The Saint in Europe Read Free Page A

with the sensation of that inнappropriately calloused hand lingering on his fingers; and then he turned to the concierge and asked for a large enveнlope, into which he slid his newly acquired guide book, being careful not to touch the book again except by the one corner he was holding it by.
    4
    “Tell me,” said the Saint, “as the most ignorant reporter in this town, what put you in the news. I mean, even before anything happened to your brother.”
    They sat in opposite armchairs across a table in the tiny downstairs room of the Restaurant Chataignier, sniffing the savory bouquet of its incomparable homard au beurre blanc rising from the plates in front of them, while the chef and proprietor himself uncorked a bottle of cool rose.
    “It sounds silly,” said Valerie North, “but I was on one of those radio quiz programs. I happened to know the anнswer to who was the painter of the Mona Lisa, and the prize I won was a free trip to Europe. They asked me what I planned to do with it, and I said it’d give me the chance I’ve always hoped for to get to know my brother.”
    “It does sound a little unusual,” Simon admitted. “Hadn’t you ever met?”
    “Not since we were kids. We were born and lived here, till 1940, when the Germans were advancing on Paris. I was too young to remember much about it, but everyone was very frightened, and my father said we must go away. He wouldn’t go himself, but he sent us with the wife of a neighbor-my mother died when we were very young. Someнwhere on the road we were strafed by a plane, and the woman was killed. Charles and I went on alone.”
    “Was he older or younger than you?”
    “Two years older. But we were both children. Somehow, presently, we got separated. I just went on, helplessly I guess, with the stream of refugees who were trudging away to the southwest. Somewhere, after that-it all seems so far away and confused-I was picked up by an American couple who’d also been caught in the blitz. They took me to Borнdeaux, and then afterwards to America. They were sweet people-they still are-and they hadn’t any children, and they treated me like their own. Later on, they were able to find out somehow that my father had died in a concentration camp. They adopted me legally, and I took their name.”
    “So for all practical purposes, you really are an Ameriнcan.”
    “I went to school in Chicago-Mr North is an accountant there-and now I’m a secretary in a mail-order house. And the only French I know is from high school.”
    “Who was your father?”
    “All I know about him is his name, Eli Rosepierre. And he was some sort of working jeweler.”
    The Saint paused with his wine-glass halfway to his lips.
    “Was he Jewish?”
    “I think so.”
    “I told Quercy there might be something in the name,” he observed. “Of course, the name Eli fixes it. Now I get the Rosepierre. A literal translation of Rosenstein. I wonder … He must have been very brave or very foolish to stay here, with the Nazis coming.”
    “Perhaps he was only too optimistic,” she said. “You know, I’d never thought of that, about the name.”
    “Was he rich?”
    “I dont think so. He worked very hard. But he may have been thrifty. I don’t really know. As far as I can remember we lived in an ordinary decent way, not poverty-stricken and not specially luxurious.”
    “But it’s at least a possibility,”
    “What difference does it make? Whatever he had, the Nazis must have confiscated.”
    “If they could find it.”
    “I suppose,” she said, “you’re looking for a motive.”
    “There must be one. And I’ve got to find it.”
    She watched him subdividing the last succulent pieces of lobster with loving regret.
    “When did you locate your brother again?” he asked.
    “Only a few months ago. The Norths had tried from time to time, without any luck. Last winter, I thought I’d try just once more, on my own. I had an advertisement translated into French, and sent it