The Saint and the Templar Treasure

1

A half-moon added to the starlight of a cloudless sky revealed the garden and the walls clearly enough for the Saint’s feline night vision. The light in the tower was stationary now, a faint flicker no more powerful than the glow of a candle but as bright as a beacon as far as he was concerned. It attracted him like a moth, and the thought of ignoring it never entered his head. His restlessness of a few minutes before was gone, submerged in the exhilarating prospect of direct action.

For a moment he considered returning to the dining-room and entering the garden that way, but he dismissed the idea almost immediately. It would be unwise to be found wandering through the château while his hosts and others slept, and there was also the risk of running into Philippe and Henri returning from their nocturnal stroll. But what would have been imprudent a few hours earlier was now a practical alternative.

The balcony on which he stood was directly above the one on the floor below, and he estimated that once he was hanging at full stretch he would have to drop no more than four or five feet to reach it. He would then be on a level with the top of the wall that ran from the château to the tower, and the ten feet of brickwork separating the two was covered with a dense growth of ivy. The catwalk that had provided a beat for the castle’s sentries was now only a couple of feet wide, but looked solid enough to serve his purpose.

The Saint went back into his room and took a dark blue pull-over from his case to hide the whiteness of his shirt. He retrieved his throwing knife from beneath the pillow and strapped it on to his forearm as casually as another man might strap on a watch. He could perform tricks with that slender steel blade that would have guaranteed him a job in any circus, and he could draw and throw it faster than most men can produce a gun from a holster. He did not expect to have to demonstrate his skill that night but he believed in being prepared, and the gentle pressure of the leather sheath against his skin was quietly reassuring.

Back on the balcony he wasted no time reconsidering the course of action he had decided upon but swung a leg over the top of the balustrade and wedged his foot between two of the uprights. He repeated the manoeuvre so that he was balanced on the outside of the balcony facing towards the château and then carefully slid his hands down the supports until he was almost touching his toes. Calmly he stepped backwards into space with his fingers taking the strain of the deadweight of his body. Gently he began to rock his legs by kicking from the knees. With his face pressed against the deep base of the balcony he was unable to see the target he was aiming for and steadily increased the arc of his swing. As he swung in for the third time he released his hold. His momentum took him neatly over the edge, and he landed on his toes in the centre of the balcony below.

Fortunately the room it belonged to was in darkness, but he remained motionless in his crouch as he listened for any indication that he had been seen. Even when confident that he had not been observed, he kept below the height of the capstone until he reached the corner where it joined the château.

In the shadow of the wall he stood up and tugged at the ivy. The creepers had forced themselves deep between the bricks and only a few leaves came away. Satisfied that they would bear his weight, he stepped over the balustrade and reached out as far as he could to grasp one of the thick main stems of the vine.

His progress was quicker and easier than he had expected. The ivy was strong and well achored, and its centuries of probing the mortar had opened up a score of fingerholds. Less than a minute after leaving the balcony the Saint dropped nimbly on to the catwalk and turned towards the tower. Bending low so as not to be silhouetted against the sky, he moved quickly along the wall until he reached the steps beside the tower. He took his time going down, taking the crumbling stairs one at a time and being careful not to dislodge the loose stones that littered them.

He sidled stealthily around the tower until he reached the window and just as cautiously ducked down and peered over the sill. When he had set out he had not bothered to speculate about what he might find, but the sight that greeted him was certainly stranger than any he would have imagined.

The tower was a hollow shell. The floors had long since collapsed, and the only clues to where they had once been were the positions of the arrow slits, the landings on the stone staircase that wound around the walls, and a single remaining joist that ran from just above the window to the opposite side of the room. From the centre, a slender stone pillar reached up halfway to the battlements.

The light that had caught his attention came from a small oil lamp hanging from the centre of the joist beside the pillar. Sitting around a table in its dim pool of light were Philippe, Henri, and Louis Norbert. In front of them lay a circle of cards bearing the letters of the alphabet, together with others on which had been scrawled the numbers from one to nine. The words oui and non had been written on two larger cards placed at opposite sides of the circle. An upturned wine-glass was in the center of the cards and the three men were staring intently at it as they rested the tips of their index fingers on its base.

The worldly Philippe Florian, the pedantic professor, and the diffident young lawyer were solemnly invoking the spirits...

With the sort of portentous gravity that politicians adopt when declaring war or raising taxes, Henri Pichot began to speak.

“Is anybody there?”

The Saint had to compress his lips to prevent the laughter escaping. He had always wondered what would happen at a séance if the medium’s first question was answered in the negative.

The glass shivered and jerkily moved across the table to oui and then slid more smoothly back to the centre.

“Identify yourself,” Henri commanded, and the glass began to glide around the circle of cards, making a series of brief stops.

The professor read out the letters it visited:

A sudden stillness descended on the group as the name registered. It lasted no more than a few seconds, but to the three men at the table it might as well have been an hour. They stared at the glass, and even in the half light the Saint could see Philippe stiffen and Norbert’s eyes open wide in astonishment.

The movement of the glass back to the middle of the table broke the spell.

Philippe snatched his hand away as quickly as if the glass had become red hot, exclaiming: “Mon Dieu!”

Pichot looked nervously at the professor and his voice shook as he asked: “Don’t you think this has gone far enough?”

Norbert glared angrily at them.

