The Saint Abroad

188 Pages·2012·0.58 MB·English

by  Charteris Leslie

THE ART COLLECTORS
The task befalls the Saint to rescue a beautiful girl from
the clutches of some unsavory "art lovers." Fairly routine
for Simon Templar; not-so-routine is the lady's
possession of five paintings worth over a million which is
making her a target for considerable international foul
play. And where did she get those paintings?
THE PERSISTENT PATRIOTS
The Saint's nose for adventure takes him to
Nagawiland, where, true to form, he happens to be in
the right place at the right time to save the local P.M.
from assassination. And then the fun begins . . .
THE SAINT ABROAD
LESLIE CHARTERIS
CHARTER
NEW YORK
A DIVISION OF CHARTER COMMUNICATIONS INC
A GROSSET & DUNLAP COMPANY
THE SAINT ABROAD
Copyright © 1969 by Leslie Charteris All rights reserved
Published by arrangement with Doubleday & Company, Inc.
Charter Books
A Division of Charter Communications Inc.
A Grosset & Dunlap Company
360 Park Avenue South
New York, New York 10010
Manufactured in the United States of America
FOREWORD
Our first three experiments in turning the tables on the television producers (The
Saint on TV, The Saint Returns, and The Saint & the Fiction Makers) having
been tolerably well received, we have been encouraged to bring out yet another
of these hybrid books—that is, Saint stories which were originally created
expressly for television, not by me, adapted for reading as ordinary fiction by yet
another writer, and indebted to me only for the parentage of the Saint himself,
for sundry suggestions along the way, and for a final revision of the manuscript
in which I did my best to see that the style was as close to my own as possible,
short of a complete personal rewrite. In the construction of these adaptations, I
have not hesitated to call for quite drastic changes from what you may have seen
on the mini-screen, exactly as a film producer does not hesitate to take liberties
with any story he has bought, whenever I thought I could improve on the
material. In this case, reversing the traditional sequence of events, I am the
character who has had the last word.
Nor do I feel that I owe any apology to old and faithful readers of the Saint
Saga. The television stories which I have selected for this treatment are only
those which I thought had genuine possibilities—which by no means qualifies
everything that has gone out on the TV networks. Nor would I have published
these adaptations if they dissatisfied me. Whether this kind of composite
authorship is kosher may be debatable on a rarified intellectual plane, but if it
satisfies enough aficionados of the Saint who want more books to read than I can
supply, it can't be all bad.
LC
CONTENTS
I. THE ART COLLECTORS
II. THE PERSISTENT PATRIOTS
THE ART COLLECTORS
ORIGINAL TELEPLAY BY MICHAEL PERTWEE
ADAPTED BY FLEMING LEE
1
"In these devaluable days," Simon Templar said, "you don't just take your money
and stash it away in some nice sturdy bank, or you may very well find yourself
with a nice sturdy bank full of waste paper."
"Knowing your reputation, Monsieur Templar, I can well believe that you have
several bank vaults full of such waste paper," said Marcel LeGrand.
LeGrand's smile, which appeared through the thicket of his black mustache and
beard like the moon seen rising through a forest, was the smile of a salesman
certain that however much money his customer has at the moment, he is going to
have considerably less before he leaves. The bushy-faced art dealer's hand
caressed the gilded frame of one of his salon's more expensive offerings as he
spoke. All around him, on walls and easels, were the colors and forms of the
paintings that were his stock-in-trade. The displays were arranged so that direct
sunlight could never touch the works of art, but flashes of light thrown by the
passing traffic through the blue-tinted windows from the Paris street outside
gave a kind of psychedelic motion to the whole interior.
"You underestimate me," Simon Templar replied with a perfect gravity. "I
support the Rothschilds almost single-handed. Without my deposits, the gnomes
of Zürich would have to crawl back into their caves and collect mushrooms for a
living."
The Saint—the name by which the world most generally knew Simon Templar
—saw no more reason to try to spike the rumors which circulated about his
wealth than he saw to try to quash the legends which flourished around his
reputation as a modern buccaneer, a Robin Hood whose Sherwood Forest was
