The Saint in Trouble Read Free Page B

myself out.”
    A few curious passers-by had gathered, and the Saint was eager to vacate the scene before the possible arrival of the Law. An empty taxi was stalled in the intermittent traffic jam outside, and Simon opened the rear door and slid in behind the driver.
    “Hotel Bellevue, please.”
    The driver nodded and re-engaged the gears. He was small and slightly built and out of proportion to the spacious white Buick he drove. His skin was tanned the color of old mahogany, he wore a black waist-length zipper jacket over a casual shirt of eye-searing hues and shapeless blue jeans met equally ancient blue sneakers.
    As he eased the big car into the flow of traffic the Saint looked back in time to see a dark blue Mercedes pull out of the line of parked cars behind and swing in behind them. Simon leaned forward and spoke in fluent French.
    “Drive to the station, then up the Boulevard Carnot, then turn back towards the Croisette by the Boulevard d’Alsace. I would like to arrive at the hotel from the other side.”
    The driver nodded his acceptance of each eccentric direction without argument, as if being asked to drive three times the necessary distance was an everyday event. Once his eyes met the Saint’s as both glanced in the rear-view mirror at the same time. What might have been a smile hovered at the comers of his mouth. He raised his hand and adjusted the glass a few degrees.
    “Like that, you will see better,” was his only comment.
    The Saint laughed.
    “Yes, that is much better. Thank you.”
    The driver shrugged, as if to say that it was quite usual for Mm to have passengers who thought they were being followed.
    As he turned the car into the Boulevard d’Alsace, he asked: “The Mercedes, you want me to lose it?”
    Simon shook his head.
    “No, thank you. I wish to know who is in it, not get away from them, once I am sure they are on our trail.”
    It was an admission that could have proved foolish but the Saint had the gift of being able to judge the characters of others after the briefest of encounters, and his intuition told Mm the driver was not only likely to be discreet but might be able to offer real help if trusted.
    When they eventually reached the hotel Simon was pleased to see the Mercedes still the same distance behind. He climbed out slowly, to give his shadow time to find a parking place, and added a generous tip to the already exorbitant fare.
    “Merci, m’sieu”
    “Merci a vous. Tell me, do you have a regular base, or do you cruise around looking for passengers?”
    The driver pointed to the hotel.
    “This is my base.”
    The Saint smiled.
    “Tres blen. We shall probably be seeing more of each other.”
    The driver made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Just ask for Gaby. Everyone knows Gaby, and I know everyone.”
    “Alors, a bientot,” the Saint promised, and with a wave turned and entered the hotel.
    The Bellevue was a new hotel that was distinguished only by its technological amenities and total lack of character. It was part of an international chain in which each link was identical, so that once inside the door the guest could not be certain whether he was in Bombay or Buenos Aires. It had all the intimacy of an airport lounge, and the welcoming friendliness of a police station charge room. It was the last sort of hotel in which any of the Saint’s friends would have expected to find him, which was exactly why he was staying there on this occasion.
    In the reflection of the glass doors he watched the driver of the Mercedes crossing from the parking area. Simon placed him in the pigeonhole the gossip writers label “playboy.” He matched the Saint for height and build and carried himself with an arrogance that showed he was accustomed to being looked at and admired. He affected a blue blazer and immaculate white slacks and was handsome in the smooth way that appeals to middle-aged countesses and wealthy widows.
    The concierge looked up and smiled as the Saint approached