“Silence!” he hissed. “Do not break the circle. We are making a contact. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

Unconvinced but obviously unwilling to admit to fear, Philippe again laid his finger on the glass. Beads of sweat glistened on Norbert’s temple, and he stared at the glass as if hypnotised.

The Saint turned away from the window towards the low door that led into the garden. It was half open and he moved silently towards it. As he did so he heard Norbert intone: “When did you die?”

Cautiously the Saint peered in. The stone pillar stood between him and the three men, and the light of the oil lamp was too weak to spread beyond the table. Their whole attention was concentrated on the glass as the professor again read its answer out loud.

“1... 3... 1... 4.”

The Saint slid through the narrow opening and side-stepped until he was directly in line with the pillar. He waited until the glass had returned to the centre of the table and the professor had asked for a message before moving. Three long swift strides brought him directly behind the pillar so that it completely hid him from the three men but so close that he could have reached out and touched Henri’s shoulder. The glass was moving again, faster this time as if whoever, or whatever, controlled it was becoming more confident.

“T.H.O.S.E. W.H.O. H.A.V.E. T.H.E. C.O.U.R.A.G.E. T.O. S.E.E.K. S.H.A.L.L. W.I.N. T.H.E. R.E.W.A.R.D.S. O.F. T.H.E. B.R.A.V.E.” Norbert spelt out.

“What does it mean?” Philippe asked defiantly, but the professor again told him to be silent

“Look, there is more,” said Henri.

The Saint edged round the pillar so that he could see what was happening.

The glass was sliding back and forth across the table, moving so rapidly that it was soon impossible to read out its message. First Philippe and then Norbert lost contact with it. Henri stayed with it for a few more seconds and then he too lost his touch. The glass was moving on its own. The colour drained from Philippe’s face and Norbert was visibly shaking.

The glass shot towards Henri. The young man threw himself aside at the last moment as it flew off the table and shattered against the pillar an inch from the Saint’s hand.

The Saint had never had cause to worry about the steadiness of his nerves, but the sight of the glass moving of its own accord and then seemingly heading straight at him had tested them to the full. He could not check the involuntary sideways movement that would have dodged a direct hit, any more than he could deny the eerie tingle he felt in the nape of his neck.

The three men jerked around as the glass splintered, and then he was sure enough of his self-control to step calmly into the lamplight. He smiled broadly into their startled faces.

“It didn’t by any chance happen to mention the winner of tomorrow’s big race at Chantilly?” he inquired.

Gradually the others recovered from the shock caused by the flight of the glass and his own sudden materialisation. Philippe’s chair crashed backwards as he stood up. He steadied himself with one hand against the table as he raised the other and pointed accusingly at the Saint.

“A trick! He’s been making fools of us,” he shouted as the color flooded back into his cheeks.

Simon’s smile never wavered but his eyes were wary as he realised that Philippe was not only scared but also drunk, a combination that could be dangerous.

“Look, no hands,” he murmured, and raised his arms to emphasise the point.

Florian lurched towards him and there was no mistaking his intention. The Saint walked around the other side of the table to place its width between them. He had no wish to become involved in a brawl at that stage of the proceedings. Henri jumped up and placed a restraining hand on Philippe’s shoulder.

“I think we should hear what Monsieur Templar has to say,” he said gently but firmly. Florian muttered something under his breath and leant back against the pillar glaring malevolently at the Saint.

Norbert still sat at the table. He looked up at the Saint and spoke as if questioning a student at a tutorial.

“Well, Monsieur Templar? What are you doing here?”

“I came out for a breath of fresh air. I saw the light and wondered what was happening,” Simon replied easily. “By the way, what is happening?”

“A scientific experiment,” the professor answered just as glibly.

“Funny, I thought you were prospecting.”

The Saint had not intended to say it. The words had simply formed themselves of their own accord and he had spoken them. Mimette’s explanation for Norbert’s late arrival at dinner and the amusement it caused must, he decided, have been playing on his subconscious which had duly produced an unexpected flash of insight.

Whatever its origin, his remark elicited an illuminating response. Philippe swore, and it was only Henri’s grip on his shoulder that prevented him from trying to get close to the Saint again. For his part, Henri seemed suddenly very tense. But it was Norbert who provided the most surprising reaction. He simply smiled and rose slowly to his feet.

“So you are interested in the treasure?” he observed benignly.

Simon looked down into eyes as warm and welcoming as a pair of icebergs, and something he saw in their chill depths told him that the little professor was not just the comical gnome he appeared to be.

“Of course,” said the Saint guardedly.

“Why are you interested?” Florian snarled, but Norbert waved him to silence.

There was a new air of miniaturised authority about the professor which the Saint found fascinating.

“People have talked about the Templar treasure for hundreds of years, Monsieur Philippe. It is hardly a secret. The question is — how much does Monsieur Templar know?”

“Just what I’ve heard since I’ve been here,” the Saint answered adroitly, and before the point could be pressed he nodded towards the table and added: “I take it you were asking for a little help from heaven or the other place.”

“I gather that you do not believe in such things,” said Norbert.

“Frankly, my tastes are more spiritueux than spiritistes.”

“I would have expected someone with your experience of the world to have a more open mind about such matters.”

The Saint heard the words but was no longer listening to them. He was looking past the three men towards the shadows beneath the far wall, and as he did so a strange chill rippled through him, as if his veins had turned into tiny rivers of ice.

From the gloom, a white-shrouded figure was watching them.

“We have a visitor,” Simon mentioned diffidently.

