Read Online The Saint Abroad: The Art Collectors/ the Persistent Patriots by Leslie Charteris - Free Book Online
Authors: Leslie Charteris
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a
start,” Mathieu said. “She’s no more Italian than I am…” He hesitated and nervously indicated the locked doorway behind
the Saint. “You’re sure those men are in there—securely? I
don’t want to stand here talking while half the gang gets
away.”
“They’re as harmless as three blind mice,” the Saint as sured him. “Tell me more.”
“This so-called Annabella Lambrini is
really Austrian,” Mathieu said. “Her name is Anna Lenscher, and she is responsible for …”
Mathieu suddenly stopped again. His
expression had switched from the complacency of superior knowledge to worry.
“Yes?” Simon prompted.
“Where are the paintings?”
Mathieu asked. “We saw an empty crate out there as we came in.”
“There’s a trunk with a false bottom near
it,” the Saint told him.
“Ah, a false bottom,” Mathieu said.
“Clever. Shall we go and have a look?”
He pushed past his unintroduced and
unspeaking assistant and led the way back into the garage. Simon
followed both of them to the door through which the passage led into the
garage.
“But the paintings aren’t in there
either,” he said.
Mathieu turned from the trunk, looking
plainly irritated.
“ Alors, m’sieur , you will be so
kind as to tell me where they are.”
Simon shook his head pleasantly.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
Mathieu, for the first time, seemed to be
losing his self- possession.
“You don’t know?” he demanded.
“I didn’t say I didn’t know,”
Simon answered. “I said I couldn’t tell you. But maybe we could trade
stories. You tell me more about Annabella, and I’ll consider telling you about the
paintings—if I know anything.”
“Mr Templar! You are being
difficult!”
The Saint would never have suffered the
indignity of being taken off guard if his captives had not chosen that moment
to set up a loud banging on the door of their cell. In the first second of
the noise Simon’s attention was divided among Mathieu, his
assistant who was standing nearby on his right, and the noise at the
other end of the passageway. In that instant of time the Saint, thinking in
three directions at once, was as nearly vulnerable as he was ever likely
to be.
Mathieu’s assistant leaped forward, and
Simon—who even at that crucial point had time to reflect that it might
be unwise to kill a policeman, if Mathieu’s assistant really was a policeman—half
whirled to snap off a shot at the man’s leg. He sensed rather than
saw Mathieu hurl something at him as his head was turned. His skull was jarred
as the flying object hit him, and darkness, like rising black
water, filled his vision.
8
Annabella Lambrini—or Anna Lenscher,
depending on whose story the reader chooses to accept—was at the least
highly puzzled when she realized that her protector and overnight guest,
Simon Templar, had vanished from her house simul taneously with the
removal of her paintings.
Any strictly materialistic worries she might have had about the crated masterpieces were assuaged by her
possession of a check for a very large amount of money signed by Marcel LeGrand and his expert friend Professor Clarneau.
If the Saint, piratical character
that he was reputed to be, chival rously
chose to steal the paintings from Messieurs LeGrand and Clarneau rather than from a lady, she could
only be grateful for such old-world
consideration. But her feminine pride
was hurt that he could have walked out and left her— for whatever mysterious reason—without even saying
goodbye.
However, she had more practical matters to
occupy her mind. She had no wish to put off her dream of a
California palace any longer than was absolutely necessary. She had already
made arrangements for the closing of her house, and she set Hans to
work packing her luggage while she had lunch.
About an hour later the chauffeur called to
her from upstairs.
“Fr ä ulein!
Somebody comes!”
“Is it the Saint?” she called back.
And excitedly answering
start,” Mathieu said. “She’s no more Italian than I am…” He hesitated and nervously indicated the locked doorway behind
the Saint. “You’re sure those men are in there—securely? I
don’t want to stand here talking while half the gang gets
away.”
“They’re as harmless as three blind mice,” the Saint as sured him. “Tell me more.”
“This so-called Annabella Lambrini is
really Austrian,” Mathieu said. “Her name is Anna Lenscher, and she is responsible for …”
Mathieu suddenly stopped again. His
expression had switched from the complacency of superior knowledge to worry.
“Yes?” Simon prompted.
“Where are the paintings?”
Mathieu asked. “We saw an empty crate out there as we came in.”
“There’s a trunk with a false bottom near
it,” the Saint told him.
“Ah, a false bottom,” Mathieu said.
“Clever. Shall we go and have a look?”
He pushed past his unintroduced and
unspeaking assistant and led the way back into the garage. Simon
followed both of them to the door through which the passage led into the
garage.
“But the paintings aren’t in there
either,” he said.
Mathieu turned from the trunk, looking
plainly irritated.
“ Alors, m’sieur , you will be so
kind as to tell me where they are.”
Simon shook his head pleasantly.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
Mathieu, for the first time, seemed to be
losing his self- possession.
“You don’t know?” he demanded.
“I didn’t say I didn’t know,”
Simon answered. “I said I couldn’t tell you. But maybe we could trade
stories. You tell me more about Annabella, and I’ll consider telling you about the
paintings—if I know anything.”
“Mr Templar! You are being
difficult!”
The Saint would never have suffered the
indignity of being taken off guard if his captives had not chosen that moment
to set up a loud banging on the door of their cell. In the first second of
the noise Simon’s attention was divided among Mathieu, his
assistant who was standing nearby on his right, and the noise at the
other end of the passageway. In that instant of time the Saint, thinking in
three directions at once, was as nearly vulnerable as he was ever likely
to be.
Mathieu’s assistant leaped forward, and
Simon—who even at that crucial point had time to reflect that it might
be unwise to kill a policeman, if Mathieu’s assistant really was a policeman—half
whirled to snap off a shot at the man’s leg. He sensed rather than
saw Mathieu hurl something at him as his head was turned. His skull was jarred
as the flying object hit him, and darkness, like rising black
water, filled his vision.
8
Annabella Lambrini—or Anna Lenscher,
depending on whose story the reader chooses to accept—was at the least
highly puzzled when she realized that her protector and overnight guest,
Simon Templar, had vanished from her house simul taneously with the
removal of her paintings.
Any strictly materialistic worries she might have had about the crated masterpieces were assuaged by her
possession of a check for a very large amount of money signed by Marcel LeGrand and his expert friend Professor Clarneau.
If the Saint, piratical character
that he was reputed to be, chival rously
chose to steal the paintings from Messieurs LeGrand and Clarneau rather than from a lady, she could
only be grateful for such old-world
consideration. But her feminine pride
was hurt that he could have walked out and left her— for whatever mysterious reason—without even saying
goodbye.
However, she had more practical matters to
occupy her mind. She had no wish to put off her dream of a
California palace any longer than was absolutely necessary. She had already
made arrangements for the closing of her house, and she set Hans to
work packing her luggage while she had lunch.
About an hour later the chauffeur called to
her from upstairs.
“Fr ä ulein!
Somebody comes!”
“Is it the Saint?” she called back.
And excitedly answering
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