The Saint Bids Diamonds (The Saint Series)

by Leslie Charteris

  “You didn’t tell me why Graner’s expecting you,” she said.

  He sank onto the end of the bed.

  “That’s easy. You see, I answered his telegram.”

  “You did?”

  “Naturally. I knew Felson and Holby were jewel thieves. I recognised the name of Joris as…Well, frankly, it was associated with a rather famous job of jewel borrowing. And an unknown Mr Graner seemed to be tied up with the whole party. So I figured that Comrade Graner would be worth looking at. I wired him, ‘Know very man. Have phoned him. Says he will leave immediately,’ and signed it ‘Felson.’ ”

  “You mean you were going to work for him?”

  “I never cut a diamond in my life, darling. And I don’t work with anybody. I just thought it might pay a dividend if I got to know Reuben a little better. Reuben would pay the dividend—but not for services rendered.”

  “I see.” There was a quirk of humour in her straightforward brown eyes. “You thought you could blackmail him.”

  His fine brows slanted up at her in a line of gay, unscrupulous mockery.

  “I shouldn’t put it like that myself. It probably wouldn’t even be literally true. I’m an idealist. You could call me an adjuster of unjust differences. Why should Graner have such a lot of diamonds when I haven’t any? If he’s anything like what he sounds like from the way you talk about him, it’s almost a sacred duty to adjust him. Hence my telegram.”

  “But suppose Rodney wired him something different?”

  The Saint smiled.

  “I don’t think either Rodney or George is sending any wires just now,” he said carefully. “After I picked up the telegram I followed them out of Chicote’s to keep an eye on them. As soon as they got outside, a couple of birds in plain clothes flashed badges at them, and then they all got into a taxi and drove away. From the smug expressions of the badge merchants and the worried looks of Rodney and George, I gathered that whatever they were doing in Madrid must have sprung a leak. Anyway, it was good enough to take a chance on.”

  “But the others’ll recognise you.”

  “I doubt it. It was pretty dark on the road. I wouldn’t be too sure of recognising them, apart from the identification marks I left on them—and I had a hat pulled down over my eyes. That’s good enough to take a chance on too.”

  He put out his cigarette and stood up. The movement brought them face to face, and he put his hands on her shoulders.

  “Don’t worry any more tonight, Christine,” he said. “I know it’s pretty hard to take your mind off it, but you’ve got to try. In the morning we’ll do some more work on it.”

  “Joris said it,” she answered, “you’ve been very kind.”

  “For only doing half a job?” Simon asked flippantly.

  “For being so confident and practical. I needed pulling together. It seems quite different now, with you helping us. It must be something about you…”

  Her face was turned up to his, and she was so close that he could almost feel the warmth of her body. His pulse beat faster, irresistibly, but his mind was cool. He smiled at her, and suddenly she turned away and went out of the room without looking back.

  The Saint took another cigarette and lighted it with elaborately unhurried precision. For quite half a minute he stood still where she had left him, before he strolled over to the wardrobe mirror and examined himself with dispassionate interest.

  “You’re being seduced,” he said.

  Then he remembered that the Hirondel was still parked outside the hotel. It couldn’t stay there all night, and a faint frown touched his forehead at the thought that perhaps it had stood out there too long already. But that couldn’t be helped, he had had too many other things to think of before. Fortunately he had located a garage during the afternoon. He opened the door of his room very quietly and went downstairs again.

  Already the square was almost deserted—Santa Cruz goes to bed early, for the convincing reason that there is nothing else to do. Simon got into the car and drove up the Calle Castillo. He drove slowly, feeling the effortless purr of the powerful engine soothing and smoothing out his mind, a cigarette slanting between his lips and his fingertips lightly caressing the wheel. The deep hum of the machine distilled itself into his senses, taking possession of him until it was as if the car led him on without any direction of his will. He had had no such thoughts when he left the hotel to put the car away…But there was a turning on the right which he should have taken to go to the garage…He passed it without a glance. The Hirondel droned on, up onto the La Laguna road—towards the house of Reuben Graner.

  3

  Simon Templar began to sing, a faint fragment of almost inaudible melody that harmonised with the soft undertones of the engine. The cool night air was refreshing on his face. He was smiling.

  Possibly he was quite mad. If so, he always had been, and it was too late in life to worry about it. But it was his creed that adventure waited for no timetables, and everything he had ever done or ever would do was built up on that reckless faith. He was bound to visit Reuben Graner sometime. At the moment he felt as fresh and wide awake as if he had just got out of a cold bath, and the brief but breezy episode by the roadside a couple of hours before had only whetted his appetite. Why should he wait for some Spanish mañana to carry on with the good work?

