The Saint and the Hapsburg Necklace

1

The restaurant of the Hotel Hofer in Vienna was called the Hofburg, presumably after the Imperial Palace of that name not very far from it. It enjoyed a certain autonomy of its own, for it was in a separate building from the hotel, although it could be reached from the latter without going out of doors. It was used as much by the general public as by the guests of the hotel. It was perhaps remarkable that anyone used it at all, for the food was poor and the service matched it. It was, however, conveniently situated in the central portion of the town, not far from the Mariahilferstrasse.

That mild rainy evening in October 1938, Simon Templar regarded it with a jaundiced eye. It struck him that although the Hofburg went in strongly for atmosphere, the management did not seem at all clear what sort of ambiance they were trying to attain. The decor was a mixture of traditional and modern. The walls were panelled with huge paintings of Austrian scenes, done in crude bright colours. They looked as if they had been executed by an enthusiastic amateur, perhaps the proprietor’s wife. On the other hand, the furniture was of that varnished Swedish type which some regarded as the height of chic even when it also provided the height of discomfort.

Simon wondered vaguely what he was doing in the Hofburg restaurant. His thoughts expressed a mood rather than a conscious question. Factually, he knew very well why he was there. He was staying at the Hotel Hofer because that day he had had an appointment there with Van Roeper, an internationally known jewel merchant of highly elastic ethics, an appointment which at that time and in that place was curious because Van Roeper was a Jew, and the Nazis had earlier in the year taken over Austria as being rightfully a part of the primordial German State. The Saint considered this a somewhat arbitrary concept in view of the fact that the German State had only been invented by Bismarck a little over half a century before.

Even more curious was the fact that the Saint, as Simon Templar was known in many cosmopolitan circles, including both criminal and police spheres, had been the entrepreneur in a deal between the German Government and Van Roeper, which piece of pragmatism showed that Nazi racial intolerance was nothing more than totally unscrupulous opportunism. What the German Government did not know, however, was that both the Saint and Van Roeper would prosper from the transaction, whereas the Third Reich would be the loser — but that, as the saying goes, is another story.

No, the Saint was merely wondering why he was eating a bad meal in the unfashionable surroundings of the Hofburg restaurant when he could have been dining with Patricia Holm at the Savoy in London, Maxim’s in Paris, or the 21 Club in New York. The simple answer was, of course, that the drizzle outside, and plans for an early departure in the morning, had made him just apathetic enough about sallying forth in search of something more epicurean or exciting. The thought of Patricia sent him into a reverie which included many pleasant and very private memories; but his preoccupation with these did not prevent him from taking note of what went on around him, particularly when this was female and unusually pretty to boot.

She came in with a certain regal swing to her carriage and sat down at the table next to Simon. She was dark with the olive skin usually associated with the Mediterranean, but her eyes were a wonderfully brilliant blue, a combination one rarely sees outside of Ireland. She looked nervous and unhappy and she appeared to be waiting for someone, for when the Herr Ober approached with the menu she shook her head, somewhat arrogantly, Simon thought.

The Saint had finished his dinner. He called for his bill and signed it, adding his room number. But he lingered on for he had nothing particular to do, and the young woman intrigued him. He wondered about her. Something was wrong, of that he felt sure. She did not fit into the Hofburg at all. She was quite a different class of person from the rest of its clientele. Of course, she might be one of the ubiquitous Nazi agents who held the Third Reich together and kept a special eye on foreigners such as himself. He would not have minded this, for so far as he knew the Nazis still had nothing on their books against him. If the girl was a Nazi agent her surveillance would be purely routine, and a report of his movements would be given to the Gestapo where it would end up in some huge and dusty filing system.

On the other hand, Austria had been a police state from way back, and if this girl was an agent of the Austrian police, the situation could be awkward. The Saint was very much wanted by the Austrian police for certain incidents in Innsbruck and the Inn valley a few years previously in which some of their stalwarts had suffered considerable violence and loss of face. (See Saint’s Getaway.) He himself had no guilty conscience about the affair, since in the beginning he had with the most laudable intentions taken them for villains just because they looked and acted like it. He had forgotten that appearances can be very deceptive and that a lot of policemen look like villains even though beneath their unrighteous exteriors may beat hearts of gold; but he was bound to doubt that the Law would take such a tolerant view of his slight mistake.

It was typical of the Saint’s insouciant recklessness that he hadn’t even bothered to disguise himself on his return to Austria, although he had acquired, from a certain shady character in a flat above a grocery in Soho, a new character and a passport to go with it which stated that he was one Stephen Taylor, profession “gentleman” (which in those balmy days was still an officially recognised “occupation”), for whom His Britannic Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs requested and required in the Name of His Majesty all those whom it might concern “to allow him to pass freely without let or hindrance, and to afford him such assistance and protection” as might be necessary. The fine ring of this resounding injunction in its present context made Simon smile.

