The Saint and the Templar Treasure

1

What’s in a name? The answer depends on whether you have a nice euphonic one like William Shakespeare or were baptised Aloysius Codpiece. A rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but life would have been a lot harder for poets had it been called a cabbage.

The Saint considered Simon Templar a very satisfactory name and was always interested in the way others responded to it. The disclosure of his identity had been known to evoke a wide range of emotions, from apprehension among those with something to hide, through hatred among those who had cause to wish he had never been born, to blank indifference on the part of those whose reading of newspapers might be confined to the sports or fashion pages.

But on this unique occasion the reactions had to be something special.

Simon was prepared to enjoy the touch of melodrama which he had inevitably created, and he was not disappointed. Watching Mimette, he saw her stiffen as the name registered. The polite smile froze. Her eyes flashed with anger as her first instinct was to suspect him of making some insolent kind of joke.

“It’s true,” he insisted softly. “Would you like to see my passport?”

The blaze died out of her eyes, but they became hard and guarded as the mask of imperturbability slipped back into place.

“How interesting,” she remarked with calculated indifference.

“Interesting! It is more than interesting,” Norbert exclaimed, and the Saint regarded him with renewed curiosity.

He had not ignored the little man’s reaction and had noticed the drooping shoulders straighten and the new light that sparkled in the prominent fishlike eyes at the word “Templar.”

“Monsieur Norbert is an authority on the Templars,” Mimette stated flatly. “He is professor of medieval history at the Sorbonne and is here to try to decipher the inscription on the stone.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said the Saint cordially, and held out his hand.

Norbert grasped it between both fleshy palms and shook it as if trying to draw water from a pump.

“And to meet you. I would like to talk with you at length,” he enthused. “Do you know your genealogy? How far back can you trace your family? You have almost no accent, but perhaps an émigré family after the Revolution? Yes?”

The Saint winced and retrieved his hand to readjust the handkerchief wrapping. He appeared to consider the questions seriously for a moment.

“A fellow called Adam on my father’s side and a lady named Eve on my mother’s. We haven’t gone beyond that yet,” he replied brightly.

Mimette stepped between them with the adroitness of a cocktail party hostess disengaging two incompatible guests.

“Monsieur Templar is hurt,” she explained. “I was about to tend to his injury.” She turned back to the Saint. “This way, please.”

She began to climb the stairs and the Saint made to follow her but Norbert grabbed his arm.

“I am sorry. But you touch on my obsession. Another time, perhaps?”

The Saint disengaged his sleeve as deftly as possible. He had an unreasonable prejudice against men with damp clutching hands.

“Certainly,” he acceded pleasantly. “I always wondered how Great-great-grandfather made it to England without his head.”

Before the earnest professor could relaunch his attack the Saint had joined Mimette at the top of the stairs. When he looked back Norbert was kneeling beside the stone, with lines of intense concentration furrowing his brow as he scribbled in a small notebook.

“What a character!” commented the Saint, shaking his head in discreet ambiguity.

“Oh, he’s very harmless,” Mimette said. “Quite sweet really when he isn’t going on about the Templars, which is ninety per cent of the time.”

“Where did you find him?”

“We didn’t. He found us. He was in charge of an archaeological dig at Orange when he heard about the stone. He was so excited that he came over and my father asked him to stay for a few days. He has practically lived here ever since.”

“If he hangs around till Christmas you could always put him on top of the tree,” Simon suggested helpfully, but the smile faded from Mimette’s lips and her eyes clouded over again.

“If we are still here at Christmas,” she said wryly, and then, as if regretting her words, quickened her steps briskly.

Simon followed her in silence around the balcony and along a passage leading off to the right. He wondered how long it would take to qualify as a guide to the château. The old house appeared to have been built to no specific plan, as if the rooms had been added haphazardly when and where they were needed. The result was a confusing obstacle course of corridors and staircases. All he could tell of their destination was that it lay somewhere towards the rear of the château in the east wing. After some abrupt turns and arbitrary changes of level they passed through a vast echoing gallery panelled with more stiffly posed portraits of presumable Florian forebears before descending to ground level again via a more modern flight of wooden stairs. They met no one and heard nothing but the sound of their own footsteps. After the sunlit spaciousness of its outdoors the interior of the château seemed oppressive, almost claustrophobic.

Finally Mimette stopped and ushered the Saint into a small sitting-room. It was comfortably furnished with the sort of heavily upholstered Napoleonic sofas that were designed to relax on rather than to admire. In contrast with the other areas that he had seen, it was a room that was obviously lived in, the kind that is found behind doors marked Private in stately homes and is a mile removed from the imposing suites with their Louis XV and Chippendale which are on show to the paying public. A pair of plain glass doors opened on to a patio beyond which was a neatly clipped lawn that stretched between banks of flowering shrubs to the remains of the castle’s outer walls. In the centre was an ancient well that might have once served the beleaguered knights.

Mimette told him that she would not be long and left. The Saint stretched himself full length on a sofa from which he could look out of the window and thought over the events of the previous hours.

His involvement had happened so swiftly, through a chain of circumstances that no solvent bookmaker would have laid odds about, that he felt slightly like a canoeist who had been pitched into the centre of the rapids and now, between rocks, could take advantage of a lull to study the river around him.

