The Saint and the Hapsburg Necklace Read Free

you would tell me your name … ?”
    “It is unimportant. Anonymous Bosch
Unimportant, Es quire. Who are you?”
    “See here, my friend!” the other
snapped back. “This is serious. Her life may be in danger.”
    The Saint was as bland as a poker player
bluffing a weak hand into a good one.
    “Suppose we meet somewhere? We must have
a long talk. I’m dying to catch up on all your news.”
    There was another pause. Then the man
chuckled.
    “And I should like to meet you, Mr … er … Unimpor tant. I
admire your sense of humour. Let us arrange a rendez vous at the Edelweiss
in half an hour, if you are near enough to make it. Do you
know the place?”
    “No, I don’t, but I daresay a taxi
driver will.”
    “They all do. And stick a piece of white
paper in your lapel so I will recognise you.”
    “And how shall I recognise you?”
    “I shall be wearing a Siamese
cat,” the man replied, and hung up.
     
    2
     
    Vienna is really two cities, the Alte Stadt,
dating from the Middle
Ages, and the baroque city of Maria Theresa with later additions under the Emperor Franz Joseph. To some ex tent the two parts mingle. The Alte Stadt is
bounded by The Ring, Vienna’s main
thoroughfare, built in the nineteenth century
on the site of the old city wall. But the baroque style of the outer city has breached this boundary in
many places, and nowadays most of the medieval buildings of the Alte Stadt are to be found in the region around its
shopping street, the Graben.
    The Edelweiss was a small cosy restaurant in
this old part of the town. It was furnished in the Tyrolean manner
with plain wooden chairs and tables, and its walls were covered with
unvarnished panelling.
    At close on ten o’clock that night it was
fairly empty. The Saint chose a central table where he could see anyone who
came in yet which was in a comparatively isolated position. He tore
off a corner of a newspaper he was carrying and rolled it up and stuffed it
in his lapel.
    He ordered an apricot brandy and sipped it
while he watched the door. He wondered vaguely if he might have
mis understood the man on the telephone. Perhaps he had really said
Siamese “cap” with a “p,” instead of “cat,” and
would turn out to be an oriental gentleman wearing his national headdress.
    He need not have worried. The cat lay on its
owner’s shoulders like a fur collar. It looked like a particularly valu able
specimen of its kind.
    The man saw Simon at once and made for his
table. He was short, stocky and balding, with somewhat flabby
features, a flat nose, and merry brown eyes. His age could have
been anywhere between forty-five and sixty. He wore a green loden coat and a
black Tyrolean hat, which he removed as he came through the door.
    “Ach,” he called out to Simon, coming over and holding out his hand. “It is good to see you, my
friend Anonymous.”
    Simon got up and shook the extended hand.
    “Is this table all right for you?”
he asked.
    “Excellent. There is no one within
earshot.”
    “That’s why I chose it,” said Simon
as they seated them selves. “What will you have to drink?”
    “Six brandies. But this is my party.
What are you drink ing?”
    “I’ll stick to Barack, thank
you—just one!” Simon said.
    The waiter evidently knew the Saint’s
companion, for with out question or comment he brought along a tray on which were six
brandy glasses, each with a double measure of golden . liquid in it, and
a liqueur glass containing Simon’s drink. He bowed and departed, a handsome tip
clutched in his hand.
    “Here’s to you, Simon said, raising his
glass.
    “Prost!” said the
other, draining the first of his brandies at a gulp. “By the
way, please excuse that Radio Paris busi ness. It is a means
of letting me know who is calling.”
    “I don’t quite see how.”
    “My friends who know my methods simply
go right ahead and talk. Strangers apologise and hang up.”
    “And you never take calls from
strangers?”
    “Not late at night.