“There is no point in feeling offended, mademoiselle,” Mathieu said. “No one is doing anything to you or accusing you of anything.”
His tone implied that she just might find herself accused of something if the police decided to get nasty.
“I’m not offended,” she said icily. “I am disgusted with this whole affair. The sooner I see the end of this business the happier I’ll be.”
Au revoir, then,” said Mathieu with a slight bow.
“My receipt,” she reminded him.
“Oh, yes, of course.”
Mathieu felt in his jacket pockets, and apparently found nothing usable after a lengthy search. Annabella finally produced a pen from her purse.
“Very efficient, you police,” she said as she handed it to him.
“Thank you, mademoiselle,” Mathieu said, “and now... have you any paper?”
Annabella sighed and sat down.
“Would you find them some paper, Hans? They are so busy protecting citizen’s property by carrying it away with them that they rarely have time for writing.”
Hans got the paper and Mathieu found a seat at a table. He wrote and handed the result to Annabella.
“From Mademoiselle Lambrini, paintings,” she read. “H, Mathieu, Inspector.”
She threw the paper down in front of him on the table.
“Do you take me for an idiot?” she demanded angrily. “Describe them. Name the painters!”
Mathieu sighed and pushed the paper back in her direction, offering her the pen.
“You describe them, mademoiselle. I shall sign.”
She wrote a list, Mathieu and Bernard checked her description of the confiscated paintings, and then Mathieu signed the paper again. Annabella took it, folded it, and clutched it tightly.
“Now go,” she said rudely.
Mathieu and Bernard walked to the front door.
“You are staying here, I assume?” Mathieu said. “We may need you when we bring the formal charge against Monsieur Templar. You will be available?”
“Of course,” she lied. Then her voice softened and became less self-assured. “Templar... is he hurt? Was he shot?”
“No,” said Mathieu. “He is as healthy and arrogant as always.”
She nodded. Mathieu and Bernard made stiffly formal parting bows and left the house for their car.
Annabella closed the door and walked dejectedly to the living room. Hans was watching her.
“I am sorry that you had to learn this lesson,” he said hesitantly.
“You’re right, Hans. I’ll never trust anybody again. I promise!”
“Not even your old friends?” asked a third and entirely different voice.
Annabella gave a little shriek and whirled to face the other end of the room. There stood an impeccable and nonchalant Simon Templar, not a hair of his handsome head out of place, more cheerfully arrogant and healthy than the man who called himself Inspector Mathieu could have imagined in his most fearful dreams.
9
“Simon!”
Annabella’s cry was a crazy mixture of relief and horror. The latter emotion at first had the upper hand.
“You — you killer!” she said. “How did you escape?”
She whirled to look out of the front window in time to see Mathieu’s car racing down the drive among the trees. In only a second or two it was out of sight.
Hans grabbed up a poker from beside the fireplace and put himself between the Saint and Annabella. He held the poker like a ready axe in front of him, and his hands were white and trembling. The Saint smiled at him with unperturbed amiability.
“I assure you that you’re both getting yourselves worked up for no reason,” he said quietly. “You were in much worse danger just a few minutes ago.”
“You killed a man!” Annabella said.
“You killed the professor!” Hans joined in, bracing his legs and his makeshift battle-axe defensively.
“I’ve killed a number of men,” said the Saint calmly, “but I haven’t killed anyone this morning, and Professor Clarneau is as much alive as we are. The man who came here and took the paintings, or thought he did, wasn’t Clarneau, of course.”
“You’re completely insane,” Annabella said. “You’re not making any sense.”
“It’s the gospel,” Simon said.
“But the police. The Inspector told me himself—”
“He wasn’t a real Inspector, either.”
“What?”
“A fake cop. This Mathieu is about as close to being a policeman as I am, which is about as far as you can get.”
“But I gave him the paintings!” Annabella almost shrieked.
“Then you’re a very silly girl.”
Whatever Mediterranean strains Annabella’s pedigree included went suddenly on full power. She clenched her teeth, whirled completely around, shook both fists at Simon, and with an explosive shudder began to scream at him.
“This is your fault! All of it! You idiot! You traitor! You’re behind this whole thing!”
She snatched up a vase of roses from one of the tables and hurled it at him, spilling most of the water and most of the roses over the front of her dress. Simon easily avoided the vase, which smashed against the wall beyond him, and awaited the next attack.
“Fräulein!” Hans cried.
He cast an almost imploring look at the Saint, who only shrugged and dodged Annabella’s new missile — a potted cactus from one of the bookshelves. It sailed harmlessly past Simon and crashed not at all harmlessly through the front window.
“What a woman, eh, Hans?” said the Saint admiringly. “When she wants fresh air she wants it now!”
Annabella emitted a choked whinny of fury and charged around the sofa to engage him in hand-to-hand combat, but on the way her feet got tangled up in a lamp cord and she sprawled full length on her face with her eyes just a few inches from the toes of Simon’s beautifully polished shoes.
“You’re better than a wrecking crew,” he said, leaning down to help her up.
She shook off his hand and sat on the rug bawling.
“Oh, go away!” she sobbed. “Just leave me alone.”
“All right, I will. But first I’ll give you a going-away present.”
Hans had simply settled on one of the chairs, the poker drooping loosely in his limp hands. He was obviously in a mild state of shock. Simon went past him into the adjoining room and came back with five large unframed pieces of canvas. He held up one of them for Annabella to see. She stared incredulously, then scrambled to her feet.
“Simon!” she gasped ecstatically. “You... darling!”
An instant later she had thrown her arms around his neck and was covering his face with kisses and lipstick.
“A bit changeable, aren’t you?” he remarked.
“I’m so sorry! I had no idea. I thought — I had to blame somebody. How did you get them?”
“Mathieu and his chum put them in the back of their car and tucked a blanket around them. I just took them out again and tucked the blanket back where it was while they were saying goodbye.” He interrupted her with a lifted hand as she started to speak. “I know. They may already have noticed, so let’s scoot out of here and deliver these treasures to Marcel LeGrand so you can get them off your hands and I can get you off mine.”
Hans, carrying two of the unframed canvases, joined them in hurrying out the back door of the house and through a gate in the wall which bordered Annabella’s property. Simon also carried two paintings, and Annabella brought the fifth. The Saint had parked his car in the shelter of a clump of trees in the neighboring wooded area.
“Wait,” he said abruptly. “No noise for a minute.”