Saint and the Templar Treasure by Leslie Charteris, Charles King, Graham Weaver Page A

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 recolte 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.