The professor had still been rambling on about poltergeists, faith healing, and clairvoyance, as absorbed in propounding his own knowledge as only a man whose best friends are books can be. He was completely unaware that he had lost the attention of his audience until the Saint spoke. The others swung around. Henri gave a passable impression of someone trying to jump out of his skin, and almost tripped in his haste to place himself behind the table. Philippe was much calmer, or perhaps too befuddled to react sharply. He looked blearily from the Saint to the figure and waited on events. Norbert, taken completely aback, gawped at it with bulging eyes.

The Saint’s own imperturbability was being put to a severe test. In the course of his eventful travels he had seen too much to be a total unbeliever, but for one quiet evening in Provence the spooky phenomena seemed to be coming somewhat thick and fast.

The figure began to move towards them. Slowly it emerged from the shade of the wall into one of the patches of moonlight that chequered the floor. The hazy white-shrouded outline became focused into a flowing cotton cloak, and the apparition raised one hand and pulled back the cowl as it drew nearer. As they all saw the face, their relief might have seemed only a different kind of shock.

“A really spectacular entrance, mademoiselle,” Simon congratulated her, with a slightly ironic bow.

The girl gave him a withering glance but appeared more concerned with the others. Her face was pale with rage and the knuckles of her clenched fists showed white. She stopped at the table and stood there with her hands on her hips inspecting each of them in turn like a head mistress might have surveyed a group of truants.

Philippe was the first to recover.

“What do you mean by creeping up on us like that?” he blustered, stepping out to confront his niece. “What are you doing here?”

Mimette rounded on him like a tigress.

“What am I doing here? This is my home! How dare you question me?”

“I hope we were not doing any harm,” Norbert put in placatingly. “But you gave us all a start.”

“You deserved it,” Mimette retorted. “I am surprised at you all. I thought you would have been above such childishness, Professor.”

“Our intention was far from childish, mademoiselle,” Norbert countered. “One should not make the mistake of thinking that because children do things they are necessarily childish.”

Mimette picked up a handful of the cards and threw them contemptuously back on to the table.

“Calling up the spirit of the glass? Most children forget such games before they are allowed to stay up so late.”

“A primitive method, I’ll agree,” said Henri, as if conceding a minor point in a legal debate. “But as we have no medium among us it had to serve our purpose.”

“Henri, I am disappointed in you,” Mimette replied. “I would have thought you at least would have had more sense than to dabble in such rubbish.”

The young man avoided her eyes and seemed genuinely abashed.

“I’m sorry, Mimette. It was my silly idea. Just a little fun.”

The Saint rested his shoulders against the pillar completely at ease.

“I’m sorry if I broke any of the house rules,” he said. “I couldn’t get to sleep, and I was just wandering around—”

“You were not a party to it. I saw what happened. It was seeing you in the garden that brought me here.”

“Well, I am dreadfully sorry to have given offence, Mademoiselle Mimette,” Philippe declared aggressively, with as much dignity as he could muster.

With a parting scowl at his niece, he shouldered his way past Henri and Norbert and strode unsteadily out into the garden. Henri looked apologetically at Mimette.

“I think I’d better go and make sure he is all right,” he said, and hurried after him.

“Seeing that our experiment has been disrupted, I think I too shall retire,” the professor said pompously. As he passed Mimette he stopped and pointed to the crucifix hanging on a golden chain around her neck. “Childish foolishness?” he sneered. “I hope your talisman protects you.”

Grinning impishly, he ambled after the others.

“Alone again, at last,” Simon remarked when the professor had disappeared from view.

The girl was still quivering with suppressed rage, and for a moment he thought she was going to run after the professor and physically assault him. He moved over and put a restraining hand on her shoulder.

“It wouldn’t be worth it,” he said, reading her mind.

Slowly she relaxed and he felt the tenseness drain away from her. She looked up at him with wide wondering eyes and seemed for a moment as vulnerable as a lost child.

“As if we didn’t have enough to worry about,” she said at last_r and there was a deep tiredness in her voice that revealed all the uncertainty behind her bold front of almost arrogant assurance.

“This place gives me the creeps — how about a nightcap?” he suggested, and she nodded.

He reached up and unhooked the oil lamp, turning out the light as he placed it on the table. He kept his arm around her as they left the tower and strolled across the lawn to the dining-room.

She leant her head against his shoulder and whispered: “Sometimes I wonder whether there really is a curse on us.”

He stroked her hair lightly.

“If you’re cursed, I can think of millions of women who would be only too eager to line up at the witch’s door.”

She met his eyes and smiled wickedly.

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Flattery is only flattery when it isn’t the truth,” he said.

In the drawing-room, while Mimette sank gratefully into the comfort of the sofa, he poured them both a long measure of Armagnac. He handed Mimette her glass and sat beside her.

“The professor keeps prattling on about this treasure. Do you believe in it?” he asked.

“It’s a legend that must have some historic basis, I suppose. This was one of the last Templar strongholds to fall. All the supposed wealth of the Templars was never fully accounted for. Perhaps it was exaggerated, but when the King’s army finally broke in here they could find no trace of it. Those knights who were not killed escaped and were never captured.” Mimette laughed. “It is said that the devil took them down to hell.”

“But left the treasure up here-is that it?”

“Yes. People have searched for it for centuries but not even a single coin has been found. Even the Germans had a look for it. They were typically thorough and did a lot of damage but found nothing. How would you search a place as big as this, without a clue where to begin?”

