Send for the Saint (8 page)

“Just two minutes.”

“Where’s he going?”

“He didn’t say. He got a phone call.”

“Where from?” barked Patroclos Two.

The girl looked uncomfortable under the double-barrelled cross-examination.

“From the airport. He collected his briefcase — and rushed out.”

“How come we didn’t pass him on our way in here?” asked the Saint.

“He went out the back way to the car.”

Simon crossed swiftly to one of the windows; and then he uttered sotto voce a fluent string of extremely unsaintly observations as he saw the purple Rolls disappearing from the parking lot behind the building.

“Come on!” called the Saint, rushing for the door. “Let’s get after him. The airport’s a safe bet. Ariadne One” — and he pointed at the girl to leave her in no doubt as to which of them was meant — ” get us a car at the front — gregoral”

Patroclos Two told the driver, in Greek, to go like the wind; and the resulting ride lived even in the Saint’s memory for years afterwards. But when they arrived at the airport Patroclos’ plane in which they had recently flown from London was just taking off, and the purple Rolls was being driven back off the runway.

Patroclos Two shook his fist in impotent rage at the dwindling aircraft.

“Now you believe who is real?” he demanded, stabbing the air with his finger. “/ arrive — he runs!”

“You do seem to be ahead on points,” Simon admitted. “But it’s still anybody’s game.”

Suddenly Patroclos flicked his fingers.

“Of course. The police. They must warn Interpol. Wherever he lands he must be caught!”

“We needn’t trouble Interpol,” said the Saint.

Patroclos Two looked impatient.

“So? What is your suggestion?”

“That plane was practically out of gas when we got here. It’s hardly had time to refuel.”

Patroclos Two’s eyes widened with realisation.

“You mean — he cannot be going far?”

“It should be easy to check on whatever other airports there are within range,” said the Saint. “Probably he would have to land somewhere in Greece — or else he crashes!”

11
“Look,” expostulated Ariadne One, “for the fourth time, all I know is that I work for Diogenes Patroclos — the Patroclos. He must be genuine.”

“She’s lying” said Ariadne Two tersely.

“I’m not!” Ariadne One protested indignantly.

“Then why pretend to be me?”

“Why should I pretend to be you?”

“What’s your full name?”

“Ariadne Kyriakides.”

“I’m Ariadne Kyriakides.”

“You’re lying!”

“Girls, girls!” the Saint interrupted. “Now, Ariadne One — that’s you — how long have you been working for the man you know as Patroclos ?”

“Five years.”

“Ariadne Two?”

“Five years.”

“Well, the fake can’t have been going that long,” said the Saint slowly. “So one of you must be lying. Can either of you prove you’ve been working for him that long?”

Ariadne One replied at once.

“Yes. You can check with the Bannerman Bureau in London.”

“But / was employed through Bannermans!” put in Ariadne Two indignantly.

The Saint sighed.

“So unless Bannermans carry photos of the girls they find work for — which they won’t — we’re up against a brick wall.”

The telephone in Patroclos’ outer office, where the three were talking, rang at that moment, and Ariadne One answered it.

“Yes… This is Mr Patroclos’ personal secretary … Yes.”

As she listened, her eyes widened with horror. “Yes, I will tell him.”

She put down the phone and turned
“The plane crashed. Into the sea, near Andros.”

She was on her way to the inner office, where Patroclos Two had been rooting through papers left by his other half, but he met her at the door.

“I heard that,” he said. “Did anyone survive?”

“The plane was smashed to pieces and sank at once. They say that no one could have been alive,”

“And they may never even find a body,” Patroclos said. “It would have been interesting to see this man who looked so much like me. That telephone call just before he left — he must have had an accomplice at the airport who warned him when we arrived.”

Patroclos had a grim expression which boded ill for the traitor when he was discovered. He looked at the Saint.

“So … it is over.”

Ariadne One gave a sudden choking cry and slumped down at the desk, burying her face in her arms. After a while she looked up, red-eyed.

“I had to go on pretending,” she said with unsteady quiet in her voice, “while there was still hope.”

“Then he was the fake?” said Ariadne Two.