It was, to say the least, an intriguing situation. A noble family plagued by a curse that was being helped to work by a couple of small-time crooks. A proud and beautiful young woman too well aware of her station to show her emotions openly, but most certainly a very frightened female. A magnificent house that had about it a feeling of foreboding as if even the walls were waiting for something to happen. Plus, for good measure, a professor trying to understand some sort of primitive tombstone. It was like a crossword puzzle with only half the clues and no black squares.

It was, as Mimette had so bluntly pointed out, no business of his; but if the Saint had always minded his own business there would have been very few stories to write about him.

“The game’s afoot,” he quoted to the pleasant garden he was staring at. “But what’s the game?”

He was still no nearer to an answer when Mimette returned carrying a tray on which were a bowl of hot water, a jar of pink-coloured ointment, and a roll of gauze. The Saint rolled up the right sleeve of his shirt and removed his improvised bandage.

Mimette held his hand and carefully bathed his blackened palm. When she had cleaned it she looked up at him sharply.

“This burn is really almost nothing,” she accused.

“That’s what I thought,” he said shamelessly.

“Then why did you—”

“But it was a wonderful excuse to spend more time with you, and to have you hold my hand.”

She released the hand quickly as an elderly lady in a black dress that bulged in all the wrong places entered with the whisky, a siphon, and glasses. The Saint guessed that she was the spouse of the retainer who had opened the door for them. If possible she was even more self-effacing than her husband. She placed the silver salver on a table beside the sofa and left without a word. Mimette never even looked at her and the Saint’s smile of thanks went unnoticed.

“I ought to have you thrown out,” Mimette said as the door closed.

“Why not?” Simon concurred helpfully.

“Because I am beginning to think I have heard your name before.”

“And you think I might be a distant relative — or too much for Charles to handle?”

Her eyes searched his face.

“You are called the Saint, n’est-ce pas?”

“By some people. But what are you afraid of?”

His question was intentionally ambiguous, but her first choice of answers was not the one that he was aiming for.

“You are a pirate. You rob people. They say you have even murdered some.”

“ ‘Pirate’ sounds so much nicer than ‘thief.’ Thank you,” he replied calmly. “Though I suppose whichever word you use it comes to the same thing. But I’ve never robbed anyone who didn’t deserve it, and there are some people who are enormously improved by death.”

Mimette poured out one liberal Scotch and a token spoonful in the other glass. The Saint sipped his drink and allowed her time to marshal her thoughts. When she finally spoke her voice was husky and uncertain.

“I must not forget that at this moment we are in your debt. But what do you really want from us?”

“Well, as you can see, even if I’m not critically injured, I got myself a bit messed up. If you felt truly hospitable, you’d offer me a bath and a chance to change my clothes.”

As soon as the words were out he cursed himself for his casualness. Mimette rose at once and pulled a bell sash. She did not return to her seat but walked to the window and stood with her back to him looking out across the lawn.

“Mimette,” he said gently, “believe me, I want nothing from you or your family. It was purely an accident that brought me here. Or a whim of fate. But I know now that you’re in trouble. I might be able to help. I’d like to if you’d let me. But you would have to trust me. Could you trust me?”

The Saint concentrated every ounce of his personality into his voice, speaking his words of reassurance quietly but firmly, staying where he was rather than pressuring the girl by moving closer.

For a full minute she continued to stare out into the garden, until at last she turned and met his eyes. When she spoke there was a strange weariness behind her response.

“Why not? What have I got to lose?”

She walked slowly back to the sofa and sat down.

“I’m not sure where to start. It all seems so inexplicable. Someone is trying to make us bankrupt, to force us to leave Ingare. I think...”

But the Saint was not yet to know what she thought. The rap of a discreet knock and the opening of the door made her stop abruptly, as the man-servant entered.

Mimette stood up, becoming once again the ice-blooded mistress of the house.

“Charles, will you take Monsieur Templar to a guest room and run a bath for him. When he is ready, show him to the main salon.”

The servant held the door open and there was nothing for Simon to do but go with him. With a parting nod to Mimette he turned and trailed the major-domo up to the second floor and through another minor labyrinth to the chamber assigned to him.

The Saint wondered about the daffodil painted on the centre of the door but its significance became apparent as soon as he entered the room. It was completely decorated in varying shades of yellow. Curtains, carpet, bedspread were all pale gold, while the chairs were upholstered in a lemon-coloured velvet. Even the wardrobe doors were painted with yellow panels. Simon stood for a moment taking it all in.

“The only thing it needs is a canary,” he observed dryly.

“In the old days when servants were illiterate it was found convenient to identify rooms by colour rather than numbers or letters, sir,” Charles explained with the practised fluency of one used to providing the information.

The Saint crossed to the window and looked out while the servant ran his bath. Immediately in front of him was a curved balcony which jutted out over the remains of the castle wall that ran from the château to the tower. From the tower the rear wall ran almost to the other end of the house before meeting a huddle of one-level outbuildings that undoubtedly served for pressing and vatting the wine. Below them would be a series of cellars where the wine would be bottled and stored.

The servant returned from the adjoining bathroom and asked: “Can I help you undress, m’sieu?”

