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

a walk? It’s only a kilometre or so to the battlefields.”
    “Walk!” the girl grimaced in disgust. “Do you mind?”
    “Not in the least. See you later, then.”
    She scowled as if he had insulted her. She was obviously unaccustomed to being rejected so easily but said nothing as he left her.
    The Saint sauntered leisurely out of the chateau grounds following the track he had been driven along the previous day. It was a beautiful morning with a light breeze tempering the heat of the sun. The fields bordering the path were full of workers picking the grapes and piling them into huge wicker baskets. The air hummed with their chatter and the rattle of the handcarts as they were trundled up the hill towards the cluster of buildings below the chateau. Everything around him seemed light-years away from long-dead knights, family curses, saboteurs, and seances, and it was an effort to think about such things.
    But the idea of hidden treasure intrigued him, and certainly seemed to provide the basis of a motive for Philippe’s interest in buying the chateau and even for trying to ruin the business so that Yves Florian would be forced into selling. But he was also a successful businessman and such men do not become rich by chasing legends. Norbert’s position was easier to understand. The professor was concerned with the historic importance of the treasure as well as its possible financial value. The kudos he could earn as its finder would be as sweet as any material reward he might claim. Only Henri’s role was vague, and the arrival of his fiancee made it even cloudier. To attract such a woman he must have more to offer than the average undistinguished lawyer.
    The Saint was so absorbed in his thoughts as he climbed the second hill towards the barn that he did not immediately recognise an approaching figure, but as they drew closer he waved a greeting and the other stopped and waited for him. “Bonjour, Gaston,” Simon said heartily. “I’m afraid I’m not very early. Is Mimette around?”
    “Yes, she is at the barn. Is your car repaired yet?”
    “No. It needs a new radiator, and the mechanic says he won’t be able to get hold of one for some days,” the Saint replied, glibly combining fact and fiction.
    His answer seemed to distress the old man. Gaston shuffled his feet nervously and looked back up the path as if he was afraid of being followed.
    “What is the matter?” Simon asked.
    For a while the foreman said nothing but simply stared searchingly at the Saint. When he finally spoke there was no mistaking the earnestness behind his words.
    “Do not wait for your car, Monsieur Templar. Go now. Go while you still can.”
    “What is that supposed to mean?” Simon demanded.
    “I cannot explain but I hope you will listen,” Gaston pleaded. “Go now, or you may not leave Ingare alive.”
    4
    At any other time such a melodramatic prognostication might have made the Saint laugh, but he did not even smile as he realised the change that had come over Gaston Pichot in the twelve hours since they had chatted so casually together at dinner. Then the old overseer had been eager to begin the harvest, and his greatest worry had been the quality and quantity of the coming vintage. Now he seemed bowed by cares he was not used to bearing and he was afraid. It was the fear in the old man’s eyes which the Saint found so hard to understand and which made him appreciate the seriousness of the warning. The Saint’s survival had often depended on his ability to judge a man’s character on the briefest of encounters, and he knew that Gaston Pichot was not usually given to displays of dramatics or of fear. Men who jump at shadows do not survive five years in the Resistance.
    Gaston seemed to read the answer to his advice in the Saint’s face. He sighed deeply and shook his head.
    “But you will not leave,” he stated flatly. “I knew that you wouldn’t, but it was my duty to warn, perhaps, an old comrade.”
    He started