The Saint Returns (5 page)

“Why are you alone?” Drew demanded.

“We thought we had her,” said one of
the men, “but
some bloke interfered. We have a strong clue, though,
and we’ll
soon pick up her trail, I’m sure.”

“Let’s not broadcast it to the whole
world, shall we?”
Drew said in a sharp, hushed voice. “Come
to my room.”

There was a swoosh as the elevator doors
closed be
hind them, and Simon was left with time for a few
moments of
silent meditation before Mildred rejoined
him.

First, the SS man’s speech had betrayed more
in
fluences of Liverpool than of Berchtesgaden. He had no
German
accent at all. That came as no surprise to the
Saint, who by now had
about as much confidence in
Mildred’s veracity as he did in the Flat Earth
theory.
The next obvious question was, then, what exactly was her relation to
Eugene Drew?

Simon’s speculations on that were delayed by
the
cautious arrival of Mildred herself.

“He’s gone,” Simon said.

“Who?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“The man you were running away
from.”

“I wasn’t running away. I told you where
I was going.”

The Saint pushed the elevator button.

“Your friends are here,” he said casually.

“What friends?”

“Your SS friends.”

She looked completely shattered, and all but
pulled
at the parting elevator doors to get inside, glancing fearfully over
her shoulder.

“Where? Did they see you?”

“No,” Simon said. “Nothing to
worry about.”

He told the elevator operator his floor and discouraged
Mildred from any more talking with a warning shake
of
his head. As soon as they were in
his room she wanted
to know
everything.

“They came in and went straight for that
fellow I
thought
you were avoiding,” said Simon, opening a suitcase on the bed and
beginning to pack immediately, as
Mildred
paced up and down the Donegal carpeting.

“How could they have followed us
here?” she asked,
biting the edge of one of her pink-painted
fingernails.

“I don’t think they did. They seemed to
have an
appointment with the gentleman you weren’t running
away
from—Eugene Drew.”

She showed no reaction at the name.

“You wouldn’t have heard of him, of
course,” Simon
continued, “considering the sheltered life you’ve
led. But
he’s one of the biggest industrialists in Northern
Ireland.”

Mildred stopped pacing, and sucked in her
lower lip.

“Maybe he’s one of them,” she
theorized suddenly.
“I heard them mention a man called Kleinschmidt, who
changed his name and was some kind of Nazi agent
here even before the
war. He’s probably scheduled to
take over all of Ireland when they make their
move.”

The Saint looked at her with a kind of
ambiguous
admiration.

“Fantastic,” he said. “In a
single day you’ve changed
my whole picture of the history of our
times.”

The phone rang, and Simon answered. It was Pat
Kelly.

“I’m back in me own little room,” he
said, “and sober
as a judge, in case ye’re wonderin’. Shall we
meet in the
lobby in twenty minutes?”

“Fine,” said Simon. “I’m just
about ready now.”

He was travelling light, and he had not even
removed
most of his clothes—the ones for fishing and country
wear—from
the suitcase during his short stay at the hotel.
So he had only to
pack his toilet kit, and then he was
ready to call for the porter.

“I think we’ll send you down the stair
well,” he said to
Mildred. “Your guardians wouldn’t be
likely to use it, and
I’ll meet you …”

There was a knock at the door. Mildred froze
and her
eyes grew wide.

“It’s them,” she whispered.

“Clairvoyant too?” asked the Saint.

Mildred looked like a frightened rabbit.

“Who else could it be?”

“Maybe I’ve just won the
sweepstakes,” the Saint sug
gested. “But in case you’re right, get
in the wardrobe.”

She obeyed, and Simon hurried into the bathroom
as
the knocking continued. He took the bath brush from its rack and laid it
on the edge of the washbasin so that the brush was under the faucet. He put an
empty plastic soap
dish on the brush and turned on the tap just enough to
produce a
fast drip. Within a short time the soap dish
would fill enough with
water to unbalance the brush and
make it fall into the basin. The whole
operation took only
a few moments.

Simon closed the bathroom door, making sure
the key was in the outside. Then he pushed the door of the wardrobe firmly
shut and went to answer the knocking. While
he was prepared for
anything, the Saint was nevertheless
a little surprised to see Mildred’s SS
guardians standing there. He had considered the bath brush ticket a probable
waste of energy.

But he did not show his surprise any more than
he
betrayed any concern over the pistol in the fat man’s
hand. His
face was as serene as his afternoon had been
before they and
Mildred had interrupted it.

“Looking for the clown auditions?”
he asked obligingly.
“The circus manager’s room is next
door.”

“Never mind,” said the one with the
gun, displaying a
notable lack of a sense of humor. “Stand back.”

Simon obeyed, being sure that his calm
retreat took
him toward the closed bathroom door.

“Did you enjoy your swim?” he
inquired.

“Where is she?” demanded the thin
one.

“Who?” asked Simon.

“The girl.”

“Gone about her father’s business, I
suppose.”