“No, thank you,” said the Saint. “But perhaps you would fetch my valise from the car.”

He handed over the car keys and waited until Charles had gone before starting to remove his shirt. It was not that he was bashful about undressing in front of a stranger, but he had no wish to excite comment, and the six-inch throwing knife strapped to his left forearm would certainly have done just that. After hiding the sheath under a pillow he hung up his clothes and walked through to the bathroom, which was an anachronistic conversion to ultra-modern plumbing.

It was full of steam, and he opened the window to let it out. The sight that greeted him made him step quickly back and stand very still.

On the track that led from the castle down towards the river was parked a black Citröen identical to the one he had seen beside the burning barn, and walking towards it from the tower were two men whose shapes he clearly recognised even at that distance.

2

In a movie, Simon Templar would have leapt from the window on to the balcony below, then swung like Errol Flynn across to the battlements, and after running along the crumbling catwalk would have dived like an avenging angel on to the two unsuspecting miscreants. In real life, the Saint stayed where he was and watched.

It was not that he lacked the athletic agility and strength to perform the required gymnastics. The main restraining factor was that he wanted to win the confidence of the Florian family, and such trust is not normally given to guests who leap stark naked from bathroom windows and jump on other men, however laudable their motives. There was also the equally practical consideration that they might well have gone away before he could reach them.

The men were climbing into their car when a third figure ran from the tower and pressed a package into the hands of the smaller of the other two. The combination of angle and distance prevented the Saint from getting anything more than a fleeting glimpse of the newcomer before he turned back and was again hidden by the tower.

The Citröen turned and accelerated away down the track. Simon did not waste time following its route but instead focused his attention on the tower. For several minutes he maintained his vigil but the third man did not re-appear. The Saint was disappointed but realised that his view of anyone leaving the tower by an outside door would have been screened by the walls.

When it was obvious that he was not likely to see any more, he lowered himself into the no longer scalding water and pondered every detail of what he had witnessed. There was a deduction to be made, but it only added to his collection of question marks.

The major-domo returned, and came as far as the bathroom door.

“I have brought your valise, m’sieu. Do you wish me to unpack it?”

“Non, merci,” Simon said. “I’d prefer to find what I want.”

“If you ring the bell when you are ready, m’sieu, I will come and show you to the principal salon.”

“Thank you.”

“A votre service.”

Service was a fine thing, Simon reflected, but he could soon have too much of it.

When he had completed his ablutions and dried himself, he returned to the bedroom and found his suitcase on a stool beside the bed. As he bent to unlock it he could not help looking out of the window at the panorama now suffused with the rosy tints of approaching sunset into which the Citröen had disappeared, and remembering how the third man had returned towards the tower and not been sighted again.

The inescapable conclusion was that he had come into the château. And was probably still inside. And very possibly had been all along.

An illuminating corollary was that there had been no attempt to hide the Citröen even though it could have been seen by anybody looking out of a window on the second or third storey. Which suggested that the accomplice was in a position to account for his actions if challenged, or that he knew the whereabouts of everyone else in the house.

“But how corny it would be,” Simon told his reflection in the mirror as he combed his hair, “to have the faithful old butler be the villain...”

To replace the garments which had suffered the dishevelment of his salvage efforts, he selected an extravagantly patterned shirt from Nassau, a pair of light blue slacks, and a featherweight jacket. The combination restored the image of a disarm-ingly relaxed vacationing tourist which, in essence, was exactly what he was.

He ignored the bell-pull that would have summoned the major-domo to show him to the drawing-room and quietly turned the door handle and slipped out into the deserted corridor. His action might be frowned upon by his hostess and would certainly scandalise the worthy Charles, but he had had enough of being shepherded for a while, and he felt like doing a little exploring on his own. He reasoned that if he was found anywhere he should not be, he had the perfect excuse of being lost in a strange house — which, he mused as he remembered the maze of passages, he probably would be.

He was able to retrace the route the servant had taken until he arrived at the right-angled turn-off of a narrow corridor which seemed to connect the east wing with the main body of the château. He had a feeling that if there was anything to be discovered during his wandering it would be in the older section of the house.

Inside the main building, the corridor abruptly became a much wider passage, lighted by a tall window at the far end. From the number of doors along either side, it appeared to bisect the building, giving access to both front and back rooms.

The Saint moved swiftly along it, making less noise than a stalking cat. He opened doors at random, but found nothing more exciting than bedrooms and an occasional cupboard or lumber room.

The end of the passage, by the tall window, proved to be also a landing for a spiral stone staircase leading both upwards and downwards. Judging that the upper floor would be no more exciting than the one he was on, he took the stairs down to the first floor, which turned out to be an equally barren hunting ground. The only room of any interest was a large well-stocked library that would have taken far too long to search.

The main problem, he conceded, as he found himself looking down another corridor leading to the balcony around the entrance hall, was that he had no idea what he was hoping to find. He was simply gambling on blind luck to produce something.

He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see that well over an hour had passed since he had left Mimette. He could not delay much longer, or Charles would be coming to look for him, whether summoned or not. He was considering whether to abandon his quest when he heard a door slam and the sound of footsteps coming along the balcony towards the corridor.