“Yes.” She nodded sadly. “I didn’t know at first. I … I’ve only been with him a year, but he had been playing the part for some while before that. Then he offered me a lot of money to play along … and he persuaded me to change my name.”

“And do you realise,” snapped Patroclos, “what trouble you have caused me?”

“I … I’m sorry, Mr Patroclos. But you see, he was my boss. He was the man who employed me, and my loyalty was to him. And when he took me on, I thought he was you …”

Patroclos looked at the Saint.

“Satisfied, Templar?”

“Hm, well, there are still a couple of things I don’t understand.”

“Then we’ll discuss them later. Also your own position — even your fee. Yes, Templar, I think I understand the position in which you found yourself. You were working for him first, yes? You believed that he was the real Patroclos. And then /employed you. So, it was difficult for you. Whom to trust ? But you have done what I asked. You have played your part in ridding me of this nuisance. So we will talk later. For the moment, this young lady and I”

— he indicated Ariadne One — “are going to the police!” Ariadne One flinched.

“Oh no, please .”

Patroclos spread his hands reassuringly.

“Your position too was difficult. I will not make any charges. But you must give a full statement of all this. I must dissociate myself from the damage this man has done.”

“You don’t waste a second, do you?” said the Saint. “You’re the real Patroclos all right.”

Patroclos smiled.

“We will see you presently,” he said, taking Ariadne One by the arm and steering her out.

Ariadne Two — who after all was the real Ariadne — still looking bemused, watched them go.

“Well, that’s that.”

“Is it?” asked the Saint, with that bantering lift to the eyebrows that she had come to know.

“Well …” The girl hesitated. “Well, isn’t it?”

“End of story? Everything neatly wrapped up and explained? Not in my book, sweetheart. Not by a long shot.” Simon had begun searching through the desk drawers, tossing papers out and carelessly stuffing them back. “What about the pilot?”

“He was killed with the impostor.”

“But he must have known that the plane was low on fuel. After all, he’d just flown it here from London. So why did he take off?”

“Maybe he was forced to?”

The Saint shook his head.

“Fly a plane at gunpoint — to almost certain death? No, I don’t think so. And there’s something else.”

“What?”

Simon slid a filing cabinet drawer shut with a thud.

“The codebook. It never left London.”

“It never left ? But I don’t understand. We couldn’t find it when we looked.” Ariadne stared at him.

“Oh, I took it out of the safe all right,” the Saint explained. “I got it as far as the airport. Your Patroclos picked it up.”

She followed him as he moved to the inner office.

“So if the codebook didn’t reach Athens, the ships — “

“Couldn’t have been diverted from here,” supplied the Saint. “Right. Your Patroclos must have done the diverting from London. He had the book all the time. You see, it just doesn’t fit. And it’s too pat — plane crashes, impostor killed, case solved. And,” the Saint added softly, “Templar forgiven.”

The girl digested the implications in silence for a few minutes, watching him systematically rifle Patroclos’ big mahogany desk.

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“Cargo manifests, showing what’s on those ships.”

Ariadne opened a filing cabinet and started to shuffle through papers; and she didn’t see the Saint’s brows angle together in interest at what he had found in the bottom drawer of the desk. A Dictaphone fitted snugly into the drawer — loaded, with a record ready to play.

There was an earphone lying in the drawer; Simon plugged it in, held it loosely up to one ear, and switched the machine on. He listened thoughtfully to the harsh voice of Diogenes Patroclos.

It said: “Templar — lam told you have seen the impostor. Why are you wasting time telephoning instead of watching him ?… I am here in Athens. If you have seen the impostor, it should make your job easier. Please do not waste my time telling me that I am being impersonated. That I already know. Goodbye.”

Simon reversed the machine, re-started it, and held out the earphone to Ariadne. She listened with a blank expression.

“Does Dio always record his own telephone conversations?” he asked.

“I never knew about it. Perhaps he wanted a record sometimes, for his own protection, or something.”

“Or something,” agreed the Saint.

Ariadne continued going through the files, and suddenly pulled out a folder.