“So why the sudden interest now?”

“Professor Norbert believes that the stone may. be a clue to something, a sort of symbol map to where a treasure might be hidden.”

“Obviously he hasn’t broken the code yet, or there would have been no need for the séance,” Simon observed.

Mimette’s face darkened as she remembered the events in the tower.

“Norbert is obsessed with the treasure and I think he’d try anything to find it, even dabbling in the occult. And not only to prove his scholarship. I’m sure he’d also be delighted to make some money out of it.”

“And Philippe?”

“Uncle Philippe will try anything if there is likely to be a profit at the end,” she returned cynically. “He’s taken a great interest in Norbert’s work. Sometimes I think that’s why he wants to buy the château, just so that he can pull it down brick by brick to see if the treasure really is here. Then he could build a wine factory, nice and modern, nice and functional, and nice and profitable.”

“What did you mean about your father saving Philippe’s life, and what was Yves’s reference to the war all about?”

Mimette seemed to be considering the implications of answering as she gazed at the liquid in her glass.

At last she shrugged and said resignedly: “What does it matter if you know? Philippe was in Paris during the war. He made a fortune on the black market.”

“Nothing so terrible in that,” said the Saint dispassionately. “I suppose he had to make a living somehow.”

“No, not in itself,” Mimette agreed. “But he was very friendly towards the Germans. People believed he was a collaborator and that that was why he was never arrested. He was more valuable giving the Germans information than he would have been in prison. There was a resistance group near Lille which Philippe had a connection with. I don’t know all the details, but apparently he ran a sideline in forged identity papers, travel permits, that sort of thing. One night he was due to meet a contact. He never turned up but the Germans did. The whole group was rounded up and most of them were shot.”

“So why is he still around? I thought most collaborators didn’t last long after the Allies arrived?”

“When Paris fell he came here, and Papa hid him for months. The word was put around that he had been killed in the street fighting before the city was liberated. It was easy to believe. People trusted my father, and anyway everything was in chaos. When things began to get back to normal and tempers had cooled, he returned to Paris. After all, the people he betrayed were dead, and there was no real proof against him. He used his money to open new businesses, and the richer he became, the more powerful he was, and the harder it was to challenge him.”

“I know the type, said the Saint dryly. Endow a couple of charities, support the right political party, and suddenly you’re a great guy and no one wants to remember.”

Mimette laughed shortly and without amusement.

“That’s good old Uncle Philippe. The big dealer.”

“If all you’ve said is true, why does your father put up with him?”

“My father is a very gentle man. Although Philippe is only his half-brother — they had the same father but different mothers — he has always felt protective towards him. He believes it is all a question of family loyalties. He is blind to what Philippe is trying to do.”

“And you are not?”

Mimette rose and placed her empty glass on the table. She glanced at the clock and then at the Saint.

“It is very late, and we start the harvest as soon as it is light,” she replied with a return to the businesslike briskness that had so irritated him that afternoon. “If you will excuse me, I am also very tired.”

He realised that nothing was to be gained by pressing her further and allowed his question to remain unanswered. He swallowed the last of his brandy and stood up.

“Until my car is repaired,” he said, “if there’s anything you’d like me to do—”

Mimette faced him inscrutably.

“Just keep your eyes open.”

At the door she turned.

“Could there be anything in supernatural explanations — in some destiny that forces some accidents to happen?”

“Such as?”

“After all,” she said, “we seem to have been sent our very own Knight Templar to help us.”

The Saint gave her a courtly bow.

“A vos ordres,” he said.

She laughed again, and left him with a cheerful “Dormez bien!”

The sudden change of mood might have perplexed him if he had not witnessed a succession of similar transformations during the day. As it was, he accepted it as further evidence of what he was already afraid of. That Mimette Florian could be very close to a breakdown, and that her collapse might bring down the whole mysterious fabric of Château Ingare.

2

The Saint had never been convinced of the proverbial benefits ascribed to early rising. The nature of his vocation frequently entailed going to bed late and getting up at an hour when most of the population are contemplating lunch. So far as he could tell, the habit had done him little harm. It had certainly helped to make him wealthy, and appeared to have had no adverse effect on either his health or his wisdom. Furthermore, it had never developed in him any latent enthusiasm for catching worms.

Mimette had said that they started the harvest shortly after dawn but had considerately omitted to invite him to be present. Possibly she felt that he would only get in the way. In any case, he was grateful. He decided on a compromise between his normal inclination and the regime of the château, and opened his eyes as the grandfather clock on the landing outside his bedroom chimed for the ninth time.

He had slept the sound sleep that is supposed to be the prerogative of the innocent, and felt confident of being able to tackle anything the inhabitants of Château Ingare might throw in his way. He had not stayed awake considering the implications of what Mimette had told him, being content to let the new day shed more light on the problems of the house. Nor did he allow them to worry him as he dressed but concerned himself solely with the selection of the day’s wardrobe.

He met Charles in the corridor outside his room, and the old man informed him that he had been just about to wake him.

“Clairvoyance is another of my gifts,” said the Saint breezily. “And where do I break my fast?”

“The dining-room, m’sieu,” Charles replied, and added that his hosts and fellow guests had already eaten. “Is there anything special you would like?”

“Could you manage ham and eggs?”

“Of course.”

Simon followed him down to the reception area. The double doors of the old hall were open and the Saint stopped and looked in. The muffled sounds of hammering reached him.

