Send for the Saint (5 page)

“What have you been doing with yourself, Templar?” he asked casually. “Since Monte Carlo?”

And he blew a cloud of heavy cigar smoke into the room. Evidently this copy-Patroclos was in no hurry. For the present he could afford to bide his time, waiting for the Saint to explain his presence. But still the black bullet eyes watched.

“Oh, I’ve been scouting around — you know, finding a good piece here and there. Nothing very energetic. But as a matter of fact” — here Simon adopted a confidential tone — “and this is actually the reason I wanted to see you, I may have found you another Millefiori.”

Patroclos Two’s eyebrows swooped in a sharp reaction.

“Have you really?”

Simon nodded. He had begun with the idea of getting into the impostor’s house and then playing it by ear from there; and now the imps of devilry were urging him on to see how far he could get this impostor out on a limb.

“A matching piece to the one I sold you in Monte Carlo,” he said, wondering if he was overreaching himself. “You have still got it, I hope?”

Patroclos Two hesitated for a moment, and then the hint of a crafty smile crossed his features as he beckoned the Saint over to one of the glass-cabinets.

“See for yourself.” He indicated the cabinet.

“Ah, yes…” Simon began, seeing no easy way out of the trap that he himself had set; and Patroclos Two’s voice cut in suddenly.

“Which one?”

Simon made a last attempt to carry it off.

“I’m hardly likely to forget!” he laughed.

“Which one?” repeated Patroclos, watching him, hawklike.

With an air of supreme confidence, the Saint pointed.

“That one.”

Patroclos Two nodded thoughtfully, as if to say that matters stood much as he had expected, and he moved back to sit behind the desk again.

” I am glad to see that you have done some homework, Templar. But… not… quite … enough. That piece came from the Andersen collection. I bought it in Copenhagen two years ago.”

“Well, I never,” said the Saint, scratching his head. “You know, Dio, I could have sworn …”

“Enough games!” The voice cut across the room like a whiplash. “We have never met before, and you never sold me anything. Now what do you want?”

And the Saint knew that the masks were off. The bluff had failed.

“You should be able to guess what I want,” he said in a level voice.

Patroclos Two regarded him scowlingly from under the bushy black brows.

“You think I might make a deal with you, is that it?”

“Possibly,” said the Saint slowly. “It might just save your bacon.”

The double eyed him impassively for a few moments.

“Sit down, Templar,” he invited.

Simon sat down again in the leather chair; and the dancing blue eyes under his quizzically tilted brows looked more innocent than ever.

“When Ariadne says you are here,” Patroclos Two began, “I say to myself, what is the famous, the notorious Saint doing in my house ? It was very puzzling to me. At first.”

“At first?” queried the Saint.

“My dear Templar.” Patroclos Two beamed. “It is very clear. You have heard that I am being impersonated. It has been kept out of the newspapers, yes — but you have your own contacts, your own sources of information — perhaps even in Scotland Yard. So — you know about this masquerader. As an adventurer, naturally you are intrigued. And you resolve to investigate on my behalf!”

If Simon Templar’s self-control had been less than impeccable, his jaw would undoubtedly have dropped as soon as he realised the trend of Patroclos Two’s words. But long training had equipped the Saint for an automatic, reflex kind of facial dissemblance which operated in almost any circumstances as the need arose. His jaw therefore on this occasion maintained an unperturbed outline, although beneath the surface air of conversational attention he was gripped by an amazement of such stupendous proportions that it could have sent a hundred jaws plummeting to the centre of the earth.

“You’re very shrewd,” he said slowly.

“So you confirm it. That you are here to investigate this impostor?”

“I can’t deny it,” replied the Saint with a faint smile.

“Then it would be ungrateful of me not to accept such an offer. What fee would you ask to find this so-called double and put a stop to his interference in my affairs?”

“Twenty thousand pounds,” replied the Saint with a perfectly straight face; and Patroclos Two stood up at once and held out his hand.

“Templar — you’re hired.”