In taking this gamble, Simon was acting less foolishly than perhaps it seemed. False moustaches, beards, and other disguises often look unreal and are a nuisance to wear. Police photographs of wanted criminals, moreover, are not generally displayed where many people see them, and rare indeed is the individual in or out of uniform capable of recognising the original of such a portrait. Simon therefore felt fairly safe in his assumption that he was not likely to meet anyone, bureaucrat or otherwise, who would recognise him or even suspect that Stephen Taylor was not the man his passport claimed he was. In any case, he had not intended to spend much time in Austria. He had other pressing business back in London, to say nothing of dining with Patricia at the Savoy. Perhaps this time he would take her to the Ritz. He loved its fin de siècle French baroque restrained ostentation. Or better still, perhaps the Blue Train around the corner from it. The atmosphere there was intimate and at the same time impersonal, just the right mixture for an evening with a special person...

Meanwhile, however, he felt no monastic obligation to ignore anyone else of that gender who pleased the eye and the imagination.

The girl had not been sitting at her table for long before a man joined her. He was not at all the sort of person one would have expected her to be waiting for. His slight frame was encased in a raincoat, the belt of which was drawn so tightly that the coat ballooned out below it almost like a skirt. His face was narrow, and the felt hat which he did not take off when he sat down was pulled over his forehead, giving him a somewhat sinister air. His appearance reminded Simon of nothing so much as a large rat, for his skin was grey, his eyes narrow and shifty, and his mouth thinly compressed. It showed petulance rather than strength, however. When he finally did take his hat off his sinister quality largely disappeared, for he was completely bald save for some wisps of hair which stuck out clownlike from the sides of his head.

The Saint watched the couple with idle interest. The man was talking to the girl in a low voice with great urgency. At intervals she shook her head violently and even angrily. Suddenly the man stopped talking, and fixing her with an almost hypnotic look he put on his hat and stood up, becoming once more the evil-looking rat.

She sat for a moment staring at him, an expression of astonishment on her face. Then she too rose — somewhat reluctantly, the Saint thought. Pulling her coat about her she started for the door.

For a moment her eyes met the Saint’s. To his surprise, they seemed to wish to say something, but he decided that that was just wishful thinking on his part. Then she was gone, probably leaving his life for ever.

The thought gave him a twinge of regret. Hotels are lonely places for men who do not have their wives or girlfriends along. Also, Simon was very choosey. A girl had to have that special quality, something exciting and unknown yet almost tangible, which made her different. This girl had it.

Simon wondered whether she and her companion were lovers. In Vienna this would be quite possible, even though he was obviously much older than she, and a distinctly unattractive type at that. In Vienna relationships between men and women, although tinged with the romance of a Strauss waltz, were usually totally down-to-earth as well. The man could have been rich and the girl poor. Simon decided against this little fantasy, principally because he did not like the idea himself. In any case, if the Rat was rich, he was too mean to buy himself a new raincoat.

He was idly speculating about other possible reasons that might have brought this unlikely pair together when he suddenly noticed that the girl had left her handbag behind. There might still be time to catch her. He sprang to his feet, grabbed up the bag, and hurried after her.

It was blowing and raining outside. In the gloom Simon could see the figures of the man and the girl hurrying up the street towards a parked car. Huge jagged shadows chased after them, created by the swaying sign of the Hofburg restaurant. Heedless of the rain, the Saint ran after them, moving silently like a great cat. He quickly caught up with the pair.

Simon spoke fluent German, as he did a number of languages. He held out the bag towards the girl and explained how he had come by it. Her face was pale and ghostly in the half light, and her blue eyes looked almost black and seemed very large. It suddenly struck Simon that she was frightened. “Danke, danke vielmals,” she said huskily.

The man grabbed her by the arm.

“Komm!” he commanded her roughly.

Simon noticed that he stood very close to her, pressing his body to hers in a protective fashion. Perhaps they were married after all. If that was the case he did not think much of her lot — or rather her “little.” The man looked a bit of a brute, but a mean rather than a strong one.

Simon never minded out-and-out badness. In fact, it rather appealed to him as long as it was openhearted and large-minded. But petty viciousness was anathema to him. It reminded him of tax collectors, customs officials, and all the other people who wanted to spoil a free and lusty enjoyment of life.

The girl stood firm.

“Nein. Ich muss diesem Herren danken.”

“Komm!” snarled the man again, tugging at her arm. “Wir haben uns verspätet.”

The girl shook him off. She opened her bag and fumbled in it.

“Hier ist etwas für Sie.”

She handed Simon a banknote.

The Saint was irritated, understandably so. No man who has done what he considers to be a gallant act likes to be tipped for it, unless he belongs to those vocations in which tipping is a part of income. He thrust the money curtly back at her.

“I am not a porter,” he told her in German.

