Saint and the Templar Treasure

The Saint and

the Templar Treasure

By Leslie Charteris

DARE DEVIL

THE BANDIT

THE WHITE RIDER

X ESQUIRE

The Saint Series in order of sequence

MEET THE TIGER!

ENTER THE SAINT

THE SAINT CLOSES THE CASE

THE AVENGING SAINT

FEATURING THE SAINT

ALIAS THE SAINT

THE SAINT MEETS HIS MATCH

THE SAINT V. SCOTLAND YARD

THE SAINT’S GETAWAY

THE SAINT AND MR. TEAL

THE BRIGHTER BUCCANEER

THE SAINT IN LONDON

THE SAINT INTERVENES

THE SAINT GOES ON

THE SAINT IN NEW YORK

THE SAINT OVERBOARD

ACE OF KNAVES

THE SAINT BIDS DIAMONDS

THE SAINT PLAYS WITH FIRE

FOLLOW THE SAINT

THE HAPPY HIGHWAYMAN

THE SAINT IN MIAMI

THE SAINT GOES WEST

THE SAINT STEPS IN

THE SAINT ON GUARD

THE SAINT SEES IT THROUGH

CALL FOR THE SAINT

SAINT ERRANT

THE SAINT IN EUROPE

THE SAINT ON THE SPANISH MAIN

THANKS TO THE SAINT

THE SAINT AROUND THE WORLD

SENOR SAINT

THE SAINT TO THE RESCUE

TRUST THE SAINT

THE SAINT IN THE SUN

VENDETTA FOR THE SAINT

THE SAINT ON T.V.

THE SAINT RETURNS

THE SAINT AND THE FICTION MAKERS

THE SAINT ABROAD

THE SAINT’S CHOICE THE

SAINT IN PURSUIT

THE SAINT AND THE PEOPLE IMPORTERS

CATCH THE SAINT

THE SAINT AND

THE HAPSBURG NECKLACE

SEND FOR THE SAINT

THE SAINT IN TROUBLE

THE SAINT AND THE TEMPLAR TREASURE

Leslie Charteris

The Saint and

the Templar Treasure

Original Outline by Donne Avenell

Developed by

GRAHAM WEAVER

PUBLISHED FOR THE CRIME CLUB BY

DOUBLEDAY & COMPANY, INC.

GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK

1979

All of the characters in this book

are fictitious, and any resemblance

to actual persons, living or dead,

is purely coincidental.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 78-22154

ISBN: 0-385-15097-0

Copyright Š 1978 by Leslie Charteris

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition in the United States of America

Contents

I: HOW SIMON TEMPLAR DISCOVERED A WINE, AND

FOUND HIMSELF STUCK WITH IT.1

II: HOW CHARLES WAS KEPT BUSY, AND THE SAINT

SAW THE LIGHT.27

III: HOW HENRI PICHOT CONDUCTED AN EXPERIMENT,

AND PROFESSOR NORBERT EXPLAINED A NAME.56

IV: HOW GASTON MADE A DISCOVERY, AND PHILIPPE

FLORIAN TOOK CHARGE.84

V: HOW SERGEANT OLIVET TRIED TO COPE, AND

MIMETTE WAS NOT ALTOGETHER IMPARTIAL.119

VI: HOW SIMON QUOTED FRANQOIS VILLON AGAIN,

AND THE TEMPLAR TREASURE CAME IN HANDY.150

The Saint and

the Templar Treasure

I

How Simon Templar discovered a Wine, and found himself Stuck with It.

1

Serious bibbers of wine tend to come in two classes. Discounting those who differentiate between bottles only by the color of the contents, there are those who know a little and talk a lot, and those who know a lot and talk little. Simon Templar was numbered among the latter.

The mystique that so often surrounds the appreciation of wine left him cold. He was indifferent to which side of the hill the grape had flourished on. Knowledge of the shoe size of the head grape treader left him unmoved. He found the family antecedents of the vigneron of yawning interest. All he was really concerned about was that the quality should be outstanding, without fretting too much over the technical trivia through which the quality had been achieved.