On impulse he stepped back on to the spiral staircase and continued down it. The steps became steeper with every turn, and he expected that they would eventually lead to a basement, perhaps even to the original dungeons of the castle. Instead, they ended on the ground floor, but from the way they twisted towards a blank wall they must have once carried on down to the foundations. A padlocked door set in the wall facing the final step had pointedly been installed to restrict entrance to the cellars.

It was evident that he had reached the oldest part of the château. A bare stone passage with a low ceiling of tiny red bricks ran from the foot of the stairway into what had once been the great hall of the castle. The room was vast compared to the others he had visited, being at least eighty feet long and almost half as many wide. The ceiling was made of planks the width of the trees they had been cut from, and broad shafts of fading light slanted down from a dozen arched windows set high up in the wall. Except for a few faded tapestries and a couple of roughly carpentered trestle tables, it was completely empty. The entrance from the passage was in the centre of the hall, an equal distance from two doors which were the only other breaks in the flat lines of the walls.

Simon considered each in turn as he weighed his next move. The more imposing of the two was set in the wall which he estimated to be nearest the centre of the château, while the one at the east end of the hall was much smaller and half hidden in a recess. Of the two, the smaller looked the more intriguing but he was acutely aware that time was not on his side. Regretfully he turned towards the main door which, he guessed, would take him in the general direction of the reception hall and, very likely, the salon.

It was then that he heard the voices. They were so faint that had it not been for the complete stillness that surrounded him and his own finely tuned hearing he would never have noticed them. At first he thought they must be coming from a long way off, but then he realised that the walls were too thick to admit any outside noise short of a trumpet call. He walked into the centre of the hall and stood completely motionless as he strained to locate the source of the sound. He tried putting a hand over each ear in turn. The noise was completely blotted out when he covered his right ear. With a smile he turned towards the smaller of the two doors.

The voices grew slightly stronger as he approached, but they were still far too muffled for him to distinguish any words. In vain he tried pressing his ear against the door. Following the only course left, he turned the iron ring handle. The door was still immovable. Keeping hold of the handle, he rapped it against the woodwork. Instantly the voices ceased.

The thickness of the door allowed only the vaguest sounds of movement to penetrate its stout timbers. He knocked again and waited impatiently until a bolt scraped in its channel and the door creaked open six inches to reveal the frowning countenance of Professor Norbert.

“Oh, it’s you,” said the Saint pleasantly, but he received no answering smile from the scholar.

“What do you want?” Norbert asked curtly.

The Saint disliked conversations carried on through furtively half-opened doors.

“I’m lost,” he informed the professor innocently, and pushed the door wider.

The question of whether the little man wanted the Saint to enter was as academic as one of his own textbooks. Simon intended to gain admission, and simply applied the necessary pressure to the object that impeded his progress. Norbert took a startled step backwards, and the Saint smiled apologetically.

“I hope I’m not disturbing your devotions.”

“My devotions? Oh yes, I see what you mean,” stammered the flustered professor as he followed the Saint’s gaze.

Simon took in the details of his surroundings quickly and expertly. He noted the whitewashed walls and the fluted stone pillars that supported the vaulted ceiling. He took account of the rows of elaborately carved pews and the impressive brass eagle lectern. He admired the stained glass of the windows, the workmanship that had gone into the silver cross and candlesticks on the altar, and the delicate carving of the effigies of a knight and his lady who lay on top of an ornate tomb in the alcove beside it. And he came to the conclusion that the only people now in the chapel were himself and Norbert.

“This isn’t Vosges, is it?” he inquired.

“I’m sorry, I do not understand.”

“Like St. Joan, I kept hearing voices,” Simon explained.

The professor managed a hesitant smile.

“Another of your jokes, Monsieur Templar? All you can have heard is me.”

“Talking to yourself? Do you do that a lot?”

“I was reading the inscription on the tomb. I often read aloud. It helps me remember,” said the professor testily, “Would you like to look at it?”

The Saint shook his head.

“Not right now, but I would like to look at the salon. As I said, I’m lost.”

Norbert walked past him and beckoned him to follow.

“Come, I will show you the way.”

“Do forgive me for disturbing you,” Simon drawled.

He walked through the hall behind his guide. Norbert led the way to the larger door, which opened into the reception area, across to a small anteroom, and through that into the salon.

As the Saint entered, two men rose to greet him. There was no sign of Mimette.

Norbert performed the introductions.

“Monsieur Templar, Philippe Florian, Henri Pichot.”

The Saint shook hands with each in turn as he proffered the conventional greetings. Norbert mumbled an excuse and left.

Florian was a tall sturdily built man in his early forties who looked as if he had once been an athlete but had allowed the muscles of youth to become the flab of middle age. He wore a grey lounge suit that was a shade too sharply tailored. His black hair was pomaded straight back and he sported a thin moustache that did not reach the corners of his mouth. Despite the firmness of his handshake and the direct appraising look that he bestowed on his guest, there was something about him that reminded the Saint of an overfed lizard.

His companion was a good fifteen years younger and a head shorter, and whereas Florian radiated an aura of authority, Pichot seemed continually nervous and ill at ease. The frankness of his clean-shaven features seemed to conceal an inner uncertainty, which also characterised his clothes. He wore a tweed sports coat and flannels but combined them with a stiff-collared white shirt and staid dark blue tie.