the world of crime in an age of industry and international finance, and whose
victims were the criminals themselves. In the first place, the stories were mostly
true. In the second place, efforts to refute myths tended only to have the effect of
increasing belief in their validity. Thirdly, the Saint enjoyed the exaggerations,
and they were useful to him. They increased the awe of potential enemies and
pushed them toward elaborate precautions and nervous countermeasures which
could only increase their chances of error. The same tables enhanced his powers
of bluff where the police were concerned and his naturally considerable powers
of attraction where women were concerned. All in all, folklore had its uses.
"I hope, then, more sincerely than ever, that you will find something here which
pleases you," LeGrand said. "You will find no better selection in France—I can
promise you that. And I do not think I flatter myself when I say that my
judgment as to the investment value of paintings is as sound as that of any man
in the world."
"No, you don't flatter yourself," the Saint said. "That is exactly why I'm here and
not talking to some other dealer."
He moved slowly through the large room, whose space for hanging paintings
was increased by a number of partitions jutting out across the richly carpeted
floor and reaching almost to the ceiling. LeGrand followed with calculated
casualness, his hands clasped behind his back. He was a head shorter than the
Saint's lean-muscled six feet two, but he made up for it on the horizontal,
without actually being fat.
"Perhaps you could suggest some amount you would like to invest," LeGrand
said. "I realize that taste, too, is involved, but we may as well be practical."
"We may as well," Simon said with a smile, "and therefore I'm not showing you
my wallet until after you've shown me the price tags."
LeGrand laughed and shrugged to acknowledge his appreciation of the Saint's
acumen as a bargainer. Simon noticed, looking over the art dealer's shoulder,
that a tall, dark-haired man had started to step into the shop from the street, had
seen through the windows that LeGrand was occupied, and had stayed outside
without leaving the doorway.
"This," Simon said. "What is it?"
He had turned back to one of the framed paintings hanging on one of the
partitions. Most of LeGrand's collection was pre-nineteenth century. Along this
partition were some of the exceptions—contemporary productions, non-
representational.
"That is chicken feathers on lacquered axle grease," LeGrand said impassively.
"Interesting, no?"
"No," said the Saint. "How much do you calculate it will be worth in ten years?"
"About two francs," said LeGrand, still impassively. "Let me show you
something more suitable. Something from the Renaissance—Italian, or Flemish.
There is a Van Eyck . . ."
The dealer and Simon turned, and the dark-haired man who had been outside the
doorway was standing not ten feet from them. He had entered so soundlessly that
even the Saint had not heard his footsteps on the carpet.
"I am sorry to disturb you," he said to LeGrand in French, "but I must speak with
you as soon as possible."
"As you see, I have a customer," LeGrand said with polite deference. "But as
soon as . . ."
"This is very urgent," the stranger said, "and I have other duties. If you could
spare just a moment . . . alone."
"Very well," LeGrand answered. "If you can excuse me . . ."
He was looking at the Saint, who nodded.
"As a matter of fact," he said, "I may as well be going. I haven't really seen
anything that . . ."
LeGrand held up his hand and put on a confidential expression.
"Don't go," he said earnestly. "I have something . . . special. Special for you. Just
wait a few moments . . ." He turned to the stranger and motioned him toward an
alcove in the rear of the salon, separated from the main area by a pair of velvet
curtains. "If you would step this way, please, monsieur. We must be brief."
If the Saint had not been naturally inquisitive, he would have spent many more
quiet evenings at home than in fact he did. It would not be accurate to say that he
listened to the conversation between Marcel LeGrand and his stolid visitor, but
he did not take, pains to avoid hearing a phrase here and there from the dialogue
of hushed voices.
The first fragment was quite clear, since the newcomer uttered it before he had
entered the alcove: "I am Inspector Mathieu . . ." LeGrand's reactions were
almost inaudible but had overtones of puzzled incomprehension. Inspector