6
It was, Simon Templar considered, a situation worthy of inclusion in a cosmic museum of mind-bogglers.

There existed on this earth, indubitably, a billionaire of highly flexible ethics but fabulous efficiency, named Diogenes Patroclos. He was, apparently, being impersonated with incredible brilliance by an identical double, to the point where his globe-girdling empire was in danger of being smoothly and completely taken over by this perfect imitation of himself. The Saint had now met both the authentic and the spurious Patroclos, and had been hired by both of them to discover and expose the fraud. True, he had not yet collected any down payment on his fees, but that was a minor detail. If he accomplished his job, the real Patroclos could certainly be persuaded to assume the other obligation as one of the incidental expenses of the operation. In fact, if a few more ersatz Patroclos’s would turn up, the mission of sorting them out might almost develop into an interesting career.

The only snag was that as of this starting point, the Saint still had to find out who was his real employer and who was the impostor.

However, since there was nothing he could think of for the moment that would hasten a solution of that riddle, he was cheerfully prepared to let it wait and enjoy the liberal dispensations of caviar sandwiches and champagne, whoever was footing the bill for them.

Much later, as the last of the guests were gulping their last stirrup cups, Patroclos Two joined him again and called the footman over.

“Fetch Bainter.”

“I … I think he’s gone to bed, sir.”

“Then get him up.”

“Yes, sir.”

The duplicate mogul turned to Ariadne Two.

“Templar is moving in. Have a room prepared at once.”

The girl looked bemused. She glanced from her boss to the Saint and back to her boss again.

“He’s moving in tonight?”

“Tonight,” asserted Patroclos Two. “Tomorrow you will familiarise him with my itinerary for the next two weeks.”

“But Mr Patroclos — ” She broke off, eyeing the Saint with evident mistrust.

“I trust him,” said Patroclos Two, as if he had read her thoughts. “As of now, Templar is in full charge of my personal security.”

The girl stared at the Saint suspiciously while Patroclos Two moved away to pour himself a cognac; then she quickly left the room.

“Starting next week, Templar, I have a series of vitally important meetings. This impostor will probably try to worm his way into some of them. I want you to — “

“I know, make sure he doesn’t horn in and gum up the works.”

“Exactly. So that is your immediate assignment. To protect my interests during these meetings. And until the commencement of the meetings, you must accompany me wherever possible, and you must otherwise remain permanently in this house.”

“I must what?” demanded the Saint.

Patroclos Two took a liberal mouthful of cognac.

“That is the condition of your employment. I am sure you will see the necessity.”

Simon nodded.

“Bottling me up … just in case I should decide to get in contact with your other half.”

“Nothing personal, you understand.” Patroclos Two spread his hands apologetically. “But one cannot be too careful while this double is at large. And once you become separated from me, he could take my place — even convince you that he isme!”

“And we don’t want that, do we ?” said Simon with his most Saintly mocking smile. “Has it occurred to you, I wonder, what fun and games we could have if I bumped into the other Patroclos and he offered me twenty thousand pounds to remove the impostor — you — from the scene ?”

Patroclos Two made an impatient gesture.

“Ha ha, very amusing, yes. But to me, Templar, this is a serious, a grave matter. My very existence, my identity, is at stake.”

“And he — the impostor — is trying to take it over,” supplied the Saint. “Right?”

“Just so.”

“That’s exactly what he’d say about you, if I met him”

There was an apologetic throat-clearing sound beside them, and a small, neat, balding man in a black coat and pin-striped trousers came deferentially forward. Patroclos Two beckoned impatiently, hurrying him closer.

“Bainter, this is Mr Templar. Take a car, go to his home. Pack enough clothes to last two weeks. Bring them back here.”

“I’ll go with you,” Simon added promptly.

“I prefer you to remain here,” said Patroclos Two. “I have explained why.”

“You also explained a while ago that you trust me with your personal security,” Simon pointed out. “You really can’t have it both ways. If I go with Bainter here, I’ll be under his eye the whole time, and he can report any suspicious behaviour on my part to you afterwards. Anyway, if Bainter tries to open my front door on his own — even with my key — he’ll be in for a nasty shock or two. Besides, I prefer to pack my own clothes.”

Patroclos Two regarded the Saint for a few moments, and noted the calm determination in his eye.