  Not that he had a single plan of campaign in his head. His mind was a clean slate on which impulse or circumstance or destiny might write anything that happened to amuse them. The Saint was broadmindedly prepared to co-operate in the business of being amused…

  A gleam of reminiscent humour touched his eyes as he recognised the spot where Joris Vanlinden had introduced himself so appropriately into the general course of events, and then he trod suddenly on the brakes in time to save the lives of a pareja, or brace, of guardias de asalto who stepped out into the path of his headlights and waved to him to stop. Looking around him he discovered that the road was littered with guardias of all shapes and sizes. He saw the sheen of the black oilcloth Napoleonic hats of guardias civiles and the dull glint of carbines. There are various species of guardias in Spain, intended between them to perform the various functions of police work, and it is popularly believed that the word has no singular, since they are only seen in parejas, or braces, as inevitably as grouse. Even allowing for that, it seemed an unusual concentration, and the Saint’s gaze narrowed slightly as the pareja which had stopped him closed in on either side of the car. A torch flashed in his face.

  “Where are you going?” asked half the brace curtly, in Spanish, and Simon answered in the same language: “To visit a friend. He’s expecting me.”

  “Baje usted.”

  Simon got out. The other guardia came round the car and attached himself again to his comrade. It was like a reunion of Siamese twins. Half the brace kept him covered while the other half searched him rapidly.

  The Saint remembered that since he had left the hotel with no nefarious intent he had not even troubled to take a gun. He had only one weapon—the slim razor-edged throwing knife strapped to his left forearm under his sleeve which he would not have exchanged for all the firearms in the world—but the search was not thorough enough to discover that.

  “Su documentación?”

  Simon produced his passport. It was examined and returned to him.

  “Turista?”

  “Sí.”

  “Bueno. Siga usted.”

  The Saint scratched his head.

  “What is this?” he inquired curiously.

  “That does not concern you,” replied the talking half of the brace uncommunicatively and stepped back.

  Simon got into the car again and drove on thoughtfully. Certainly, now that he recollected it, the rescue of Joris Vanlinden had not been accomplished in complete silence; in fact, he remembered that one or two shots had been fired in the later stages which would doubtless have been audible for some distance, but the convention of guardias gathered on the spot seemed somewhat dispropor
tionate to the occasion, even under an administration which has always been convinced that posting a herd of police on the scene of a past crime is an infallible method of preventing another crime being committed somewhere else. He puzzled over it for a few moments, trying to recall some other factor which seemed to have slipped his memory, and then he saw the long white wall which he had been told to look out for, and the sight temporarily diverted his mind from other problems.

  He drove slowly past it, and a hundred yards farther on he came to a narrow side turning into which he backed the car. He switched off the engine, turned out the lights, and returned on foot. In the middle of the wall there was a wide gateway, wide enough to admit a big car—which it probably did, for the sidewalk was cut away in front of it. The gates were solid wood, studded and bound with iron, and they filled the whole archway so that it was impossible to get a glimpse of the garden inside. In the lower part of one of the gates was a smaller door. Simon scanned it in the subdued beam of a flashlight no larger than a fountain pen, and spelled out the name on the tarnished brass plate, “Las Mariposas.” It was Graner’s house.

  He walked on, along the wall, and when it ended he climbed over the rough wire fence of the adjoining field and worked along the other side. In this way he made a complete circuit of the property, and presently found himself in the road again. The wall ran all the way round it without a break, two feet over his head the whole time, and the Saint smiled with professional satisfaction. In the circumstances, the household seemed to have all the hallmarks of really well-organised villainy, and Simon Templar approved of well-organised villains. They made life so much more exciting.

  The house itself stood in one angle of the square, so that one corner of the surrounding wall was actually formed by the walls of the house itself, but the only opening in those walls was formed by two or three barred windows on the top floor. Apart from those small apertures, the walls rose sheer from the ground for thirty feet without any break or projection that would have given foothold to a lizard. There was no hope of feloniously entering the property by that route.

  He returned to the first field he had entered, and inspected the wall again from that side. He reached up to the top, and felt a closely woven mesh of barbed wire under his fingers—anyone a little shorter than himself would have had to make a jump for the grip, and would have collected a pair of badly lacerated hands for compensation.

  Simon bent down and took off his shoes. He placed them side by side on top of the wall, hooked his fingers over them, and in that way drew himself up. In that way he discovered something else.

  A fine copper wire ran along the top of the wall, stretched between brackets in such a way that it projected about eight inches from the wall itself and also leaned slightly towards the outside. It had been invisible until he almost put his face into it, and he only just stopped pulling himself up in time. If he had been even a little clumsy with placing his shoes on top of the wall he would have touched it. He studied it intently for a few seconds. And then he lowered himself carefully to the ground, pulled his shoes down after him, and put them on again.

  Exactly what useful purpose that wire served he didn’t know, but he didn’t like the look of it. It certainly didn’t seem strong enough to hold anyone back who intended to go through it, and it wasn’t even barbed. But it was so placed that no one could even pull himself up sufficiently to see over the wall without touching the wire; certainly it was impossible to scramble over it without doing so. A ladder placed up against the wall would have touched it just the same.

  It might have been connected with some system of alarms, it might even have carried a charge of high-voltage electricity, it might have fired guns or sent up rockets or played martial music, but the one certain thing of which the Saint was profoundly convinced was that it hadn’t been put there for fun. He was beginning to acquire a wholesome respect for Reuben Graner which nevertheless failed to depress his spirits.

  “Life,” said the Saint, to his guardian angel, “is starting to look more and more entertaining.”

