calculated to result in you looking like a make-up artist’s conception of the Thing From The Pit. In fact, all that is necessary is to adopt an identity. In this case, the angry young scientist.”

As he spoke, the Saint placed a row of cheap pens in the breast pocket of his jacket; a crumpled tie was knotted loosely around the unbuttoned collar of his shirts and a pair of heavy black-rimmed spectacles rested earnestly on the bridge of his nose. Finally he went down and retrieved a bulging manila folder from beneath the table.

In less time than it took him to explain his activities, the elegant tourist who would have had the doors of any casino on the coast immediately opened for him was replaced by a harassed understrapper who would have gone unnoticed in any important office.

The girl watched the transformation, wondering if the man she had entrusted with her father’s protection had been affected by his luncheon lubricants.

“And the file?” she asked at last, because she felt she had to say something.

“Ah, that’s the piece de resistance! It is my belief that you can walk into any official building anywhere in the world so long as you carry a file and look as if you know where you’re going. A clipboard is better, but I couldn’t get hold of one. A man carrying a briefcase will be searched, but there is something inherently innocent about a man with a folder of papers. This one contains a copy of Paris-Match, yesterday’s Figaro, and half a ream of hotel notepaper.”

The Saint spread folding money on the bill which had been placed before him, and stood up.

“I’m going to work. You can watch if you like, but don’t show that you know me. I’ll see you back at the hotel in an hour.”

2

Head bowed, arms protectively cradling the file of papers, the Saint trotted up the steps and in through the main doors of the Palais without earning a second glance from the attendants standing by them. Once inside he stood for a moment to gain his bearings and savour the welcoming coolness of the foyer before following the signs directing him to the hall where the official opening ceremony was taking place.

The two men standing on either side of the salle entrance wore no uniforms but there was an impressive breadth to their shoulders and an alertness in their eyes that told the Saint they would not be so easily fooled as their colleagues outside. He left the file on a window ledge and pretended to be studying a noticeboard on the opposite side of the foyer.

Through the glazed doors he could see Riguard standing on the stage at the far end of the auditorium. Those scheduled to be the principal speakers at the conference were ranged on both sides of him with Maclett in the place of honour on his right.

With no apparent haste the Saint neared the doors. As he did so the chairman’s words became clearer:

“… And the great event of the week will, of course, be the lecture by our honoured guest, Professor Maclett, on some of the implications of his spectacular breakthrough in the field of solar energy…”

The cue was too apt for a person with Simon Templar’s sense of the dramatic to miss. It came as he drew level with the double doors, and he moved with the speed of a panther. He took two steps to his right and launched himself into a charge, Mtting the centre of the doors with his shoulder. Before the first steward had begun to react he was standing in the middle of the main aisle, his voice raised in impassioned protest.

“His breakthrough! It wasn’t his breakthrough, it’s mine! I was his research student at Cambridge. The great Professor Maclett stole it from me. The man’s a thief and a liar!”

The stewards were quick to recover. Grabbing Simon by the arms, they prepared to drag Mm away. The Saint’s biceps tensed instinctively at the contact, and for an instant the two men paused, surprised by the muscle beneath their fingers. Simon took advantage of the delay to fire his next salvo.

“He put me off it, told me it was rubbish-now he announces it as his own! He stole it, I tell you!”

The spectators were torn between watching the antics of the raving protester halfway down the aisle and the spectacle being provided by Maclett. At the Saint’s first words the professor stood up, rage quickly taking the place of astonishment as the allegations registered. His face had turned an interesting shade that was a mixture of dark red and bright purple; his hands clenched into fists, and he began to climb down from the stage.

The possibility of a physical brawl with the man he was sup posed to be protecting had not figured in Simon’s plan of campaign. His muscles relaxed.

“OK, boys, take me away,” he whispered to the men trying to do just that, and as they roughly obliged he managed one final shout at the lumbering professor and his goggle-eyed audience.

“He’s a fraud and a thief!”