She was finished with him however. Brushing the money aside, she turned and got into the parked car while the man held the rear door open for her. Simon saw there was another man in the driver’s seat. He was bulky and had a simian appearance. The rat-faced man joined the girl and slammed the door in Simon’s face. The car shot off, spattering him with rainwater from the gutter.

Cramming the banknote into his pocket, Simon walked back to the Hofburg restaurant fuming. When he got there he thought it might be soothing to have a drink and he ordered a glass of the apricot brandy which he considered to be Austria’s finest beverage. When the Barack came, he reached into his side pocket and pulled out the banknote the girl had just given him, thinking wryly that he might as well use it to solace the pride that it had wounded.

To his surprise he noticed that it was covered with writing.

He paid the waitress with another banknote from his wallet and spread the note with writing on it out on the table. The script was in German:

The Saint felt an old familiar tingle of anticipation spreading through his ganglions. It was the physical confirmation of a psychic certainty. Something in his subconscious clicked and switched on that delicious anticipatory glow which assured that Adventure was rearing its lovely head. It was rather like water divining, or dowsing as the practitioners preferred to call it. One either had the extra sense or one didn’t. The Saint did.

He sat thoughtfully looking at the note. How did the message come to be on it? The girl had certainly written nothing in the restaurant. Therefore it must have been prepared beforehand, as a precaution against the need for it. But why should anyone go to the extravagance of writing out a message of this kind on a banknote?

Of course, it could be that the writing was a childish prank and the girl hadn’t even known it was there. But the Saint’s joyous glow told him that this was not the explanation.

Well, there was one way of finding out the truth. He went through to the front lobby of the hotel where there was a public telephone, an unusual amenity in Viennese hotels. He gave the operator the number. There was a short interval and mysterious clickings, and Simon had the sensation he frequently experienced while using foreign telephones that he was quite likely to end up talking to himself. The thought occurred to him that in the new Nazi Vienna a Gestapo agent might be monitoring all telephone calls. The idea of such an invasion of his privacy irritated him, but then making telephone calls through sluggish operators back home in Britain, where there was no such supervision, irritated him too.

Then a man’s voice said: “Allo, allo, ici Radio Paris.”

The Saint never allowed anything to take him aback. He might be surprised but he was never dumbfounded.

“Ici Radio Luxembourg,” he retorted. “Prenez Bovril pour combattre le sens coulant!”

There was a moment of silence. Then the other laughed.

“Très comique, but Radio Luxembourg advertises in English. You are English, no?”

“Well, actually I’m a Nigerian Eskimo,” Simon replied. “I learnt my English at Eton, Borstal, and Quaglino’s. But my education doesn’t come into it. I have a message for you. It’s from someone called Frankie.”

“So?” The voice had lost its booming affability and was suddenly coldly guarded. “What is this message, then?”

“She says she has been kidnapped.”

There was such a long silence Simon thought he had been disconnected. Finally the man spoke. His English, though fluent, had an unmistakable Austrian lilt.

“If you would tell me your name...?”

“It is unimportant. Anonymous Bosch Unimportant, Esquire. Who are you?”

“See here, my friend!” the other snapped back. “This is serious. Her life may be in danger.”

The Saint was as bland as a poker player bluffing a weak hand into a good one.

“Suppose we meet somewhere? We must have a long talk. I’m dying to catch up on all your news.”

There was another pause. Then the man chuckled.

“And I should like to meet you, Mr... er... Unimportant. I admire your sense of humour. Let us arrange a rendezvous at the Edelweiss in half an hour, if you are near enough to make it. Do you know the place?”

“No, I don’t, but I daresay a taxi driver will.”

“They all do. And stick a piece of white paper in your lapel so I will recognise you.”

“And how shall I recognise you?”

“I shall be wearing a Siamese cat,” the man replied, and hung up.

2

Vienna is really two cities, the Alte Stadt, dating from the Middle Ages, and the baroque city of Maria Theresa with later additions under the Emperor Franz Joseph. To some extent the two parts mingle. The Alte Stadt is bounded by The Ring, Vienna’s main thoroughfare, built in the nineteenth century on the site of the old city wall. But the baroque style of the outer city has breached this boundary in many places, and nowadays most of the medieval buildings of the Alte Stadt are to be found in the region around its shopping street, the Graben.

The Edelweiss was a small cosy restaurant in this old part of the town. It was furnished in the Tyrolean manner with plain wooden chairs and tables, and its walls were covered with unvarnished panelling.

At close on ten o’clock that night it was fairly empty. The Saint chose a central table where he could see anyone who came in yet which was in a comparatively isolated position. He tore off a corner of a newspaper he was carrying and rolled it up and stuffed it in his lapel.

He ordered an apricot brandy and sipped it while he watched the door. He wondered vaguely if he might have misunderstood the man on the telephone. Perhaps he had really said Siamese “cap” with a “p,” instead of “cat,” and would turn out to be an oriental gentleman wearing his national headdress.