Simon addressed himself to Florian.

“You must be Mimette’s father.”

“Her uncle,” Florian corrected him. “And you are the hero of the day, I understand.”

“Am I?” said the Saint deprecatingly.

“Indeed you are,” Florian boomed.

He seemed to be incapable of saying anything quietly or of not beaming when he talked. The Saint found neither mannerism as friendly or as reassuring as it was intended.

“I’ve heard all about your efforts to save the barn, and I can’t tell you how grateful we are,” Florian continued. “To lose the equipment is an inconvenience, but had we lost the truck it would have been a catastrophe.”

“Where is Mimette?” Simon asked in an attempt to steer the conversation away from his heroism.

Florian appeared irritated at having his speech interrupted.

“She apologizes for not being here. She has gone to see what can be bought or borrowed from the neighbouring farms to make good what we lost this afternoon. One hopes she will be able to get what is needed.”

“Baskets and hand-carts are not impossible to replace,” Pichot explained, “but there is never a vehicle to be hired around here at harvest time. Our récolte begins tomorrow, so you see how important it is.”

“Mimette tells me you won’t hear of a reward, but I want you to know we shall never forget your help. Any time you are in the district you must come and see us. I’m so sorry that our troubles have delayed your journey.” Florian crossed to the bell-pull and operated it vigorously.

“Oh, it livened up the afternoon,” Simon remarked carelessly, and had hardly finished speaking before the door opened and the major-domo carried in his valise.

“When Charles found that you had left your room, he took the liberty of packing your things. I hope you don’t mind.”

The Saint kept his face serenely impassive and awarded the match to Florian on points. He appreciated expertise in any field, and he could not have faulted the way Florian was performing the smoothest and most genteel example of the bum’s rush.

“How kind of him,” he replied coldly, but made no move to pick up the suitcase.

“Charles will carry it to your car,” Pichot said hastily, in some embarrassment. “We are desolated to have delayed your journey for so long.”

The butler picked up the valise, and the Saint followed him out through the marble hall and down the steps outside to the Hirondel. Pichot and Florian walked a pace behind him. Had they been carrying a brace of .38s they could not have made a slicker job of marching him out.

The Saint opened the rear lid and got into the driving seat. He fired the engine keeping his foot on the accelerator while he re-adjusted the seat which Mimette had pushed forward when she drove. Then he got out again, leaving the engine to warm up while he verified the stowage of his suitcase. He thanked Charles, closed the hatch, and got in again behind the wheel.

All the time his brain was flailing around for any pretext that would keep him there until Mimette returned, or give him a reason to return and see her very soon. No matter what, he was determined that their last conversation should not remain unfinished.

And then the temperature gauge on the dashboard caught his eye. The needle was hovering well inside the red danger zone. The engine coughed and misfired.

He quickly switched off the ignition and climbed out. He walked to the front of the car and opened it. One long look told him that the Hirondel would be going nowhere that evening. In the centre of the radiator was a hole the size of an apple. No stone thrown up from the road could have caused such damage.

The Saint tried not to smile as he straightened up. It was simple, crude, but very effective sabotage.

3

The Saint was extremely fond of his car and at any other time would have been dangerously angry with the perpetrator of such vandalism. At that moment, however, he felt only a genuine gratitude to the mysterious saboteur. No Hirondel equalled no immediate departure, and the pleasure the equation gave him was considerably increased by the anticipation of the annoyance it would cause to the two men waiting impatiently to wave him farewell.

Florian and Pichot had hurried down the steps as soon as he began to peer at the engine. He ignored them while he checked thoroughly for any other signs of damage. Finally satisfied that the radiator had been the only target, he turned to face them.

“What is wrong?” Florian demanded with a passable imitation of genuine concern.

Simon stepped aside and pointed, so that both men could see for themselves. Florian coloured slightly as the significance of the damage registered. Pichot shuffled his feet and looked uneasily from the car to the Saint and back to the car.

“It must have happened during the drive from the barn,” Simon theorized, in simulated dismay. “It seems to be an unlucky day, I’m afraid.”

“Can you mend it?” Pichot asked anxiously.

The Saint shook his head.

“Not a hope. The whole radiator will have to be replaced.”

“How inconvenient,” Florian muttered, more to himself than the Saint, but added quickly: “for you.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Simon agreed.

They looked steadily at each other, each of them blandly declining to admit that anything remained unspoken.

Sensing the latent hostility building up between them, Pichot stepped forward, speaking first to Florian and then to the Saint.

“Let us go back into the house. I will telephone the local garage and see what can be done.”

“Good idea,” Simon seconded agreeably. “You never know, they might be able to help.”

He knew that they would not, but the attempt would help prolong his leave-taking. The Hirondel was no ordinary production-line car, and he was confident that it would be impossible to fit a radiator from any other make. The nearest Hirondel agents were in Nice, but if they had a spare in stock it would take time to deliver.

Pichot ran up the steps and disappeared into the château. Florian summoned up some of his former bonhomie and even went so far as to give the Saint a reassuring pat on the back as they walked back to the drawing-room.