Fine wines, like good food, beautiful women, elegant clothes, and fast cars, were facets of a life style to which he had happily become accustomed. He could survive without such trappings, but he saw no reason to do so if he could afford them. They helped to make life exciting and that was a spice that he demanded.

The liquid which he was transferring from bottle to glass, that afternoon in one of the infant years of what had been optimistically hailed as the new era of World Peace at Last when it was signed in 1945, certainly answered that criterion. The sommelier, who was also the maitre d’hotel and the patron, had suggested and he had accepted a local product which he had never heard of before, and for him it was now a memorable discovery. He sipped again the deep red—almost purple—wine and savoured the strong fruity bouquet characteristic of the slopes of the Rhone. It was a taste that he would remember for the rest of his life; but at that moment he was blissfully unaware of what that chance sampling was destined eventually to involve him in and make itself totally unforgettable.

The wine was not the first new experience of the day. After leaving Avignon he had turned off the main road to wander through the back lanes of the countryside in search of a restaurant which had been recommended to him by a friend of impeccable discrimination, one of those epicurean hideaways to be found dotted around France whose whereabouts are the jealously guarded secret of an inner circle of gourmets, until somebody leaks it to the Guide Michelin, and the clientele and the prices take off on their inevitable escalade.

The building which he had finally found had previously been a water-mill and was set back from the road beside a narrow stream that gurgled under the now stationary water-wheel on its way down the valley towards the winding ribbon of the Rhone. The new owners had possessed the sense to keep the transformation simple. The dining area was a long high-ceilinged room that looked as if it had once served as a storehouse. The roof beams had been left rough and unstained, a few undemanding prints had been hung against the stone walls, and some rugs scattered across the flagged floor. The walls had been broken through to provide additional windows that allowed broad bands of sunlight to enter, while strategically placed electric fans kept the heat of the early autumn sun at bay.

In such a setting it was possible to concentrate on the important business of eating and drinking, unlike in so many pretentious restaurants where the purpose of the decor is to intimidate criticism of the cuisine and the tariff being paid for the privilege of eating it. The food had in fact justified everything that his discerning friend had claimed for it: The queues d’ecrevisses aux morilles had been a delightfully delicate surprise, and the gigot a la ficelle, boldly seasoned with herbs and garlic and roasted before an open wood fire, was worthy of an old-fashioned highwayman’s appetite.

Except for a few accidental holidaymakers who had had the good fortune to stumble on the restaurant by chance, his fellow customers had a general air of more sophisticated self-indulgence than one would have expected to find in such a rural setting. At the next table a large florid man whose buttons showed the strain of many years of dedicated gluttony was chomping through a double helping of alouettes sur canape. Simon found the spectacle of such a big man devouring so many small birds both comical and sad, and turned his attention to the others in the room. Most of them, he guessed, must have made an excursion from one of the more important cities of Provence, if not from even farther afield, lured by the reports that circulated through the gastronomic grapevine.

Occasionally the other clients would glance across in their turn to where he sat, stare for a moment, and then return to their plates. There was something familiar about his face. Something slightly unsettling about the lean tanned features and the clear blue eyes with their light of mocking challenge. Something intangibly dangerous in the easy grace with which he sat alone in a corner, which might have reminded the more imaginative among them of a panther watching its prey at play before pouncing.

Simon Templar was resigned to arousing such interest. His days of anonymity were already somewhat past. His picture was to be found in the files of every major newspaper from New York to New Delhi and of every police department from Scotland Yard to Sydney filed not under T for Templar but S for Saint.

The same imaginative diner who sensed the predator behind his untroubled relaxation, even without identifying him, would probably have speculated on the reason for his presence; and the more fanciful assumptions would, as usual, have found most favour. But they would have been wrong, for the Saint’s sole motive was to enjoy the best of solid and liquid calories that would fuel the rest of his projected drive to St.-Tropez.

The Saint had been to Valencia with no more nefarious intent than to assess for himself the talent of the latest fenomeno of the bullring, a rising young matador whom he had been reading about; but, as he found so much pleasure in business that he felt no need to separate the two, it had proved a profitable vacation. A certain promoter of dubious real estate developments on the Costa Blanca, secure in the knowledge that the long arm of the British law could not touch him there, but who had forgotten that outlaws have an even lengthier reach, had costly reason to regret having been brought by chance to his notice. On the other hand, there had been Margarita, who would always have a happy memory—but that is another story.

