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

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 chateau. 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 aperitifs 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.