The Saint in Europe Read Online Free PDF Page B

to him.
    “Where are we?”
    He hadn’t wanted to refer to it, but he had to.
    “The Bois de Boulogne,” she repeated after him. “Where Charles was-“
    “Please,” Olivant said quickly. “For a leetle while, try not to sink of un’appy sings.”
    “Now that it’s come up,” said the Saint, in a very even tone that tried unobtrusively to transmit some of his strength to her, “I must ask you one more question. About those medals, Valerie, that your father gave you and your brother. He didn’t just give them to you to put in your pockets, did he? How were you supposed to wear them?”
    “They were on silver chains,” she said expressionlessly. “He must have riveted them, or welded them, or something. At least, I know that mine had no catch that you could undo, and it was too small to come off over my head. I wore it day and night for years. Finally when I got older I had to have the chain cut, because I had other necklaces I wanted to wear, and I couldn’t wear that one all the time.”
    Simon drew a deep breath.
    “That’s the last answer,” he said softly. “That explains everything. Of course, he had to take the least possible risk of your losing them. And because your brother didn’t have to be bothered about other necklaces, he never had his chain cut. He was still wearing it when he was killed. And all the murderer had was a knife. People don’t normally carry wire-cutters, or a hacksaw, or a file, when they set out to commit a straightforward murder. It hadn’t occurred to him that the chain wouldn’t unfasten. And it was too strong for him to break with his hands, and too small to take off over the head. So the only way he could take it, on the spot, was to—”
    “No!” the girl cried out shudderingly, and buried her face in her hands.
    The car seemed to swerve a trifle.
    “I am ashame for you,” Olivant said harshly. ” ‘Ow you can ‘urt Miss North like zis?”
    “I’m sorry,” said the Saint.
    But he wasn’t, for the answer to that last question, the mystery of why Charles Rosepierre’s head had been hacked off after he was dead, had to be known. And he knew now, and there were no more questions. With certainty there came a lowering kind of peace.
    Olivant’s house was not large, but it stood well in what appeared to be moderately spacious grounds, which looked overgrown and unkempt, about halfway up the hill from the river. The interior was somber and smelled damp, as if it had lacked the warmth of human occupancy for a long time. Simon was sure that it had.
    Olivant ushered them into the heavily furnished drawing-room and turned, rubbing his hands. He seemed to have recovered his overpowering confidence, and his smile was fat and expansive.
    “Now,” he said, “we are going to be ‘appy. What will you ‘ave? A cocktail? Sherry? I make you a drink, and zen I make dinner. I ‘ave no servant tonight, but I am very good chef.”
    “Living alone and liking it, eh?” said the Saint mildly.
    “Yes. Tonight eet is just ourselves.”
    Simon put out his cigarette. He could enjoy the full flavor of a situation as well as anyone, but he knew that there were occasions when to prolong the enjoyment for epicurean reasons alone could complicate it with unnecessary and unjustifiable risks.
    He put a hand into his coat pocket as if reaching for another pack of cigarettes, but it came out with a stubby blue-black automatic.
    “In that case, we won’t put you to a lot of trouble, Monнsieur Orival,” he said pleasantly. “Besides which we prefer not to be drugged or poisoned, whichever you had in mind. All we want is Charles Rosepierre’s medallion.”
    “Are you crazy, Templar?”
    The Saint smiled.
    “I see you know my real name,” he murmured. “I thought you would. You only had to ask a few questions at the hotel. It was a little harder for me to get yours, but your fingerprints on that guide book were a big help.”
    The man’s face had turned red at first, but now the