He need not have worried. The cat lay on its owner’s shoulders like a fur collar. It looked like a particularly valuable specimen of its kind.

The man saw Simon at once and made for his table. He was short, stocky and balding, with somewhat flabby features, a flat nose, and merry brown eyes. His age could have been anywhere between forty-five and sixty. He wore a green loden coat and a black Tyrolean hat, which he removed as he came through the door.

“Ach,” he called out to Simon, coming over and holding out his hand. “It is good to see you, my friend Anonymous.”

Simon got up and shook the extended hand.

“Is this table all right for you?” he asked.

“Excellent. There is no one within earshot.”

“That’s why I chose it,” said Simon as they seated themselves. “What will you have to drink?”

“Six brandies. But this is my party. What are you drinking?”

“I’ll stick to Barack, thank you — just one!” Simon said.

The waiter evidently knew the Saint’s companion, for without question or comment he brought along a tray on which were six brandy glasses, each with a double measure of golden. liquid in it, and a liqueur glass containing Simon’s drink. He bowed and departed, a handsome tip clutched in his hand.

“Here’s to you, Simon said, raising his glass.

“Prost!” said the other, draining the first of his brandies at a gulp. “By the way, please excuse that Radio Paris business. It is a means of letting me know who is calling.”

“I don’t quite see how.”

“My friends who know my methods simply go right ahead and talk. Strangers apologise and hang up.”

“And you never take calls from strangers?”

“Not late at night. That’s when I do most of my business. I only use this trick in the evening. It didn’t work with you because you are a witty man, and I like to be amused.”

His cat slipped down off his shoulders and licked the inside of his empty glass. Its owner stroked its ears affectionately. “You had better look out, Thai, or you’ll become a drunkard like your papa.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, do you always have six brandies at the same time?”

“Usually.”

“Wouldn’t it be more convenient just to order a bottle and pour your own?”

The other laughed. “Ah, but that would be the sign of the confirmed alcoholic. This way I know exactly how much I have had to drink.” He tossed off another brandy.

Simon warmed to the man. He had a certain infectious gaiety which was cheering, especially in a Vienna which was stark with the tensions and gloomy forebodings of the time. “I take it you’re not married,” he said.

“No, I’m not, but why do you say so?”

“Married men don’t wear cats,” said the Saint. “Their wives won’t let them.”

His vis-à-vis tossed down his third brandy. “My name is Max Annellatt — with two ’n’s, two ’l’s and two ’t’s. Are you still shy about telling me yours?”

“Not at all, now that I’ve met you. It’s Taylor, Stephen Taylor. I’m in the oil business.”

Herr Annellatt nodded.

“A very good business too in these times. You can’t fight a war without oil.” He gave Simon a shrewd look. “If you are smart both sides will end up buying it from you.”

“You think it will come to war, then?”

The other shrugged.

“Eventually it always comes to war, and we lose everything we have gained by making the machines to wage it. Then we have to start getting rich all over again. It is unfortunate, but it is also a fact of life. In 1922 I was broke. I literally did not have enough to buy food. Now I am a millionaire — in your currency!” He suddenly turned serious. “Now tell me, what do you know about Frankie?”

“I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever get around to that.”

Annellatt laughed.

“Everything in Austria takes a long time, including living — and therefore dying!”

When Simon had finished his tale, Annellatt whistled.

“It looks bad but we will cope with it.” He stubbed out his cigar. “Anyway, thank you very much, Mr... er... Taylor. You can forget about the whole thing now.”

Simon was piqued by this bland dismissal, but he only smiled lazily.

“Perhaps I ought to go to the police.”

The other gave him a sharp look.

“Where would that get you? If they thought there was anything in your story, all they could do would be to get in touch with me, and I would say I had never heard of Frankie.” He caressed Thai’s attenuated ears. Animal and master both wore the same expression of calm self-assurance. “Believe me, Mr Taylor, it is better for Frankie if I keep both the police and you out of this business.”

The Saint did not see why this cool customer should have everything his own way. He could be pretty cool, even arctic, himself. Besides, he was curious to learn more about Max Annellatt and the situation in which he himself had become involved.

“As a matter of fact, I imagine you probably wouldn’t be too keen yourself on the police nosing into your affairs,” he remarked pleasantly.

There was a long pause. Max’s eyes reminded Simon of the glacial snows on the mountains above Innsbruck. They had that same quality of cold blue timeless menace, as if their owner had existed since the dawn of history. Well, in a sense he had. Every generation has its quota of Max Annellatts. In his own way, the Saint was one of them. The thought amused him. It also pleased him. He liked dealing with people of his own calibre, and Max looked like measuring up to this.

Annellatt suddenly gave Simon a brilliant and charming smile.

“All right, what do you want to know? I should have thought you would have realised by now that the less you do know the better it will be for you.”

