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

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 chateau 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 enchante.”
    “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 fiancee.”
    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