Read Online Saint and the Templar Treasure by Leslie Charteris, Charles King, Graham Weaver - Free Book Online

And running a vineyard is a business, even if my brother does not consider it so.”
    “I should have thought that people setting fire to buildings and spraying vines with weed-killer were hardly ordinary business hazards,” Simon remarked. Anticipating a question, he added: “Mimette told me about that.”
    Florian threw back half his Scotch in one go. He rotated the tumbler between his palms as he glanced furtively at the clock.
    “Ah, Mimette. I see.” He made a long pause. “Poor girl, she takes life so seriously for one so young. Since her mother died last year she has had a lot of new responsibilities to cope with. My brother is not the most worldly of men. I think the English refer to such people as ‘one of the old school.’ Mimette has helped to run the chateau and the vineyard, and I’m afraid the strain is telling. She tends to overdramatise things. Sometimes I wonder if it is not becoming an obsession.”
    It was a clever speech. Without a single disloyal word, he had managed to praise and raise doubts about his brother and his niece at the same time. Philippe Florian might be pompous but he was certainly shrewd. And he was worried, far more so than Mimette had been earlier that afternoon.
    “Better to be obsessed than sit by and watch your family ruined!”
    The Saint and Florian turned simultaneously as the girl’s voice cut between them. She stood framed in the doorway, her hair wind-blown from the drive and a red glow flaming her cheeks.
    “Ah, vous voici,” Simon exclaimed, springing to his feet. “I was afraid I was going to miss you.”
    “I apologise for having to leave you to the company of Uncle Philippe,” she said, “but there has been a lot to do. For those of us who work, that is.”
    Mimette turned angrily towards her uncle, but he appeared only tolerantly amused by the barb she had flung at him.
    “You’ll be sorry to hear that I’ve managed to get everything we need. Gaston worked wonders as usual. Papa is writing the cheques. He’ll be with us shortly.”
    “Now, why should I be sorry, Mimette?” Florian demurred suavely. “You really must stop thinking of me as the wicked uncle in a fairy tale.”
    Mimette sank into a chair and took a cigarette from the silver box on the coffee table. She lit it and inhaled deeply, letting out the smoke like a long sigh.
    “Wicked half-uncle,” she corrected coldly, and Florian looked pained. “And I only wish you would stop acting like one. Whenever anything goes wrong, there’s good old Philippe lending money and patting everyone on the back and telling them not to worry, and all the time scheming to take control and kick out everyone else.”
    “Helping one’s brother, even one’s half-brother as you insist on pointing out, is not something discreditable. And as for scheming, I don’t call making a generous offer to buy Ingare scheming. I call it business. Producing and selling wine is an industry, not a pastime, and if you all realised that then you might still be able to salvage something from the mess you’ve got yourselves into.”
    For the first time Simon had proof of the hardness he had always suspected behind Florian’s urbane facade. He sipped his drink and did his best to fade into the background as he listened to the exchange. It was as edifying as any eavesdropping could be.
    Philippe’s partial explosion was followed by an oppressive silence like the hush before a thunderstorm, and the Saint waited for the clouds to burst. But the protocols of good breeding and dirty-linen-washing prevailed. Florian downed the dregs of his drink but made no move to replenish his glass. And then the telephone shattered the stillness and the moment was lost.
    Mimette jumped up and strode across the room to snatch up the receiver. She listened for a few moments and then gently replaced it in its cradle. She turned to the Saint.
    “That was the garage. They say they will not be able to send anyone to look at your car until tomorrow.