“Well, for a start you can tell me if I’m breaking the law by not going to the police. I don’t really care, but I am interested.”

The other shook his head.

“No, because the police would never be able to prove that a crime has been committed.” He shot Simon a knowing look. “I also am a good judge of men. I have to be in my business — in fact in order to stay alive. My intuition tells me that perhaps you too would not want the police making enquiries about you, Mr er... Taylor?”

Simon erupted into laughter. He was genuinely delighted. In his lonely and dangerous life he was seldom able to find such instant rapport as he had achieved with Max Annellatt They were two of a kind.

It remained to be seen whether they were equal in quality. Simon felt sure he knew the answer to that one. But he was always pleased to meet a really formidable opponent, especially a likeable one. He rarely got a chance to stretch his own powers to the full, and even less frequently against someone he admired. Perhaps one day he would lose to someone like Max Annellatt and like it, just as he had almost lost to Crown Prince Rudolf in the same country some years before. It had been a near thing, and the Saint had liked Rudolf even when they were doing their best to kill each other. He felt the stirrings of the same sort of appreciation for Max.

“Anyway,” Max continued, “you will have the comfort of knowing that you have helped a young woman in difficulties and perhaps even saved her life. Believe me, matters can be left safely in my hands.”

“What sort of difficulties?” inquired the Saint. “They must be pretty big to involve kidnapping.”

“I cannot tell you that without your getting involved; And for your sake, to say nothing of Frankie’s, I cannot allow that.”

The Saint shrugged. There was obviously no point in arguing or probing further. But what Herr Annellatt did not know was that the Saint was going to get involved anyway. His dander was up and he was not going to be fobbed off. The Saint had never in his life settled for the role of pawn. A knight, or a rook (spelt with a silent “c”?) perhaps, but never a pawn.

But he would get involved in his own way and in his own time. He got up to go.

“Well, thanks for nothing, but I’ve enjoyed it.”

Herr Annellatt clasped Simon’s hand warmly.

“Goodbye, my friend. I am so sorry you had all this bother. But do not worry, the girl will be all right.”

Simon looked back over his shoulder as he went through the door. Max was finishing his last brandy. The cat was back on his shoulders. Its eyes momentarily caught Simon’s.

The Saint could have sworn that Thai winked at him.

3

The Hotel Hofer was one of the new commercial hotels, still blessedly rare, which the burghers of Vienna considered to be in tune with the times.

Hotels in Vienna, for the most part, have always been noted for their old-world charm. Guests in them were treated as if they were Hapsburgian nobility, which made the Austrian aristocrats feel at home and foreigners that they were experiencing something of a culture other, and possibly higher, than their own.

In the new commercial hotels, however, guests were treated like the travelling salesmen most of them were. The emphasis was less on politeness than on efficiency. Viennese efficiency being what it has always been, the guests were the losers all round and were neither made to feel at home nor welcomed with the deference due to honoured clients. They were, in fact, as far as possible ignored by management and staff, who were in the grip of that most pathetic fallacy of the twentieth century, namely that efficiency means less work and less courtesy.

The night clerk at the Hotel Hofer appeared to be completely disinterested in his job.and indeed in life itself. But then, Simon decided, being a night clerk must be rather like being in limbo and living in a half-world of demi-reality and semi-emotions.

The clerk just managed to summon up enough energy to fumble in the pigeonhole for the key to Simon’s room. It was not there, and the clerk suggested bitterly, as if this was the last straw in a stack of irritations, that it must have been left in the door. Simon abandoned him to his subtle reproaches and went up in the lift, which was one of that strange Continental variety that can be said only to go upwards, since they return immediately to the ground floor without being able to stop at any stations en route. Simon could never understand why. Perhaps the theory behind them was that even someone with a weak heart or a gamey leg should, with typical Austrian reasoning, walk downstairs for the exercise.

His key was in his door. He turned it cautiously, for of one thing he was certain: he had not left it there. Some chambermaid or other hotel employee might have done so, although this was unlikely since chambermaids had master keys, and there would be no legitimate reason for anyone else to enter his room, using Simon’s key to do so.

He opened the door inch by inch. The bedside light was on. From where he stood in the passage he could see the body on his bed.

It was a girl. Simon recognised her immediately. Her name was “Frankie.” Or perhaps it had been up to now. Her arm hung limply down the side of the bed — and lifelessly.

But Frankie wasn’t dead — just dead to the world. As the Saint closed the door behind him and approached the bed her eyes flew open, and she sat up with a gasp.

“The face is familiar,” Simon said with a smile. “And I can even put a name to it. How did you get un-kidnapped, Frankie?”

He spoke in German, but she replied in English.

“I am sorry,” she said, and her voice shook slightly. “I had to come here. There was nowhere else to go.”

The Saint walked over to his suitcase, unlocked it, and took out a hip flask.