Simon had been driving back at a leisurely pace, allowing time to take in the sights along the way like any tourist. He had spent a day and a night in Avignon, where he had walked the battlements of the medieval walls, filled with other sight-seers, through the Cathedral of Notre-Dame-des-Doms and the palace of the Popes, and tried to theorize about what kind of dancing could have caused the collapse of the famous bridge. So much history had proved rather suffocating, and the uncluttered lanes of the countryside and the finding of the restaurant to which they had led him had been particularly welcome.

But now his watch told him it was time to be moving again, and he drained his glass with genuine regret. He declined coffee and cognac so that he could retain the lingering aftertaste of the wine, and asked for his bill.

While he waited he picked up the bottle and studied the label again. It was simple to the point of plainness. Just the name of the vineyard—Chateau Ingare—above the date of the vintage. The only decoration was a discreet family crest consisting of an open shield with a crusader’s helmet in one half and an upright sword in the other. Since the name was completely new to him —a surprising fact in view of the quality of the wine and his own empirical knowledge of the product of the region—it could only have been a very limited but very special family affair, generating only enough for a select and exclusive distribution.

The Saint rose and paid the bill, leaving a generous tip, thanked and congratulated the patron, and sauntered out into the early afternoon sunshine. After the pleasant temperature of the restaurant the fierce dry heat of the valley seemed even more intense than it had done during the drive from Avignon that morning. He walked slowly to where the Hirondel was parked. The flamboyant cream and red roadster was surrounded by the sedate black sedans of the townsmen. A car like the Hirondel in such company looked like a Derby winner stabled in a donkey shed.

He eased in behind the wheel, being careful to touch as little of the searing-hot coachwork as possible. From the rear seat he retrieved a battered grey fedora that would have made Mr. Lock pale, and snapped the brim down to shade his eyes from the sun’s glare. The motor turned at the first touch and the purr of the perfectly tuned engine changed to a muted roar as he swung the big car around and headed towards the road.

The entrance to the parking space was partly hidden from the lane by a clump of trees, and half the bonnet of the Hirondel had passed them before the strident blare of a Klaxon and a screech of tyres made him stamp on the brake. A small blue Renault convertible swerved violently across his front fender before the driver brought it back under control and, with an angry glare at the Saint, lurched on and disappeared at speed around the next bend.

The Saint smiled. Such a driver could, he decided, glare angrily at him anytime, preferably when she was not in so great a hurry and at even closer quarters. Long black hair riding the slipstream, a small oval face that might almost have been plain had it not been made beautiful by a pair of dark flashing eyes, plus the upper contours of a figure that promised much for those areas of anatomy hidden by the car’s own bodywork.

He carried the image with him as he threaded the Hirondel gently through the spider’s web of meandering lanes which he hoped would eventually bring him back on to some adequately sign-posted highway on which he could set a course in the general direction of Aix-en-Provence. He was in no hurry, and the tranquillizing effect of his lunch made him decide against pursuing the Renault and telling its owner his thoughts about women drivers. Which, he later reflected, was just as well, for it would have closed the story before it opened.

The road he was on ended in a T junction. A sign-post stated that Avignon was now somewhere to his right but gave no indication of what lay to the left. Being reasonably sure that at least he should not head back towards Avignon, even though the other way might be leading north, he gambled and swung the wheel to port. It was a decision that brought him one step closer to the start of the adventure.

2

The vine is an amazingly stubborn vegetable that seems to flourish best in the worst conditions. In Portugal’s High Douro they are stuck into holes drilled in solid rock, while beside the Mosel they prosper on precipitous slopes of almost pure slate. Beside the road along which the Saint finally found himself driving, the ground seemed capable of producing only stones, but it was patterned with neat rows of low-growing vines. In the distance, a low line of hills had been terraced to provide a root hold for still more plants, giving the appearance of a huge overgrown staircase. The lower slopes and terraces were littered with bleached boulders from fist to head size that absorbed the sun’s rays during the day and slowly released their stored heat through the night, providing the plants with natural central heating.