“A woodpecker must have got in,” he observed, and the servant allowed himself a half smile.

“I understand Professor Norbert is doing some restoration work in the chapel.”

“Sounds more as if he’s trying to dig his way out,” Simon commented as Charles ushered him into the dining-room.

One of the hardships of travelling in the country of haute cuisine is that the French have never discovered the delicious potential of real bacon or the proper art of frying eggs. However, the ham and eggs which he had ordered, cooked together in the inevitable little porcelain dish, would provide the solid sustenance which Simon Templar deemed an essential start to the day, in addition to a freshly baked croissant and some home-made jam. After disposing of them, he poured a second cup of coffee and picked up the copy of the newspaper that had been left beside his place.

He scanned the pages but found little of interest. The French Government was in danger of falling, which in those days was as regular as rain in April, and there was speculation about a general strike. These and a stepping up of the war in Indochina were allocated about half the space devoted to the fact that a lady in Toulouse had produced sextuplets. As he turned to an even more exhaustive coverage of a rumoured romance between a royal prince and a nude dancer at the Folies-Bergere, Charles entered to inform him that the mechanic from the local garage had arrived.

Simon’s first view of the said mechanic was the soles of a pair of very large boots protruding from under the front of the Hirondel. He wished them good morning and was rewarded with the appearance of a pair of grease-stained hands that curled out and gripped the bumper. Gradually the rest of the mechanic hauled itself into view.

“What a beautiful car, monsieur,” the man enthused. “Such an engine! Such workmanship! Such elegance!”

“I’m glad you approve,” said the Saint. “Can you fix it?”

The mechanic shook his head.

“No. It will need a new radiator.”

“Can you get a new radiator?”

The mechanic considered the question carefully as if the idea had not occurred to him before. Finally he nodded.

“There is a dealer in Nice. I will send for one straightaway and have it express-delivered,” he replied, plainly looking forward to the prospect of closer contact with the car’s intestines.

“How long will that take?”

“With luck I could get one here by midday tomorrow.”

The Saint looked around to make quite sure that there was no one within earshot, before he peeled a couple of notes from his wad and pressed them into the hands of the startled mechanic.

“Why not run out of luck until Friday?” he suggested.

“But that is several days, monsieur,” the man exclaimed.

Simon added a third note to the man’s collection.

“So it is,” he agreed as the argument disappeared into the mechanic’s pocket. “Look, I’m in no great hurry so why don’t you get the radiator delivered and wait till I call and ask you how much longer the job will take?”

“But, monsieur...?” the man began; but the Saint clapped him on the shoulder and propelled him gently towards the break-down truck that had brought him.

“Just give me the name of your garage and be on your way.”

He took the greasy card that the mechanic offered, and watched while the Hirondel was hitched up to the tow crane. A fourth and conclusive sample of the Banque de France’s elegant art work found its way into the mechanic’s possession as he climbed into his truck.

“This is of course strictly between ourselves,” Simon whispered conspiratorially.

“Of course, monsieur,” the man agreed, and drove quickly away in case the mad foreigner should change his mind and demand his money back.

The Saint smiled to himself at the ease with which the problem of extending his stay had been overcome. He hoped that the unknown saboteur, whoever it was, would appreciate his co-operation.

He strolled back into the château and again stopped to listen to the noise of Norbert’s industry. The violent pounding he had first heard had changed to a rhythmic tap-tap-tap of metal on stone. As he stood deciding whether or not to interrupt the professor’s labours he heard the door of the salon open.

He turned expecting to see Charles or his wife, but instead found himself looking at a girl who might have walked straight out of the pages of a movie magazine.

She was a platinum blonde with the sort of figure that makes an hour-glass look tubular. She wore a silky white dress that was long at the hem and low at the top and tight in between. She had the long-lashed bedroom eyes and full red lips that are more usually seen smiling out of glossy magazines in the cause of selling anything from deodorants to dog food. It was standardized beauty which the Saint could appreciate without being swept off his feet. She was not so much standing in the doorway as posing there, with one hand resting lightly on her hip and the other holding an unlit cigarette an inch from her lips.

Her voice held exactly the right note of practised allure he would have expected.

“Do you have a light?”

“I’m afraid not. They told me that smoking would stunt my growth.”

The girl eyed him shamelessly and smiled.

“You seem big enough already.”

“I lead a very pure life,” he informed her solemnly. “They also told me never to speak to strange ladies until we’d been introduced.”

The girl turned away and walked back into the salon. The Saint followed, picked up the table lighter, and lit her cigarette without bothering to ask why she had been unable to perform the task for herself.

“Thanks. I am Jeanne Corday.”

“Simon Templar. Et enchanté.”

“The Saint!”

In her surprise the girl’s accent slipped from Parisian pointu to the twang of Marseille. Simon noticed the lapse but it was quickly corrected.

“The famous Simon Templar! What brings you to a mortuary like this? No one’s been murdered, have they?”

“Not yet, to my knowledge, but you never know your luck,” he said. “And you? I wouldn’t say this was your natural ambiance.”

“I’m here for the harvest.”

“Picking or grape treading?” he asked politely.

She laughed.

“Hardly. I’m here to be presented to the powers that be for approval. I’m Henri Pichot’s fiancée.”

The Saint blinked in surprise. Philippe’s mistress he could have believed. A school friend of Mimette’s, lured away by the bright lights even. But the prospective spouse of the timid lawyer? It seemed a laughable combination.