“How about a little medicine? Cognac. Very special 1924 Delamain. Nice and dry.” He poured the pale amber liquid into the silver top of the flask and sniffed the aroma appreciatively. “The best way to drink it is to gargle it first and then swallow. Of course, a purist would just taste it and spit it out on the floor.” He handed the drink to the girl. “But perhaps that would be a bit unladylike. Not to say wasteful. Just try sipping it.”

He sat down on the end of the bed and took a swig from the flask, rolling the brandy sensuously around his tongue and swallowing it as slowly as possible.

“I hate waste, even for the purest reasons,” he said. “Now tell me all.”

Frankie sipped her drink, eyeing the Saint cautiously over the top of it. He guessed that she was making up her mind just how to pitch her story.

“You say there was nowhere else to go,” he offered helpfully. “Not even Uncle Max’s?”

She looked startled.

“So he told you his name when you telephoned him?”

“More than that, he invited me out for a drink. When I left him about half an hour ago he and Thai were knocking back brandies by the half dozen.”

She laughed.

“They both drink too much.”

“You’re avoiding my question,” Simon insisted. “Why did you come here instead of going to Max’s place?”

Still the girl hesitated.

“Come on,” Simon urged her brightly. “You don’t have to tell me the truth, not in Vienna! Just make it interesting. I like bedtime stories if they keep me awake.”

She looked slightly baffled. She had kicked off her shoes and now she wiggled her stockinged toes and regarded them earnestly as if the exercise had some important significance.

“Do you know anything about the Imperial Crown Jewels?” she asked finally.

“Certainly. They are in the Hofburg Palace.” He raised one eyebrow a fraction. “But if they’re not there now don’t try to pin it on me.”

She laughed and stretched herself in a more relaxed fashion. The brandy and the Saint’s charm were taking effect.

“Even though you are not responsible, the most important piece is missing. It is called the Hapsburg Necklace and it was never in the Hofburg Museum at all.”

“Tell me more. Are you trying to sell it to me?”

She raised her chin haughtily.

“Certainly not. It is a necklace that was given to Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire in 1530 by the ruler of the Turks, who were the hereditary enemies of the Austrians. It was a peace offering but it did not work, and the war with the Turks went on for another century until Prince Eugene of Savoy finally defeated them in 1718.”

“My,” said the Saint admiringly, “you’ve certainly got it all pat. I was never any good at dates in school, not that sort anyway.”

She ignored his interruption.

“It contains some of the largest cut diamonds in the world. It was once literally a king’s ransom.”

The Saint grinned irreverently.

“Then you could probably flog it to some film star who’s trying to look like the most expensive Christmas tree in the world. How much are these baubles worth?”

“Aber natürlich, it is priceless! Actually, the Necklace is insured for over three million of your pounds, but that is not anything like the real value.”

“In other words, quite a tidy sum. Why isn’t it with the other Crown Jewels?”

“In the days of the Emperors it was always kept separate because it was so valuable. Also it was regarded as a sort of lucky charm. It had a special military guard, and one of the Court positions was Keeper of the Hapsburg Necklace. It was an hereditary post, and my father, Count Malffy, was the last man to hold it.”

The Saint shot her a quizzical look.

“When the new Republican Government took over the Crown Jewels in 1918, why did they leave out the Necklace?”

“They didn’t. They kept on one or two Imperial institutions. Don’t ask me why. One was the famous Spanish Riding School, where the Emperor’s white Lippizaner horses still perform today.”

Simon nodded.

“I know. I’ve seen them. I never fully understood the meaning of dressage until I saw those funny hats. But what about the Hapsburg Necklace? Is your father still its Keeper, or did they move him over to the Zoo?”

The girl frowned. She plainly disapproved of his flippancy.

“He died soon after the war. I think he partly starved to death during the dreadful inflation time. I don’t really remember him at all except for a vague picture in my mind of a tall handsome man in a blue and gold uniform with white stars at the collar. But perhaps I am imagining even that.”

“And he was the last Keeper of the Hapsburg Necklace?”

“No. There is still one.”

“Who is it?”

She drew herself up proudly.

“I am.”

The Saint chuckled.

“Good for you. I’ll bet you look wizard in a blue and gold uniform with stars in your eyes. Where is the Necklace now?”

She suddenly seemed withdrawn.

“It’s in our family castle in Hungary, Schloss Este.”

“So it’s quite safe, then.”

“No, it is not. Not now, anyway. Admiral Horthy took over the castle for the Hungarian Government suddenly last year. It was supposed to be used as a secret headquarters for their Intelligence, I am told, but it is really occupied by the German army and the Gestapo. I suspect also that they thought they would find the Necklace there. That’s why they seized it so quickly and without warning. The German Reich is desperately in need of money. Hitler is always screaming that Germany is being economically strangled. He really took over Austria mainly to get our gold reserves, not for any sentimental reasons as an Austrian.”