  As he stood there under the wall, allowing the full flavour of the entertainment to circulate meditatively around his palate, he became conscious of a sound on the other side of the wall. It was hardly more than a faint rustle such as a tree might have made stirring in the breeze, and then the hairs prickled instinctively on the back of his neck as he realised that there was no breeze…

  He listened, standing so still that he could feel the throbbing of the blood in his arteries. The rustling went on, and now that he could analyse it logically he knew that it was too abrupt and irregular to be caused by a wind. It was made by something alive, something heavy and yet stealthy moving about among shrubbery on the other side of the wall. He heard the sound of a subdued sniffing, and all at once the words of Christine Vanlinden rushed through his mind. “They hadn’t let the dogs out then…”

  He remained frozen to immobility, expecting at any moment to hear the tranquillity of the night shattered by the fierce clamour of barking, but nothing happened. He heard the muffled blare of a ship’s siren away down in the harbour, and a car whined up the hill and vanished in a whispering diminuendo, but in between those sounds there was nothing but the drumming in his own ears. When at last he ventured to move, the uproar still failed to break out. Nothing broke the stillness except that occasional stealthy rustle that followed him all the way back to the road, keeping pace with him on the other side of the wall. In the unnatural muteness of that invisible following there was something eerie and horrible that set his nerves tingling.

  Again he stood in front of the arched gateway, lighting a cigarette and considering the situation. Very few things seemed more certain than that it was practically impossible to get into the grounds without raising an alarm—he had discovered a fair number of reasons for that, but they only provided additional reasons for believing that there were other equally ingenious gadgets waiting on the inside of the wall for the resourceful intruder who managed to pass the first line of defence. Besides all of which, of course, there were still the dogs, and their utter and uncanny silence gave the Saint a queer chilly intuition that their purpose was not so much to give alarms as to deal in their own way with intruders…

  One of the cardinal articles of Simon Templar’s philosophy, however, was that the more elaborately insoluble such complex problems became, the more pellucidly simple the one and only key to the riddle became—if one could only see it. And in this case the solution was so staggeringly elementary that it left the Saint dumb with awe for a full half-minute.

  And then, very deliberately and accurately, he placed the end of his forefinger on the bell beside the gateway, and pushed.

  There was an interval of silence before he heard the sound of footsteps advancing over flagstones towards the gate. A grille opened in the smaller door, but it was too dark to see the face that looked out from behind it.

  “Quién es?”

  For the time being the Saint saw no need to advertise the fact that he spoke Spanish as well as any Castilian.

  “Mr Graner is expecting me,” he said.

  “Who is it?” repeated the voice, in English.

  “Mr Felson sent me.”

  “Just a minute.”

  There was another pause. Simon heard a low whistle, the scuffle of claws on the stone, and the tinkle and creak of chains. Then a key was turned, bolts thudded back, and the small door opened.

  “Come in.”

  Simon ducked through the narrow opening and straightened up inside. The man who had admitted him was bending to close the door and fasten the bolts. The Saint noted that there were no less than five of them—two on the lock side, one on the hinge side, and one each in the centre of the top and bottom of the door—and all of them were connected with curious bright metal contacts.

  He glanced thoughtfully around him. The dogs had been tied up to a post set in the flagged pathway with short loops of chain riven through rings in their collars. They were h
uge, bristling grey brutes, larger than police dogs—he had no idea what breed they were. The chains scraped and rattled as they strained steadily towards him, their slavering jaws a little open and their lips curled snarling back from glistening white fangs, but even then neither of them gave tongue. They simply leaned towards him, their feet scrabbling on the paving, quivering with a voiceless intensity of lusting ferocity and power that was more vicious than anything of its kind that the Saint had ever seen before. And a grim little smile touched his lips as he mentally acknowledged the fact that if it was difficult enough to get into that garden, it would be just about as difficult to get out…

  “Come this way,” said the man who had let him in, and they walked along the paved pathway that ran around the house. “I’m Graner. What’s your name?”

  “Tombs,” said the Saint.

  He had cherished for years an eccentric affection for that morbid alias.

  There was a light over the porch outside the front door, and for the first time he was able to inspect his host, while Graner looked at him. From Simon’s side the inspection was something of a shock.

  Reuben Graner was a full head shorter than himself, and as thin as a lath, and his skinny shape was accentuated by a mauve-striped suit which fitted him so tightly that it looked as if it had been shrunk onto him. Between his green suede shoes and the ends of his clinging trousers appeared a pair of bright yellow spats, and what could be seen of his shirt behind a tie like a patchwork quilt was a pale rose pink. Above that, his sallow face was as thin and sharp as an axe blade. From either side of his inordinately long and narrow nose hard, deeply graven lines ran down like brackets to enclose a mouth that was merely a horizontal slit in the tight-drawn skin, which was so smoothly stretched over the forehead and high cheekbones that it seemed as if there was no flesh between it and the skull. At that first inspection, only his eyes seemed to justify the uncontrollable horror with which Christine Vanlinden had spoken of him; they peered out with an odd unblinking intentness from behind large tortoise-shell spectacles, black and beady and inscrutable as damp pebbles.