Once away from the auditorium, the stewards made it clear that they planned to conclude their work with an airborne descent of the steps outside the Palais. The Saint had other ideas. He stopped. The stewards, finding their acquiescent charge suddenly as immobile as an oak, had no option but to do the same. They looked at each other and then at the Saint, who by that time should have been picking himself up off the sidewalk. Simon’s ringers closed around the wrists of the hands holding him with the strength of a bear trap snapping shut and removed them from his person.

He smiled.

“Don’t bother. I’ll see myself out.”

A few curious passers-by had gathered, and the Saint was eager to vacate the scene before the possible arrival of the Law. An empty taxi was stalled in the intermittent traffic jam outside, and Simon opened the rear door and slid in behind the driver.

“Hotel Bellevue, please.”

The driver nodded and re-engaged the gears. He was small and slightly built and out of proportion to the spacious white Buick he drove. His skin was tanned the color of old mahogany, he wore a black waist-length zipper jacket over a casual shirt of eye-searing hues and shapeless blue jeans met equally ancient blue sneakers.

As he eased the big car into the flow of traffic the Saint looked back in time to see a dark blue Mercedes pull out of the line of parked cars behind and swing in behind them. Simon leaned forward and spoke in fluent French.

“Drive to the station, then up the Boulevard Carnot, then turn back towards the Croisette by the Boulevard d’Alsace. I would like to arrive at the hotel from the other side.”

The driver nodded his acceptance of each eccentric direction without argument, as if being asked to drive three times the necessary distance was an everyday event. Once his eyes met the Saint’s as both glanced in the rear-view mirror at the same time. What might have been a smile hovered at the comers of his mouth. He raised his hand and adjusted the glass a few degrees.

“Like that, you will see better,” was his only comment.

The Saint laughed.

“Yes, that is much better. Thank you.”

The driver shrugged, as if to say that it was quite usual for Mm to have passengers who thought they were being followed.

As he turned the car into the Boulevard d’Alsace, he asked: “The Mercedes, you want me to lose it?”

Simon shook his head.

“No, thank you. I wish to know who is in it, not get away from them, once I am sure they are on our trail.”

It was an admission that could have proved foolish but the Saint had the gift of being able to judge the characters of others after the briefest of encounters, and his intuition told Mm the driver was not only likely to be discreet but might be able to offer real help if trusted.

When they eventually reached the hotel Simon was pleased to see the Mercedes still the same distance behind. He climbed out slowly, to give his shadow time to find a parking place, and added a generous tip to the already exorbitant fare.

“Merci, m’sieu”

“Merci a vous. Tell me, do you have a regular base, or do you cruise around looking for passengers?”

The driver pointed to the hotel.

“This is my base.”

The Saint smiled.

“Tres blen. We shall probably be seeing more of each other.”

The driver made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Just ask for Gaby. Everyone knows Gaby, and I know everyone.”

“Alors, a bientot,” the Saint promised, and with a wave turned and entered the hotel.

The Bellevue was a new hotel that was distinguished only by its technological amenities and total lack of character. It was part of an international chain in which each link was identical, so that once inside the door the guest could not be certain whether he was in Bombay or Buenos Aires. It had all the intimacy of an airport lounge, and the welcoming friendliness of a police station charge room. It was the last sort of hotel in which any of the Saint’s friends would have expected to find him, which was exactly why he was staying there on this occasion.

In the reflection of the glass doors he watched the driver of the Mercedes crossing from the parking area. Simon placed him in the pigeonhole the gossip writers label “playboy.” He matched the Saint for height and build and carried himself with an arrogance that showed he was accustomed to being looked at and admired. He affected a blue blazer and immaculate white slacks and was handsome in the smooth way that appeals to middle-aged countesses and wealthy widows.

The concierge looked up and smiled as the Saint approached his counter. Simon had a fleeting vision of the same man smiling the same smile behind the same desk in a dozen countries simultaneously.

“Sebastian Tombs. Room 309. Have there been any messages for me?” The Saint’s voice was deliberately clear, and he knew it would carry to the bookstall where his shadow was intent on studying the front page of the Herald Tribune.