“Mister,” said the fat one,
“you’re getting in our way.
I dislike violence, but if I have to I’ll rub
you out like a
chalk
mark.”

At that point the brush clattered into the
washbasin,
and Simon made an exaggerated move to put himself be
tween the
men and the bathroom door. The one with the
gun stepped forward, then
gestured for the thin one to
investigate. There was a brief moment when the thin one
was just inside the bathroom, and the fat one was
off his
guard, turning to peer over
his companion’s shoulder.
That was the
moment the Saint chose to use his foot, for the second time that day, on the
posterior of the plumper
of the pair, who was propelled forward through
the door
way, striking his partner with
something like the effect
of a
billiard on a ping pong ball. The thin man caromed into the shower stall, while
the fat one carried enough
momentum to
send him stumbling to another corner of
the little room. Simon quickly closed and locked the door,
and almost before the captives had had time to
start
shouting and thumping he had
opened the wardrobe and
let Mildred
out.

“Our friends have a great affinity for water,” he said,
picking up the telephone and dialing Kelly’s room.

“Oh, you’re wonderful!” said
Mildred. She stationed
herself at the door for a quick getaway.
“How did you
do
it?”

“Pat,” Simon said, when his friend
answered. “I’m afraid the turnover in this hotel is a little fast for us.
We’ll have
to hurry along and meet you at your house.”

Before the startled Irishman could reply,
Simon hung
up, lifted one of his suitcases in either hand, and fol
lowed Mildred
out into the corridor toward the elevator.

“What if
…
Kleinschmidt is down in the lobby?” she
asked.

“Kleinschmidt?” said Simon.
“Oh—the one who’s taking
over Ireland after the uprising. Well, I
think I could
handle
him. If you prefer using the fire escape, go right ahead.”

She chose to come with him in the elevator.

“Here, now, sir,” the aged operator
said, hurrying to
take the suitcases. “Couldn’t ye get a boy for
helpin’ with
those?”

“We were in a hurry,” the Saint
answered. “Some
people were anxious to see us, but we weren’t
so anxious to see them.”

“Ah, and that’s understandable
enough,” said the oper
ator with a wink, casting an appreciative eye
over
Mildred’s
shape and virgin ring finger. “We’ll have some
one get those bags out front for ye now in a jiffy.”

Simon tipped him and walked with Mildred to
the
desk, where he paid his bill and asked for his car to be
brought
around to the main entrance.

“I heard a lot of banging on my
floor,” he said to the
clerk. “Like somebody trying to break a
door down.”

“I’ll see to that, sir,” the clerk
said, and rang for a
porter.

“Oh, Mr. Templar,” Mildred said
admiringly as they
went out to the street, “how did you ever lock up
both
those
men?”

“It’s no more miraculous than the fact
that they knew
where we were.” He looked at her closely. “Is
it?”

“I
…
guess not.
They’re … diabolical. They’ve
got agents everywhere. And maybe they
did recognize
your face this afternoon, and found out where you were
staying.”

The doorman stood by Simon’s car at the curb.

“It’s possible,” Simon said as he
helped Mildred in.
“But I’m sure there’s a simpler explanation. When
we’ve
had a chance to catch our breath, I want you to tell me
the truth
about it. If that won’t be too frightful an
effort.”

4

As the Saint drove west through Dublin along
the
Liffey, he had the unmistakable feeling that his request
for truth
had put a damper on Mildred’s ordinary talka
tiveness. She did not
say anything, indeed, for more than
twenty minutes. That fact was not totally
without its
charm, so Simon did not try to change the situation until
they were driving through the dark countryside toward
Leixlip
and Kilcock.

“Now,” he said, “how about telling me your real
story.”

Mildred performed a flouncing jerk and twisted around
so that she was facing her own side of the car. A
moment
later Simon heard whimpering
sounds.

“I realize the thought of being honest
must be terribly
painful for you,” said the Saint, “but try to
bear up.”

There were snuffling noises, and then Mildred sud
denly
turned and looked through the back window.

“I
think they’re
following us,” she said in an urgent
voice.

“You’re changing the subject.”

“No,” she insisted, wiping her eyes
excitedly as she
went on looking. “I didn’t mention it before, but I
thought they picked us up just after we left the hotel. They must
have got
out of your room faster than we thought.”

“The Keystone Stormtroops?” said
Simon. “It doesn’t
seem very likely.”

“They’re probably just staying back there
waiting till
we stop someplace where they can get me.”

In the rear view mirror Simon could see two
pairs of
headlights several hundred feet behind. He slowed his
own car as a test of the
others’ reactions, and they began
closing the
distance at a normal rate.

“If they were following us,” he
said, “they probably
wouldn’t catch up like that.”

He increased the pressure of his foot on the
accelerator.

“I can’t help it,” said Mildred. “I still think I
saw them.”

“And I still think you’re looking for ways to avoid talk
ing about yourself, Miss Hitler.” He glanced
at her. “Or
is it Anastasia?
Bridey Murphy?”