“Do you think they have found the Necklace?”

She shook her head.

“I’m certain they haven’t. It’s in a very secret place. Anyway, if they had found it, why should they try to kidnap me?”

“You think those two men were German agents?”

“Yes, Gestapo. I am sure of it. I received an anonymous letter yesterday saying that if I would come to the Hofburg restaurant at nine o’clock in the evening I would hear something to my advantage about the Necklace. I felt sure the Necklace was safe, but I wanted to find out what was going on.”

Her eyes seemed to flash blue fire, which, as any chemistry student knows, is the hottest kind.

“After all, I am the Keeper of the Hapsburg Necklace! That nasty little man offered me a large sum of money in cash to tell him where the Necklace was. When I told him what he could do with his dirty money and his dirty self he told me he was Gestapo and was arresting me, and he pointed out that he had a gun in his pocket.”

“And what about the message written on the banknote?”

She blushed like a schoolgirl. “Oh, that was just a little idea of my own. I felt rather silly about it, but it did work, nicht wahr? It was a precautionary measure, especially since for some days I have thought I was being followed.”

“But why write the message on money?”

“One is always reading in adventure stories how people who are prisoners write notes and drop them out of windows, which seems to me most useless, for not one person in a hundred picks up and reads pieces of paper they find lying around in the street. But they always pick up money. It was a good idea, yes?”

4

“It certainly worked,” said the Saint thoughtfully. “Yes, I think it was a very clever idea.”

The girl looked pleased. But her face fell at his next words.

“On the other hand, you almost didn’t get away with it,” he said.

“Why? How is that?”

“Because I nearly gave it back to you.”

“Oh, the great English gentleman doesn’t like to be thought the sort of man who might accept a tip.” Her eyes were mischievous. “But you kept it.”

“You were gone before I could give it back to you. But speaking of English gentlemen, why are we talking English?”

“Why not?”

“I mean, why did you think I was English? When we last met I was talking what I pride myself was fluent German.”

“You were.” She gave him an appraising look. “But I went back to the restaurant where I’d seen you sign your bill. I got the waitress to look up the slip and give me your name and room number. I told her I was your lover. Austrians are so romantic. She did not hesitate for a minute and told me what I wanted to know.”

The Saint nodded.

“But why did you come to my room instead of going straight home?”

“Because if I had gone home I might have found the Gestapo waiting for me. I live in the Malffy Palais with my mother. Everyone knows where it is.”

“And what about Uncle Max? Why didn’t you go to him?”

There was a pause while she eyed him speculatively.

“Shall I tell you the real reason why I am here?”

“No, no, don’t be silly. Tell me half a dozen imaginary reasons. It’s so much more fun. So much more gemütlich. So Viennese.”

She laughed.

“All right, Mr Templar, then I won’t tell you.”

Simon raised his eyebrows.

“So now you have told me. You know who I am.”

“Yes, I recognised you immediately when you handed me my bag. I did have to find out what name you were using here and your room number from the waitress, but I knew who you really were.”

“How? When have you ever seen me before?”

“I’ve been reading about you for years, in the English papers which my mother takes. And cutting out the photos of you when they printed one. Because they always called you a modern Robin Hood, and that fascinated me. I dreamed that I might run into you some day — call it a young girl’s foolishness. But then, when I had this problem, I actually wondered if I could get you to help me, and I got out the pictures again to refresh my memory. But then Max came along, and it seemed easier to take him instead. So when I saw you in that restaurant, it was like a miracle or an omen or something. I knew you were watching me and would do something if I left my bag.”

“All right,” he said, “supposing I am the Saint. What can I do for you now?”

“You can help me get the Necklace back.”

The Saint fixed her with a long cool stare. When he wanted to he could make his eyes quite mesmeric.

“Why should I?”

There was excitement in her voice as she sensed victory.

“For a reward, and a big one at that.” She looked at him sideways. “But also the fun and adventure of an enterprise which might be just the sort of thing you like.”

His admission was a little quirk of the lips.

“You seem to have spotted my weakness. Danger and beautiful women — often the same thing!”

“You will help me then?”

“Perhaps. But first, tell me how you escaped.”

“I was lucky. It was a typically Viennese affair. In Vienna even the Gestapo cannot be sure of operating efficiently. We got into a traffic jam outside the Opera at the end of a performance of Tristan with Novotna and Mayer, so you can imagine the crowds. Those two men were really stupid to go that way at that time of night. That’s another reason why I think they were Germans. A true Viennese would not have done it.”

“A true Viennese might do almost anything,” Simon dissented. “What happened then?”

“There was a policeman standing nearby, doing nothing to help the traffic of course, and so I merely got out. There was not a thing they could do about it. They couldn’t shoot me and get away. If they had tried to stop me I would have screamed, and the policeman would have had to do something about that.” She looked pleased with herself. “I never saw two more frustrated people.”

