The Saint Abroad: The Art Collectors/ the Persistent Patriots Read Online Free PDF Page A

…”
    “Since we’re getting intimate enough to
have quarrels, won’t you call me Simon? And I’ll call you …”
    He stopped, questioningly.
    “Annabella,” she said without
relaxing.
    “Anna the beautiful,” Simon
translated. “Very appropriate , . . very true.”
    She blushed slightly and tried to keep her
lips from soften ing into the hint of a smile.
    “You don’t need to flatter me, Monsieur
Templar. You have already saved my life—and my paintings. That is
enough for one day.”
    “I’m just giving my natural honesty free
rein,” the Saint said engagingly. “And you can’t blame
me for feeling some curiosity too. I didn’t mean to insult you or your
one-woman Louvre.”
    She nodded, and this time she actually did
smile, although a little tiredly.
    “I apologize too. I am very nervous.
This sale to Marcel LeGrand means everything to me—and I’m not accustomed to being
kidnapped either, or almost kidnapped. The strain of trying to arrange
this deal with LeGrand was enough before I found out today that someone else
knows about these paintings and wants to steal them.”
    “Do you know that for certain?” the
Saint asked her.
    “After what happened in Paris, it’s a
reasonable assump tion, isn’t it?” she replied. “I assure you I
don’t know of any other reason why anybody should bother me. I have
very little money and no rich relatives.”
    “Maybe what seems very little money to you might seem a lot to other people,” Simon suggested.
    She shook her head.
    “No. I literally have just enough money
to keep up appearances—though why I’m telling you all this I don’t know.”
    She hesitated. Simon, lounging against the
wall near the front window, looked at her across the darkening room.
    “I must be a sort of rejuvenated Father Figure,” he sur mised. “People always confess to me. Can’t
help themselves. Luckily I’m entirely
trustworthy except where money and women
are concerned—so if you don’t have a bank account or a husband, both of us are safe.”
    She laughed uncertainly.
    “Well, I have neither. My father died
just a few months ago, and he left me this house. It was heavily mortgaged, and almost
all the proceeds from it will have to go to settle debts. In fact I have
had to sell furniture in order to live these past weeks. I
didn’t have the heart to sell the car. Hans is so fond of
it, and he stays with me for nothing. He lives on his own savings.” She
brightened. “Of course I’ve also known I would only have to hold out
for a few more weeks, and then I would be rich—from selling the paintings.”
    “Which brings us back to …”
    But Simon did not have a chance to finish. Hans Kraus came running from the back rooms of the house, shouting at the top of his voice.
    4
    “Fr ä ulein!
Fr ä ulein! Bitte schnell! Quickly!”
    The Saint and Annabella Lambrini met the
gray-haired chauffeur in the entrance hall.
    “Hans!” she cried. “What is
it?”
    “A man! I haf seen a man from my
vindow. T’rough der trees
he valked! Und ven I go out after him, he ran to der front.”
    Simon did not wait to hear any more of the
story. He was already on his way out the front door of the house after only
an instant’s glance to make certain he was not walking into an
ambush. At first the most nearly human thing he saw in the
golden twilight was the modest marble nymph. Then his keen eye caught a
flash of color in motion far down among the trees near the main road.
Although it was already obvious that he had little chance of catching up with
the intruder, he went through the motions of chasing him just in case
some miracle should occur that would make the effort worth
while.
    But when he reached the dry fountain and
paused, the Saint heard the engine of a car roaring from first into
second gear with a squeal of rubber on pavement. He could not see the
car that was making the noise, but its sound told him that it was taking
off in the general direction of Paris as fast