“Well, well, well. Happy Henri,” he said thoughtfully.

Jeanne Corday interpreted it as a compliment, and smiled to display a set of expensively white teeth.

“Have you just arrived?” he asked, mainly because he could think of little else to say.

“This morning. I came down on the sleeper from Paris. Henri collected me from Avignon and here I am.”

“Where is the lucky man?”

She sighed with affected boredom. “Off playing the peasant somewhere, I suppose, and leaving me all alone to amuse myself. What does one do all day in a place like this?”

“I’m not sure,” the saint admitted. “But I’m going to go and join the peasants. Fancy a walk? It’s only a kilometre or so to the battlefields.”

“Walk!” the girl grimaced in disgust. “Do you mind?”

“Not in the least. See you later, then.”

She scowled as if he had insulted her. She was obviously unaccustomed to being rejected so easily but said nothing as he left her.

The Saint sauntered leisurely out of the château grounds following the track he had been driven along the previous day. It was a beautiful morning with a light breeze tempering the heat of the sun. The fields bordering the path were full of workers picking the grapes and piling them into huge wicker baskets. The air hummed with their chatter and the rattle of the handcarts as they were trundled up the hill towards the cluster of buildings below the château. Everything around him seemed light-years away from long-dead knights, family curses, saboteurs, and seances, and it was an effort to think about such things.

But the idea of hidden treasure intrigued him, and certainly seemed to provide the basis of a motive for Philippe’s interest in buying the château and even for trying to ruin the business so that Yves Florian would be forced into selling. But he was also a successful businessman and such men do not become rich by chasing legends. Norbert’s position was easier to understand. The professor was concerned with the historic importance of the treasure as well as its possible financial value. The kudos he could earn as its finder would be as sweet as any material reward he might claim. Only Henri’s role was vague, and the arrival of his fiancée made it even cloudier. To attract such a woman he must have more to offer than the average undistinguished lawyer.

The Saint was so absorbed in his thoughts as he climbed the second hill towards the barn that he did not immediately recognise an approaching figure, but as they drew closer he waved a greeting and the other stopped and waited for him.

“Bonjour, Gaston,” Simon said heartily. “I’m afraid I’m not very early. Is Mimette around?”

“Yes, she is at the barn. Is your car repaired yet?”

“No. It needs a new radiator, and the mechanic says he won’t be able to get hold of one for some days,” the Saint replied, glibly combining fact and fiction.

His answer seemed to distress the old man. Gaston shuffled his feet nervously and looked back up the path as if he was afraid of being followed.

“What is the matter?” Simon asked.

For a while the foreman said nothing but simply stared searchingly at the Saint. When he finally spoke there was no mistaking the earnestness behind his words.

“Do not wait for your car, Monsieur Templar. Go now. Go while you still can.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Simon demanded.

“I cannot explain but I hope you will listen,” Gaston pleaded. “Go now, or you may not leave Ingare alive.”

3

At any other time such a melodramatic prognostication might have made the Saint laugh, but he did not even smile as he realised the change that had come over Gaston Pichot in the twelve hours since they had chatted so casually together at dinner. Then the old overseer had been eager to begin the harvest, and his greatest worry had been the quality and quantity of the coming vintage. Now he seemed bowed by cares he was not used to bearing and he was afraid. It was the fear in the old man’s eyes which the Saint found so hard to understand and which made him appreciate the seriousness of the warning. The Saint’s survival had often depended on his ability to judge a man’s character on the briefest of encounters, and he knew that Gaston Pichot was not usually given to displays of dramatics or of fear. Men who jump at shadows do not survive five years in the Resistance.

Gaston seemed to read the answer to his advice in the Saint’s face. He sighed deeply and shook his head.

“But you will not leave,” he stated flatly. “I knew that you wouldn’t, but it was my duty to warn, perhaps, an old comrade.”

He started to walk away but the Saint stopped him.

“Warn me of what, Gaston? Who is going to do me in?”

“Would it make any difference if I told you?”

The Saint smiled.

“Probably not, but it might save me from coming to an untimely end.”

Gaston waved a hand towards the slopes where the grapes were being gathered.

“The men have heard what happened at the séance last night. I don’t know how. I did not know about it myself until one of them told me. It was a foolish thing to do. They are very superstitious and the tale has grown with the telling. They are saying that the Templar curse is coming true and that your arrival is linked with it. The burning of the barn has worried them. If anything else happens I am afraid of what they might do.”

Despite the other’s obvious sincerity, the Saint found it hard to take that threat seriously.

“What are you suggesting? A lynch mob?”

“With a mob, you never know,” Gaston replied gravely. “But I do not think it is only them you have to fear.”

“Who, then?” Simon persisted. “Philippe?”

Gaston shook off his detaining hand.

“I have said enough already. Perhaps too much. I could be wrong.”

Again he began to walk away, and this time the Saint did not try to stop him. He knew instinctively that however hard he pressed his questions he would find out nothing more. He stood and watched the overseer trudge stolidly up the hill towards the château before he continued his own journey.

He played back the conversation in his mind as he walked, analysing every word and gesture in an attempt to understand what could have prompted Gaston’s action. He only half believed the story of unrest among labourers in the vineyard. Superstitious they might be, but he doubted that their fears would be translated into any action that could endanger him. If Gaston had used their threat as a blind, then there was only one plausible alternative: that he was trying to protect someone else, not from what they had done, but from what they might do.

