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Authors: Leslie Charteris
Tags: Large Type Books, English Fiction
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of the evening papers, “SAINT ARRESTED!” He could almost see the headlines.
Lebeau was obviously pleased with his catch, for he personally conducted the Saint to his cell, even apologising for the quality of the accommodation and expressing a hypocritical hope that the unfortunate situation would soon be sorted out and all the truths established.
In France, under the still sacred Code Napoleon, a man is guilty until proven innocent, and therefore there is no reason why the amenities supplied while he awaits confirmation of that assumption should be anything above the minimum as far as comfort is concerned. The cells of the average city police station in Britain would rate as starred hotels compared with their counterparts across the Channel.
The Saint found himself in a room barely ten feet square, with rough concrete walls and a flagstone floor. Air came via a small barred window set high up in the wall opposite the door, and light from an unshaded bulb which, despite the smallness of the room, still managed to leave the corners in shadow. Two bunks hung couchettelike from one wall. A plain deal table and a couple of chairs, and a slop pail, were the only other furnishings.
Both bunks were occupied, and a third inmate sat huddled in a comer, head on knees and snoring loudly. The cuts and bruises on the faces of all three, and the stale smell of cheap wine, were silent evidence of the reasons for their presence.
Simon settled himself in the comer opposite the snorer. He took off his jacket and folded it to make a headrest. He had never before tasted the official hospitality of the Republic, but he possessed an almost mystical ability to relax completely in any situation where sound and fury would achieve nothing, conserving his energy for the moment when it could be exploded with the maximum effect.
The grating of a key in the lock interrupted his inventing of transcendental meditation, and he stood up and stretched his limbs hopefully. The visit, however, was not for him: the agent who came in ungently roused his cellmates and herded them into the corridor outside, where two more officers waited.
Simon watched as they were marched away, and protested: “If this is lunchtime, why am I left out?”
The warder, who had cautiously kept a safe distance from the Saint, replied with ponderous joviality: “This is not the Hotel Negresco, but I will ask the room service waiter not to forget you.”
The door slammed, and another half hour passed before it was opened again.
t was the same agent, with the same sense of humour.
“If you have a moment, the management would like a word with you.”
“I have been saving a word for them,” said the Saint pleasantly. “But I shall not sully your delicate ears with it.”
With the reinforcement of two more agents, the Saint was delivered to Lebeau’s office.
Sir William Curdon sat on Lebeau’s right. He glared as Simon entered and coolly seated himself in the vacant chair opposite the inspector.
Lebeau smiled.
“Good morning again, Monsieur Templar, I hope you have found our facilities comfortable.”
“Fabulous,” said the Saint. “I shall be writing about them to the Guide Michelin.”
Curdon’s fist thudded against the desktop and his voice shook.
“Damn this nonsense! Where is Maclett, Templar? What was that little boat ride ail about?”
“Well, Willie, the fact is that swimming often damages the clothing, so I thought perhaps using a boat might-“
Lebeau cut him short.
“Your personal differences aside, Monsieur Templar, you were in the suspected vicinity. You arrived back, Professor Maclett did not.”
The Saint shrugged.
“Inspector, I deeply regret arriving back.”
“Lebeau, I want this man safe and sound in a jail cell until he tells us where he’s got Maclett stashed!”
Curdon seemed about to turn into a cloud of steam, and Lebeau turned to the Saint with an apologetic gesture.
“I regret, but I am obliged to feel in favour of
Lebeau was obviously pleased with his catch, for he personally conducted the Saint to his cell, even apologising for the quality of the accommodation and expressing a hypocritical hope that the unfortunate situation would soon be sorted out and all the truths established.
In France, under the still sacred Code Napoleon, a man is guilty until proven innocent, and therefore there is no reason why the amenities supplied while he awaits confirmation of that assumption should be anything above the minimum as far as comfort is concerned. The cells of the average city police station in Britain would rate as starred hotels compared with their counterparts across the Channel.
The Saint found himself in a room barely ten feet square, with rough concrete walls and a flagstone floor. Air came via a small barred window set high up in the wall opposite the door, and light from an unshaded bulb which, despite the smallness of the room, still managed to leave the corners in shadow. Two bunks hung couchettelike from one wall. A plain deal table and a couple of chairs, and a slop pail, were the only other furnishings.
Both bunks were occupied, and a third inmate sat huddled in a comer, head on knees and snoring loudly. The cuts and bruises on the faces of all three, and the stale smell of cheap wine, were silent evidence of the reasons for their presence.
Simon settled himself in the comer opposite the snorer. He took off his jacket and folded it to make a headrest. He had never before tasted the official hospitality of the Republic, but he possessed an almost mystical ability to relax completely in any situation where sound and fury would achieve nothing, conserving his energy for the moment when it could be exploded with the maximum effect.
The grating of a key in the lock interrupted his inventing of transcendental meditation, and he stood up and stretched his limbs hopefully. The visit, however, was not for him: the agent who came in ungently roused his cellmates and herded them into the corridor outside, where two more officers waited.
Simon watched as they were marched away, and protested: “If this is lunchtime, why am I left out?”
The warder, who had cautiously kept a safe distance from the Saint, replied with ponderous joviality: “This is not the Hotel Negresco, but I will ask the room service waiter not to forget you.”
The door slammed, and another half hour passed before it was opened again.
t was the same agent, with the same sense of humour.
“If you have a moment, the management would like a word with you.”
“I have been saving a word for them,” said the Saint pleasantly. “But I shall not sully your delicate ears with it.”
With the reinforcement of two more agents, the Saint was delivered to Lebeau’s office.
Sir William Curdon sat on Lebeau’s right. He glared as Simon entered and coolly seated himself in the vacant chair opposite the inspector.
Lebeau smiled.
“Good morning again, Monsieur Templar, I hope you have found our facilities comfortable.”
“Fabulous,” said the Saint. “I shall be writing about them to the Guide Michelin.”
Curdon’s fist thudded against the desktop and his voice shook.
“Damn this nonsense! Where is Maclett, Templar? What was that little boat ride ail about?”
“Well, Willie, the fact is that swimming often damages the clothing, so I thought perhaps using a boat might-“
Lebeau cut him short.
“Your personal differences aside, Monsieur Templar, you were in the suspected vicinity. You arrived back, Professor Maclett did not.”
The Saint shrugged.
“Inspector, I deeply regret arriving back.”
“Lebeau, I want this man safe and sound in a jail cell until he tells us where he’s got Maclett stashed!”
Curdon seemed about to turn into a cloud of steam, and Lebeau turned to the Saint with an apologetic gesture.
“I regret, but I am obliged to feel in favour of
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