Saint and the Templar Treasure by Leslie Charteris, Charles King, Graham Weaver
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Espionage, Private Investigators, England, Detective and Mystery Stories; English, Saint (Fictitious Character), Detective and Mystery Stories; American, Saint (Fictitious Character) - Fiction, Private Investigators - United States - Fiction
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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
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
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