The smoke-blackened ruin of the chai was the centre of activity. The inside had been cleared, and the debris of the fire piled against the walls. Mimette stood beside the truck, supervising its loading as the labourers humped their baskets of grapes from the surrounding fields and emptied them into the rows of bins lined up by the tail-board.

“How’s it going?” Simon asked cheerily.

“Very well,” she replied, wiping her forehead with the sleeve of her blouse. “It should be a bumper crop this year. God knows we need one.”

He slipped off his jacket and began rolling up his sleeves.

“Where shall I start?”

“Start?” Mimette repeated blankly.

“Yes, start. You know — begin, commence, proceed, get down to it, et cetera.”

“You mean you want to help with the harvest?”

“But of course,” he said indignantly. “If I can’t sing for my supper I’ll pick for it.”

“You’re not exactly dressed for work,” she protested, and he admitted to himself that most vineyard workers do not clock on wearing silk shirts and Savile Row trousers.

He lowered his voice confidentially.

“My tailors would have coronaries, but if you don’t tell them I won’t.”

Mimette handed him a basket. She led him to a row of vines and briefly instructed him in the correct method of clipping the bunches.

“And if I see you slacking I’ll dock your pay,” she told him sternly.

The Saint tucked his forelock.

“Oui, mademoiselle,” he said humbly, in a creditable imitation of the local accent.

She laughed as she left him to his work. He had had no intention of lending a hand when he left the château. The idea had been spontaneous. He believed in collecting experiences. He had never taken part in a grape harvest. Here was a grape harvest, so why not take part?

He discovered that grape picking was far harder work than it appeared and it tested even his stamina. After two hours of non-stop toil in the heat of the day he had managed to locate muscles he had forgotten existed, and his hands and arms were stained a dark purple from the juice that burst from the ripe fruit.

He talked to the other pickers as he carried his basket to and from the truck. Including Pascal and Jules, they were respectful and distant — and, he guessed, suspicious of his working among them. But there was no sign of the hostility that Gaston had tried to hint about.

A halt was called at midday and he sat beside Mimette in the shade of the cypress trees, tucking in to coarse bread, saucisson, strong cheese, and vin very ordinaire with the same relish as if it had been a meal at Maxim’s. When both hunger and thirst had been sated, he told her of his encounter with Jeanne Corday.

“I heard that she arrived this morning,” she said. “What is she like?”

He considered his reply carefully.

“Can you imagine a cross between Mae West, Marlene Dietrich, and a playful boa constrictor?” he inquired.

Mimette’s eyes widened incredulously.

“She can’t be such a mixture as that!”

“That’s just my impression, and don’t quote me. Where did Henri meet her?”

“In Paris, I suppose. The first I heard about it was when he wrote to Gaston saying he had become engaged.”

“I think poor old Gaston is in for a surprise,” Simon chuckled. “By the way, where is Henri?”

“I’m not sure. I think he said he was going to check the inventory at the chai.”

“And Philippe?”

Mimette scowled.

“Uncle Philippe does not believe in soiling his hands. He went into Avignon early this morning, saying he had business to attend to. I don’t care where he is as long as he keeps out of my way.”

“Well, you should,” he told her reprovingly. “First rule of warfare, always know the enemy’s position.”

“Then you do believe Philippe is the enemy,” she said, but the Saint refused to be drawn.

“Let’s just say he is a prime suspect, and leave it at that for the time being.”

He stood up. The other workers were returning to the fields but he made no move to join them. The truck was full and about to begin another trip to the chai.

“It’s been fun, but I think I’d better get back to some real work,” he told Mimette as he helped her up.

“Real work?”

“You remember, keeping my eyes open. I’ll hitch a lift back to base and see what’s happening. I’d like to take the professor up on his offer of a chat.”

“You’re sure it’s the professor you want to see and not Jeanne Corday,” Mimette inquired mischievously.

The Saint appeared suitably shocked.

“How could you suspect such a thing?” he asked in a tone of injured innocence.

As they walked towards the truck he said casually: “By the way, the garagiste came, and says he can’t repair your handiwork for some days.”

The girl’s cheeks flushed, and she looked down at her shoes to avoid his eyes.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Elementary, my dear Mimette,” Simon answered in his best Holmesian voice. “Whoever damaged the car wanted me to stay, and you were the only person who didn’t seem anxious to get rid of me. Anyway, I’ve a feeling that filing down the brake cables would have been more to a villain’s taste.”

“I’m sorry, but I had to go out and it was the only thing I could think of at the time,” said Mimette shamefacedly. “However long it takes, you must stay with us.”

“I’ll be delighted to. And I’ll keep the secret. Just one thing...”

“Yes?” she asked quickly, and the Saint smiled.

“Next time try cutting the radiator hose. It doesn’t make half as much mess.”

For a moment she was nonplussed and then she began to giggle like a schoolgirl caught playing a prank.

The memory of her high-spirited merriment stayed with him during the bumpy ride back to the château. She was a different person from the confused and angry woman he talked with the previous night, more at home in the fresh air and freedom of the fields than the heavy cloistered atmosphere of the château; and he had deliberately kept the conversation light to try and take her mind off her problems.

