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

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