“Here, will this help? Papers on a ship called the Macedonian Queen. She was supposed to sail for Singapore with the other five but she was held up with steering trouble … There’s a repair bill. But she’s still here.”

“In Athens?” The Saint could hardly believe his luck.

“In Piraeus, the port. But she sails at midnight.”

“Ariadne,” said the Saint. “I love you. Call me Theseus.”

12
The Macedonian Queen was not hard to find among the few freighters berthed in Piraeus at the time. Simon Templar and the girl simply wandered along the wharf to which she guided him until they came to the smart-looking but unexceptional freighter painted in the blue and gold Patroclos colours. The gangplank was unguarded, and only one seaman was visible on deck, a Greek in a grubby dark-blue sweat-shirt and dungarees who was leaning over the rail at the bow, with his back to them. It seemed quite probable that he represented the entire watch left on board, while the rest of the crew were enjoying their last hours ashore.

Patroclos had still not returned to the office by one o’clock, when the Saint had insisted on taking Ariadne out for an ouzo, leaving a note for him, and then to lunch.

“There’s nothing in my contract that says I have to go without regular meals,” he maintained, “and I’m sure there isn’t in yours either.”

They had eaten dolmades and moussaka, but he had declined to be tempted by retsina, the traditional resin-flavoured wine which is said to have been invented by the Greeks to discourage hostile invaders from swilling or swiping it. Simon found it just as unpalatable as the earlier barbarians, and ordered a bottle of Cypriot Othello instead.

He had sensed that while Ariadne might not yet be a full ally, she would not be an enemy, and decided at the end of the meal to tell her his plan.

“I want to have a look around the Macedonian Queen. I think I might find the answers to some of the questions that are still nagging me. But I’m not going to tell Dio.”

“But he’ll expect you to be in the office if he wants you,” she objected.

“The impostor has crashed. Technically, my job is finished. I’m free to slope off and go sightseeing if I feel like it. How do I get to Piraeus ?”

She pondered for only a few seconds.

“I’ll take you.”

“But you’ve still got a job to keep.”

“And I’ve got more questions, too. I shall telephone the office and leave a message that everything this morning has given me such a terrible headache that I have to go home and go to bed, and I will be back tomorrow.”

That was how they came to be lurking behind a pile of crates near the untended gangway in the gathering dusk, unnoticed by the bored seaman on so-called “watch” on the foredeck. The Saint gripped the girl’s arm gently.

“This is where I go aboard, and it could develop into a rough party if they catch me. Stay out of sight and keep your fingers crossed.”

“I’m going with you,” said Ariadne in a determined voice, “since I brought you as far as this.”

The Saint smiled at her and stood up.

The glided unobserved up the narrow gangplank on to the deck, and then down a ladder through a hatchway into the after cargo hold. The lighting was dim, but they could see to move among the mountains of crates, in several shapes and sizes, that were stacked there. Simon peered at random at the export labels, bringing his pencil flashlight to bear on them, and spoke in a whisper.

“As you’d expect. All Singapore. That’s where the ships were officially headed.”

“This label says Paint. Why don’t we have a look inside?” suggested the girl in an equally low voice.

Lying on one of the crates was a pair of metal-shears and a crowbar. There was a sharp twang as Simon used the shears to sever the steel customs bond on the crate, and for a minute or more they both froze in silence, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. Then gingerly, and with one ear still cocked, the Saint prised up the lid a few inches and peered into the crate.

“What’s inside?” asked the girl.

“Paint,” said Simon pressing the lid back on. “Let’s try this long one marked Agricultural Implements.”

He repeated the breath-bating procedure with the shears and crowbar. The lid lifted more easily, and inside they saw dozens of gleaming hoes. But the Saint, carelessly for him, rammed the lid back on with unnecessary force and more than the unavoidable minimum of noise, and a hinged side of the crate dropped down. Inside, in a compartment beneath the hoes, were revealed at least a score of carbines.

The Saint gave a low whistle.

“A few hoes on top, and a rich harvest of guns underneath! And they’re the very latest thing. And American! But the interesting question is, Where are they going?”

The girl reached into one end of the gun compartment and took out a folded piece of paper.