The Saint in Europe Read Free

the girl said.
    “Alas, no. I am in Belgium, on business, when I read ze newspaper. It is ze first I ‘ear of you bose since ze war. I mean to look for ‘im, of course. But as soon as I return, before I can look, I read in ze newspaper about ‘im again, and ‘e is dead.” Olivant allowed an expression of grief to dwell on his face for a measured period of time, and then bravely set it aside. “‘Owever, I come to place myself at your service. For finding ze murderers, we can only ‘ope ze police ‘ave success. But anysing else I can do … You will, per’aps, ‘ave lunch wiz me?”
    The girl’s eyes went to the Saint, and Simon made a faint negative movement with his head.
    “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’ve already promised … May I introduce Mr-“
    “Tombs,” said the Saint promptly, holding out his hand.
    The same kind of impulse that had made him introduce himself with complete candor to Valerie North now made him duck behind the alias which often afforded him a morнbid private amusement; but this time his inward smile vanнished abruptly as Olivant shook hands. From a man who looked like Olivant, he had expected a fleshy and probably moist and limp contact; but the palm that touched his own was hard and rough like a laborer’s.
    Deep in the Saint’s brain a little premonitory pulse began to beat, like the signal of some psychic Geiger counter; but his face was a mask of conventional amiability.
    “Mr Tombs,” Olivant repeated, like a man who made a practise of memorizing names. “Zen per’aps bose of you-“
    “I don’t want to be rude,” said the Saint firmly, “but my job depends on this exclusive interview. You know how newspapers, are.”
    M Olivant made a visible effort to look like a man who knew how newspapers are.
    “I am desolate.” He turned back to the girl. “For cockнtails, zen, per’aps? I ‘ave look forward so much to zis meetнing-“
    “Excuse me,” said the Saint.
    He strolled across the lobby to the little newsstand and glanced quickly over its wares. A guide book with a shiny stiff paper cover caught his eye, and he bought it, and wiped the cover briskly with his handkerchief while he waited for his change. He walked back, holding the book by one corнner, to where M Olivant was taking his talkative leave of Valerie North.
    “I come ‘ere, zen, at five o’clock. I ‘ave so much to tell you about your poor fahzer, and what ‘e does for us in ze Resistance before ze Gestapo take ‘im … To sink I ‘ave not see you since you were such a leetle girl!”
    “I’ll look forward to it,” said the girl, selfconsciously letнting her hand be kissed, and looked at the Saint. “May I run upstairs just for a minute and see my room before we go?”
    “Sure.”
    As she left, Simon showed M Olivant his book, holding it in such a way that the other was practically forced to take it.
    “M Olivant, would you say this was any good?”
    Olivant took the book and thumbed perfunctorily through a few pages.
    “Eet is probably quite ‘elpful, Mr Tombs. So you don’t work ‘ere all ze time?”
    “No, this is a special assignment.”
    “Ah. I ‘ope you make a good story.”
    “At least it’s a chance to travel,” said the Saint conversaнtionally. “But I don’t suppose that means much to you. From what you were saying, it sounds as if you spent most of your time doing it. What sort of business are you in?”
    “I ‘ave many affairs,” Olivant said impressively, and seemed to think that was an adequate answer.
    He held out the book, and Simon took it back again by the corner.
    “Maybe you’d let me talk to you later, Monsieur Olivant. You should have some interesting things to tell about Miss North’s family.”
    “Ah, yes, eet is a most interesting story.” Olivant seemed curiously uninterested. He extended his hand briskly. “Now, I ‘ave anozzer appointment. Eet ‘as been a pleasure to meet you. Au revoir, Mr Tombs.”
    The Saint watched him go,