“Why didn’t you tell the cop anyway?”

“The who?”

“The Schupo.”

“I just wanted to get away. Anyway, he would have detained me as a witness, and nowadays in Vienna I am afraid the police are ultimately ruled from Berlin. In the end they would have had to give me up to the Germans.”

“Which really means you’re still not safe anywhere.”

A shadow of fear darkened the girl’s eyes. “You are right. But since the Anschluss who is safe in Austria? Gestapo agents are everywhere. One cannot even trust one’s friends.”

“What about Max Annellatt?”

Her expression was oddly secretive and she tossed the hair back from over her eyes in a gesture which was almost dismissive.

“Oh Max, he’s all right. He’s a very good sort really. Just a little eccentric.”

“He seemed to me a little nuts.”

“Nuts?”

“Mad. Crazy.”

“No, he is not mad, he just carries being Austrian to an extreme.”

The Saint got up.

“It comes to the same thing. Anyway, I think we’d better get you back either to him or your dear old white-haired mother, knitting in that rocking-chair in the Malffy Palace.”

His words amused her.

“If you knew my mother! She’s out every night with a different admirer. Admittedly some of them are gigolos, but she has fun.”

“Good for her,” smiled the Saint. “Remind me to look her up sometime. I like swinging Erstegesellschaft mums. Well, which is it to be, her or Uncle Max?”

She looked at him from under her lids.

“Wouldn’t it be safer for me to stay here?”

“No, it wouldn’t,” the Saint told her with candour. “Besides, I want my beauty sleep. I need it even if you don’t.”

She pouted.

“You Englishmen are all the same. I don’t think you really like women.”

“No man in his senses does. Loving them is a different matter. But come on, make up your mind. It’s after midnight. I’ll run you round in my car.”

She thought it over. “I think it had better be Max. As I said, they may be waiting for me outside the Palais. I don’t think they know yet about my connections with Max. Besides, he’ll be worrying about me.”

The Saint looked sceptical.

“I don’t think he’ll be in a condition to be worrying about anything by this time.”

“Oh, Max never gets drunk. It’s only Thai that does. But anyway, I want to tell him that I have enlisted you in our cause.”

He shook his head.

“Don’t rush me. I haven’t promised anything yet. Anyway, what’s his part in all this?”

“He’s one of the richest men in Austria and has connections everywhere. A very useful man, and a very charming one. Unfortunately my mother does not like him, but she is a snob, and he was born a peasant.”

The Saint reached out his hand and helped her to her feet. “All right, we’ll deliver you to Uncle Max and all his connections. But don’t get ideas. I haven’t said I would help you yet. I’ve got rather a lot on my platter just at the moment. And don’t forget, Austria is not a very healthy place for me.”

She gave him a mischievous look.

“I think we can count on you. I don’t think you would want to miss an adventure like this one.”

Simon eyed her with respect. She evidently had good reason for her self-assurance.

The Saint had borrowed Monty Hayward’s M.G. N-type Magnette, for the trip — his own Hirondel was too well known, not necessarily to the Austrian authorities, nor even the German, but to the British. It would certainly have been noticed if he put it on the cross-Channel ferry, and its departure reported to the ever-suspicious attention of his old friend and enemy, Chief Inspector Teal of Scotland Yard, who had an irritating habit of trying to spoil the Saint’s fun whenever he could.

The drive to Max’s, with the girl giving him directions, was uneventful. They were apparently not followed, and the traffic at that hour was light, so their journey was quick.

Max Annellatt had a flat in a large baroque house in the aristocratic district behind the Belvedere Palace. The Saint got out and held the door open for Frankie.

“Well, auf Wiedersehen. I’ll be seeing you around.”

“No, you must come in and talk to Max now.”

He shook his head firmly. “I’ve had enough of Max for tonight, charming though he is. Anyway, he’s probably had enough brandy by now to send him to sleep.”

“All right,” she said. “But can I call you in the morning?”

“Certainly. But don’t leave it too late, because I’d figured on being on my way out of here after breakfast, and you still haven’t altogether convinced me that I ought to change my plans.”

“Of course, I still must discuss with Max—”

“—before you take me into full partnership. I’d guessed that. So go into your huddle.”

“My what?”

“Forget it, my love,” he said. “This isn’t the time and place for my lecture on the complexities of the English language since it became American. Nighty night, sleep tight, and mind the Gestapo don’t bite.”

She blew him a kiss and took a key out of her bag. With it she opened a small door which, in the fashion of large Viennese houses, was set in the frame of a much more imposing portal. She turned to say farewell, and suddenly her eyes widened as she looked over the Saint’s shoulder.

Spinning around, he saw at once the cause of her alarm. Two men in raincoats had come out of the night and were standing just behind him.

One was small and rat-like, and the other looked like a gorilla.

The smaller man held a revolver.