The driver dropped him at the château steps before taking his load around to the chai. He saw no sign of Jeanne Corday as he walked across the reception area and through the old hall to the chapel. Louis Norbert was on his hands and knees in the centre of the aisle, using a wire brush to scrub away the dirt that had filled in the letters of a tombstone set into the floor. He glanced up as the Saint entered.

“Yes?” he inquired curtly, with no attempt to conceal his irritation at being disturbed.

“Or no, as the case may be,” the Saint responded blandly.

“Do you want something?”

“A word. Several, in fact,” said the Saint as he perched on top of a pew directly in front of the professor, so that his shadow obscured the tombstone. “I thought I’d take you up on your invitation to discuss my pedigree.”

“I thought you refused to be serious about that,” said Norbert crossly, but the Saint only smiled.

“I was too hasty,” he conceded. “The past twenty-four hours have made me very interested in the Templars.”

“And their treasure, no doubt,” the professor amplified slyly.

“And their treasure,” Simon agreed. “But then I suppose it really is just a legend.”

The little man sniggered. It was a high-pitched cackle that was strangely sinister. He straightened up and peered fixedly at his visitor.

“A legend? Perhaps. Troy was only a legend until Schliemann dug it up. Tutankhamen was thought an insignificant pharaoh before Carter opened the tomb,” he snorted. “What is a legend but a memory distorted by time? The treasure of the Templars exists and I shall find it.”

“I hope so,” said the Saint pleasantly, and Norbert rounded on him.

“You hope so! Why? So you can steal it? You are like the others. You think only of money. You think only in terms of gold and silver and jewels.”

“And you think in terms of acclaim from your academic cronies,” countered the Saint calmly. “Name in the newspapers, radio interviews, and a best-selling book: How 1 Found the Lost Treasure. Right? So now we understand each other there is no need to quarrel. But what was that mumbo jumbo about in the tower last night?”

“One of the charges against the Templars was that they practised black magic. You may scoff at the occult but—”

“I know, I know,” interrupted the Saint wearily. “More things in heaven and earth and so on and so forth. Okay, so let’s suppose you made contact with something or someone last night. Who was this Jacques de Molay you were all so excited about?”

Norbert regarded him coldly.

“Your arrogance is surpassed only by your ignorance.”

The Saint let the insult pass. He had a feeling that Norbert was the brand of academic who could not resist giving a lecture at the drop of a question, and he was right. The little man paced up and down the aisle as he talked.

“Jacques de Molay was the last Grand Master of the Order of the Templars. After King Philip he was the most important man in France. One of the most important in all Europe. Philip lured him and the other leading Templars into a trap. He invited them to Paris, pretended to befriend them, and when they were all gathered in the Temple he had them arrested. Simultaneously his men swooped on all the major Templar strongholds.”

“Including Ingare?”

“Of course. The Knights resisted, but De Molay let them down. Under torture he admitted all the crimes he was accused of — heresy, betrayal of the Crusades, treason to the Pope, everything. After that the Knights lost heart.”

“I wouldn’t be too hard on him, Professor,” said the Saint gently. “How would you feel if someone was offering to make you two metres tall in a few easy stretches?”

“But with his confession the Pope was forced to act,” said Norbert implacably. “He endorsed Philip’s actions and the Templars were officially proscribed. If De Molay had remained firm, they might have survived.”

“According to your séance, he died in 1314. But according to a student I met on the road yesterday, that was years after the Templars were disbanded. What happened in between?”

“The Templars were put on trial. It was all a sham, of course. De Molay was burnt at the stake. As he died, he summoned both the King and the Pope to meet him before the throne of judgement within a year. Both died within a few months. Something for even a sceptic like you to think over,” Norbert gibed.

“Impressive enough,” Simon assented. “De Molay would, of course, have known all about the treasure.”

“Of course. It was probably he who arranged for some of it to be brought to Ingare. Not that the fortress was known by that name then. The word was found carved into the stone in the great hall, and the new owners adopted it. For centuries it has been the only clue to the location of the treasure.”

“What does it mean?”

“It is an anagram of Regina,” Norbert said, as if only an idiot would have failed to recognize it.

The Saint frowned.

“The Latin word for Queen? Queen of what?”

“I do not know. If I did, I might have already found the treasure. Last night we might have been told, but you ruined it.”

“It was hardly my fault,” the Saint pointed out mildly. “Your spook seemed to take an instant dislike to me.”

The professor stopped his pacing. He stood glaring venomously at the Saint and shaking with anger.

“You were meddling in matters that did not concern you, and you are meddling again now.” Norbert’s voice rose to a shriek. “Get out! Go away. Leave me to my work. Leave me in peace!”

The Saint looked steadily into a pair of eyes that seemed to glow with a secret fire, and for the first time he wondered whether Professor Louis Norbert was completely sane. He could think of little that might be gained by staying, and turned compliantly away. By the time he reached the door Norbert was back on his knees, frantically scrubbing at the marks on the floor.

The Saint strolled out into the fresh air of the garden and sat on the edge of the wall. Except for some interesting historical background he had learnt little. He was wondering what to do next when the decision was made for him.

A scream and a crash of falling masonry drifted up from the direction of the chai and outbuildings below the château, and he was on his feet and racing towards them before the echo had died.

He covered the first hundred metres in a fraction over eleven seconds and reached the entrance to the nearest storehouse at the same time as the men who had been unloading the truck outside.

In the centre of the flagstone floor was a jagged hole, and lying ten feet down, half buried beneath broken wood and shattered paving, was the spread-eagled body of Gaston Pichot.