“I’m sure we shall be able to do something. We might even be able to hire a car while yours is being repaired.”

“I thought you said it was impossible to hire anything at vintage time,” the Saint reminded him gently.

“Yes, well, I was thinking of lorries and tractors. It might be easier to arrange a car to take you where you were going.”

“Honestly, it’s not serious,” Simon assured him. “I wasn’t going anywhere special.”

“You are being too generous. But it is our responsibility.”

Florian was clearly on edge and sounded as if he was trying to convince himself more than the Saint. As they entered the salon Simon noted with satisfaction that the clock stood at nearly 6:30. They would certainly have to pull out all the stops if they were going to shift him that evening. Henri Pichot was not there, doubtless trying his pull.

Florian opened a corner cabinet to reveal several well-stocked shelves.

“Would you care for a Scotch?”

“Thank you.”

This was the beginning of a new era when the traditional apéritifs had lost ground in fashionable French circles, and whisky had become the snob before-dinner drink among those who aspired to be up to date.

Florian poured for both of them, added soda and ice from an insulated bucket in the cupboard, and said: “Chin.”

“Chin.”

Another Anglo-American importation.

The Saint relaxed in an arm-chair and sipped his drink appreciatively. The Scotch was, as he would have expected, of the finest quality, a twelve-year-old malt.

“I understand you’ve been having a lot of trouble lately,” he said conversationally.

Florian shrugged and spread out his hands in an exaggerated gesture of resignation.

“A few misfortunes, certainly, but one must expect these things in any business. 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 château 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. What is wrong with it?”

“The radiator is holed. Henri was trying to get it fixed for me.”

“I saw him heading for the chai as I drove up. He must have switched the call through to here in case they phoned back while he was out. What will you do now?”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t get more than two hundred metres before the engine seized. What’s the hotel situation like around here?”

“A hotel? Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mimette. “We wouldn’t hear of such a thing. Of course, you will stay here.”

“After what you have done for us, that is the least we can offer,” said Philippe warmly.

Simon had to admire the man’s ability to react so quickly to events. The about-face was so complete that a doubt about his assessment even entered the Saint’s suspicious mind.

“But that’s giving you too much trouble,” he protested hypocritically.

“Not at all,” boomed Philippe, as if there had never been any question of an alternative in his mind.

He rang the bell and the major-domo entered so quickly that he must have been standing within feet of the door.

“Charles, please take Monsieur Templar’s valise back to his room. He will be staying to dinner.”

“Oui, m’sieu.”

Once again the Saint handed over his car keys. When Charles had left the salon Simon said: “I’m afraid I’m giving him a lot to do. Is it a problem to get staff so far out in the country?”

“We have only Charles and his wife who live in. There are two others who come in daily.” Mimette sighed. “When I was a little girl we kept a whole army of servants here, but we can no longer afford them.”

“Still longing for the good old days,” scoffed Philippe Florian. To the Saint he said: “I must tidy myself up a little. You will join us again for another drink in, perhaps, three quarters of an hour?” He stalked briskly from the room, and Simon looked at Mimette hopefully.

“Can we continue our talk?”

“There’s not much more to tell,” she replied, and once again he noted the tiredness in her voice.

He felt very sorry for her. In one respect at least he agreed with her uncle. She might well be taking her responsibilities a little too seriously.

She stubbed out her cigarette with a vindictiveness that displayed the depth of her struggle to control her emotions.

“We are in serious financial trouble. Philippe wants to own the château, more importantly he wants to own us. He has always been jealous of my father. He hates the fact that Ingare came to my father and not to him. That he is not regarded as a true Florian.”

“But surely he is a fully paid-up member of the family, even if he is only your father’s half-brother?”

“There is more to being a member of a family than just being tied to people by blood,” Mimette retorted fiercely.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

Mimette picked up another cigarette, fiddled with it aimlessly for a moment, and then crushed it in her hand. She brushed the debris from her hands into the empty grate. She looked intently at the Saint, a sarcastic smile curling her lips.

“You are not the only one. Philippe does not understand anything. That some people have long memories. Or that if it were not for my father he would long ago have been a dead man.”

“I give up,” said the Saint, not too patiently. “What’s the answer?”

“Perhaps I will tell you soon — I must have time to think.” Mimette seemed to wonder if she had already said too much, and to be glad of an excuse to back away again. “Now I must get dressed for dinner. Shall I have Charles show you back to your room?”

“I think I can find my own way now,” said the Saint.

“Alors, à tout à l’heure.”

While he changed into the plain dark suit which he assumed would be expected of him, he reviewed the events of the day and came up with practically nothing but riddles.

Mimette’s outburst added another dimension to the picture he had been building up, but it was pointless to try to guess the dark secrets she was hinting at. The episode in the chapel was another mystery: He had great faith in the efficiency of his senses, and whatever the professor might say he knew that he had heard two people talking. And finally there was the sabotage of his car: While Philippe and Pichot had seemed palpably eager to speed him on his way, someone else was trying even harder to keep him there.

A knock at the door put an end to his reverie and brought Charles into the room.

“Monsieur Philippe asked me to show you to the dining-room, m’sieu.”