“All right, Bainter. Bring a car to the door. Mr Templar will go with you.”

The valet nodded efficiently and left the room. As soon as he had gone, the Saint said quietly:
“I didn’t want to start an argument in front of the servants. I’m going along with your condition of employment, as you called it, because if I’m doing the job it makes sense for me to be here — for the time being. But I shall remain in this house not one minute longer than I choose.”

Patroclos Two shrugged.

“As far as I am concerned, you accept the conditions or go. And now I must say goodnight to my last guests. Remember one thing: I am suspicious of everyone. I have not discussed this impostor with any of my staff — not even Ariadne. I expect you to keep your mission just as confidential… I will see you in the morning.”

Simon nodded. He was still searching for one concrete landmark to give him a bearing on this whole improbable affair; but patches of the all-enveloping fog were beginning to clear. He had done a great deal of almost subconscious groping during the evening, and made a little progress. One obvious question needed to be asked about his brief from Patroclos Two.

“What about the codebook?”

Patroclos Two swung around, and the musketball eyes bulged.

“What do you know of the codebook?”

“Only that you keep one,” said the Saint easily. “Doesn’t it contain some details that are rather crucial in running your businesses ? And codes you use to give key instructions to your companies ?”

“So … ?” Patroclos Two’s manner was guarded and suspicious.

“It just occurred to me,” the Saint went on, “that this codebook of yours would be a real prize to the impostor, if he chanced to get hold of it.”

“Templar, you are absolutely right!” Patroclos Two drummed his fingers together in agitation, and then smashed his fist into the palm of the other hand. “It would be everything he needed. The last step in taking over the life of Diogenes Patroclos. Me! He would be able to control my businesses. I would not be able to cancel his orders… The code… Templar, the codes must be changed!”

“Have you still got the codebook?” asked the Saint
“Of course I — ” Patroclos Two broke off. “Unless — unless he has already … But surely he could not! Even he — ” Suddenly his agitation found a focus. “Ariadne!” he snapped at the girl who appeared almost on telepathic cue at his elbow. “Quickly, go to the bedroom safe and fetch my codebook!”

Ariadne Two hurried off, taking a key that Patroclos Two gave her from a bunch he took from his pocket. A minute or two later she returned holding a small black book. Patroclos Two grabbed it from her impatiently and flicked through its pages.

“Thank goodness. The codebook is intact. But tomorrow I will begin work on new codes.” He handed the book back to Ariadne. “Put it back in the safe — and return the key to me at once.”

Bainter reappeared and said: “I have the car outside, sir.”

Simon Templar thought his own thoughts: another patch of mist in the Patroclos landscape was beginning to clear.

7
“I suppose, Bainter,” said the Saint conversationally, “you’ve been with Mr Patroclos a long time.”

“Fourteen years, sir,” replied the valet, continuing to unpack and hang up Simon’s clothes with deft efficiency.

“You travel with him?”

“No, sir. I just work here.”

Simon lounged on the bed and reflected.

“I should think it’s quite a problem for a valet, sometimes — keeping track of his employer’s changing moods, or tastes.”

“I don’t quite follow you, sir.”

“Well, for example,” Simon explained, “just at the moment I’m going through what you might call a discreet-necktie phase. Next month I shall probably get fed up with so much sobriety and break out in jazzed-up jobs that look like chintz chair covers.”

Bainter turned from the wardrobe.

“Funny you should say that, sir. Colours, now — well, Mr Patroclos usually wears whatever I lay out for him. A very conservative dresser. But just recently, he brought home some shirts in what I would call quite startling stripes…” Bainter tailed off, as if he felt he had been indiscreet.

“Not at all the sort of thing you would approve, Bainter?”

“Well,” the valet conceded reluctantly, “I expect I’m a bit oldfashioned. But I think it must have been only a momentary aberration on his part, if I may use the expression. At any rate, the next time he came back from Athens, and I laid out one of those new shirts, he was quite shocked, and asked me where I’d found it.”

“He’d forgotten that he bought it himself?”

“It was hardly a shirt that one would forget so quickly.”

“Perhaps he was regretting his — aberration — and was trying to save face.”