“Very well,” said the Saint resignedly. “I follow you.”

The dining-room turned out to be at the rear of the house behind the salon. It was furnished with some of the best examples of Empire furniture the Saint had seen outside the captivity of museums. The wall on the garden side was comprised almost completely of glass doors, firmly closed against the refreshing coolness of the night air. Along the centre of the room was a table capable of seating twenty with space to spare. The seven places set around one end looked almost insignificant.

Five people turned to greet him. All except one he had already met and the fifth could only be the half-brother of Philippe Florian. Mimette introduced him as her father, Yves.

At sixty the master of Ingare looked older than Simon had expected, but age had not bowed him even if it had left its mark on his face. He matched the Saint for height, and unlike his brother carried no excess weight. Simon could see where Mimette had inherited her looks, and reckoned that Florian had been more than averagely handsome in his youth. Now his face was deeply lined around tired eyes, and what had once been a lean face had become gaunt, but his handshake was strong and his smile was unquestionably genuine as he welcomed his guest.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Templar. I have heard everything you did for us. I am very grateful.”

“It was very little, and the damage to my car was not your fault,” Simon disclaimed.

Yves Florian offered a drink from the row of bottles on the sideboard, and Mimette told him: “I think Monsieur Templar should stay for a few days. I’m sure he would be interested to watch the start of the wine-making.”

“I should be delighted,” Yves responded cordially.

Philippe turned quickly away and poured himself another Scotch from the bottle beside him.

Yves indicated the others in the room.

“I understand you have already met Henri Pichot. May I present his uncle, Gaston Pichot. Gaston is our overseer, taster, chief blender, and hardest worker, and without him Ingare would crumble overnight.”

The old man coloured slightly at his employer’s praise. He stepped forward and shook the Saint’s hand. He seemed as ill at ease in his carefully pressed black suit as he had been comfortable in his working clothes in the fields that afternoon.

“It’s nice to see you again,” said the Saint. “We met at the barn this afternoon.”

Over the sideboard hung a full-length portrait of a tall handsome man dressed in the extravagant frippery of the late eighteenth century. There was a quality about the rakish features and insolent hand-on-hilt stance that appealed to the Saint. Still groping for any sort of information, he used it as a cue to remark: “He must be another Florian — I can see a family resemblance.”

“That was the Baron Robut,” Gaston informed him, with reflected pride.

“It’s a striking portrait.”

“And a striking man, though his contemporaries would not have agreed,” Philippe put in. “They thought him a traitor for supporting the Revolution.”

“And keeping his head when all his friends were losing theirs,” added Mimette cynically. “Not only did he survive the Terror but Napoleon made him a general.”

“How long has Ingare been in your family?” was the natural question.

“Since soon after the Templars left,” Yves replied. “I have read that in 1305 a certain Esquiu de Floyran of Beziers offered to betray ‘the secrets of the Templars,’ whatever they may have been, first to James the Second of Aragon, and then to King Philip of France. To force the Pope’s hand, Philip was able to denounce the Templars to the Inquisition, since the Grand Inquisitor was his personal confessor and protégé. In 1307 the arrest of the Templars began. It is thought that Floyran may have received Ingare as part of his reward, and that the name ‘Florian’ was derived from his.”

“One sees the family resemblance to Baron Robut,” observed Mimette acidly.

“Who knows what reasons people may have had, so many centuries ago?” said Yves goodhumouredly.

Charles came in to announce that dinner was ready, and there was a move towards the dining table.

Yves Florian took the head of it, and seated the Saint on his right and Mimette on his left. Philippe was placed next to Mimette, Gaston and Henri next to the Saint. As he unfolded his serviette, Yves looked at the empty seat beside Philippe and frowned.

“And where is our worthy professor this evening?” he wondered.

“Still prospecting, I suppose,” said Mimette and the others laughed at what was clearly a standing joke.

As Mrs. Charles, as Simon had dubbed the major-domo’s wife, wheeled in a trolley with a large serving platter of truites amandine and hot plates which she proceeded to distribute, Norbert entered. He apologised for his lateness and sat down.

“Any luck today?” Mimette asked pleasantly.

The professor regarded her as he might have regarded an impudent student.

“It is not a question of luck but of knowledge and application,” he said primly.

“Then we can be sure you will succeed if you only have enough time,” Henri said with studiously veiled sarcasm.

Mrs. Charles brought the platter to each place in turn for the guests to help themselves, while Charles himself circulated with a bottle of the château’s white wine; and Yves turned courteously to the Saint to interpret the cryptic conversation.

“The Templars were believed to have amassed a tremendous fortune at the height of their prosperity. Louis Norbert has a theory that some of it could well have been stored in such a Templar stronghold as this.”

“If it had been, everyone would have been looking for it when the castle fell,” Philippe said confidently. “It is hardly likely that it would still be hidden after six hundred and forty years.”

“More likely the Templars took it with them,” Henri said.

“Perhaps they did not have the opportunity,” ventured Gaston.

“At any rate, it is an interesting dream,” said Yves, with soothing impartiality. “And it harms nobody.”

The Saint was not so sure about that, but he said nothing.

In a few minutes, he had been presented with more information than he should have dared to hope for, but he did not propose to take sides in the debate. On the contrary, he had a sudden urge to efface himself as much as possible.

It was almost a relief when Mimette changed the subject by asking her father if he had heard the weather forecast for the next day, and Simon’s rampant curiosity could take a breather while the conversation reverted to banalities.

The trout were followed by rare roast beef, presliced in the kitchen and presented in the same style by Mrs. Charles on a similar platter with its garniture of fresh vegetables. The Saint suppressed a pang at the reminder that French custom and cuisine, for all its artistry and refinement, would never admit that the best and only way to roast rare beef is on the rib, under its natural overcoat of self-basting fat, instead of trimming it down to a totally cholesterol-free dietician’s boneless dream, dried on the outside and without richness within. The vegetables, however, were expectable perfection, a classic contrast to the Anglo-American school of stick-’em-in-a-quart-of-water-and-boil-to-a-pulp. As an uninvited guest, it was up to him to enjoy the fare, and the spirit in which it had been offered.

Mimette and Philippe appeared to have called a truce for the duration of the dinner. She talked with her father about the prospects for the harvest while her uncle became engrossed in a conversation with Henri about some new laws about labelling that were apparently about to come into force. Norbert spoke only when spoken to, which was not often.

Simon complimented Gaston on the red wine which Charles poured to accompany the beef, the same wine that had been recommended to him at lunch. From that it was an easy transition to the problems of a winery in wartime, and he found that once the old man’s natural reserve was breached he made a fascinating companion. The Saint heard about his soldiering in the first war and his activities with the Resistance in the second. They were not the boasts of the dinner-table general but the mostly amusing, sometimes poignant, anecdotes of a private soldier. The more they talked the more the Saint warmed to him. But despite the soothing effects of the food and wine and his genuine interest in the stories, he also heard the conversations of the others around the table and was constantly alert for any additional background knowledge that he could pick up directly or indirectly.

Henri Pichot was apparently the local boy made good. His uncle Gaston had brought him up at Ingare; Philippe had spotted his potential and paid for him to study law in Paris. Having recently qualified, he was now waiting to join a practice and in the meantime was working for one of Philippe’s companies.

Philippe ran a number of companies and they made him a lot of money. He enjoyed talking about both, to the barely concealed boredom of Mimette.

After the meal came the formal adjournment to the salon, where Mrs. Charles brought coffee and her husband served balloon glasses of brandy. Yves Florian took Simon by the arm and offered a cigar.

“If you don’t mind, I’m trying to give up at least one vice every twenty years,” Simon declined. “In that way I should achieve perfect purity by the time I’m a hundred.”

“I’m afraid I have been neglecting you. Mimette is always badgering me about the business. Even at meal times I get no peace.”

Yves looked across at his daughter and smiled fondly. There was clearly a very strong bond between them.

“Please don’t feel guilty,” said the Saint. “If I’m to stay for another day or two, there will be plenty of time for us to talk.”

“I hope so. Because of the association with Ingare, your name has always caught my attention. I have followed your career, and I shall insist on boring you by asking you for the details that were not reported.”

“I should be delighted to tell you all, but if I do it may be I who turns out to be the bore.”

“I doubt it. I want particularly to hear about that affair of the Sons of France, ten years ago. You should have been given the Légion d’Honneur for that.”

The Saint laughed.

“I don’t think it would have been politic at the time.”

“I suppose you are right,” Yves said sadly. “There were too many powerful people involved. Fortunately most, if not all, came into the open during the occupation and have since been dealt with.”

As he spoke he seemed to glance towards Philippe. His words came through an unfortunate break in other conversations, and an uncomfortable stillness descended on the room.

It was Mimette who broke the silence. She made a play of looking at her watch and then stood up.

“Now, Papa, this is no time to start reminiscing about the war,” she said firmly. “It’s getting late, and as some of us have to make an early start in the morning I think we should make it an early night.”

Her father nodded, and the others who had been seated also rose.

“If you will excuse us,” he said, “we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

They walked out of the salon together.

“I could do with some fresh air,” Philippe announced. “Come for a stroll in the garden, Henri. We can finish our discussion there.”

Pichot wished the Saint a good night. Philippe merely turned his back on the company and walked unsteadily into the garden.

Gaston and Norbert both bade the Saint their bonnes nuits, and Simon could think of nothing else to do but follow the example of the majority and wander back to his room.

He did not feel in the least tired, and his mind was too active to be ready for sleep. He took off his coat and tie but otherwise made no move to undress. He felt too restless even to lie on the bed, and slowly paced the room while he sorted over the clues that he had collected.

It was nearly eleven, but the night was still very warm. He opened the double doors and walked out on to the balcony. He surveyed the cloudless star-sprinkled sky for a long while and then lowered his gaze to roam over the valley. He followed the slope of the hill up to the château where the white of the castle walls stood out starkly against the blackness of the land. He thought again about the third man he had seen by the tower, and as he did so a faint light caught his eye. It was no bigger or brighter than the flare of a match and was just as quickly extinguished. It had appeared in one of the ground-floor windows of the tower, and as he watched it burned again. This time it did not go out but moved slowly from side to side, creating a rhythmic pendulum of luminance. It looked like some kind of signal.