They listened and heard an automobile engine roaring at high speed up the drive on the other side of the wall. Simon left Annabella and Hans in his car and peeked through the gate. He could see nothing but the back and side of her house, but he could hear shouting and the pounding of fists on the front door.
Simon trotted back to his car grinning.
“The return of Inspector Mathieu,” he said as he got into the driver’s seat. “Hold on to your Leonardos, darling.”
He rocketed off toward the main road, and if Mathieu associated the sound with his escaping prey he had no time to react before the Saint and his charges were a mile down the highway.
Hans, in the back seat, closed his eyes and heaved a sigh.
“I am too old for this,” he said. “I think I go back to Linz.”
Annabella looked over her shoulder at him.
“You’re going to California,” she bubbled. “It’s over now. You can relax.”
“Let’s hope so,” the Saint said. “We may run into a waiting line at LeGrand’s. You know there are at least two batches of people even less principled than ourselves after these paintings.”
“Two?” Annabella said.
Hans groaned and closed his eyes again.
“Mathieu’s team and another crowd that seems to be half German and half Italian,” Simon continued. “I had the international squad locked up — the ones who tried to kidnap you in Paris — but then Mathieu bopped me in the head, and when I’d worked my way out of the room he locked me in, they were gone. I was fully expecting them to show up at your house too. You wouldn’t have any idea who they are, of course.”
“No. And who is Mathieu, really?”
“I don’t know that either. But your theories should be better than mine. You know the history of the paintings — who knows about them, who might have heard about them.”
He could almost feel the distance between him and Annabella widen.
“As I told you,” she said almost defiantly, “I have not had much contact with my father. I know very little.”
That was that. The Saint could do without the whole truth as long as he cleared his fair profit, which he expected to earn very soon now. He had a kind of permanent quiet faith that anything he really needed to know would inevitably be revealed to him, and it was possible that what he already knew about the present case was all he would ever need to know: Beautiful and mysterious girl possesses valuable paintings, two competing gangs of art thieves catch up with her at the same time, but luckily the Saint is on hand to throw them all into confusion and reap his own just reward.
“Oh well,” he said to get off the subject, “maybe they’re just frustrated amateur actors who enjoy impersonating cops and art experts and such. We’ll concentrate on getting the loot to LeGrand. It’s almost six, and I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Let’s get something to eat and give him a call at the same time. When I left him this noon I told him to go home and I’d contact him tonight.”
“When did you see him?” she asked. “You haven’t told me what happened.”
“I’ll tell you all about it over a glass of something restorative. We’re not far from Barbizon, where the Bas-Bréau does a canard à- l’ananas that would tempt Donald Duck to become a cannibal.”
“I’ve lost my bearings complete,” Annabella said. “I feel as if we’ve been traveling in circles.”
“We have,” Simon told her. “At least, we did once. It’s known amongst us professional lawbreakers as shaking the tail — assuming anybody tried to tail us. You’ll have to learn to do it if you’re planning to continue with this adventurous life you’ve been leading.”
Annabella shook her head with a tired smile.
“I just want to get it over with — and carry off lots and lots of money.”
Simon nodded and returned her smile without speaking or taking his eyes from the road. He doubted whether it would be that simple.
10
After he had ordered dinner, the Saint left Annabella and Hans at the table and telephoned Marcel LeGrand at his home.
“Simon!” the dealer exclaimed with relief. “I haven’t heard from anyone!”
“You’re lucky,” the Saint informed him. “It seems that everybody you know except Professor Clarneau and possibly me is a crook. Inspector Mathieu isn’t inspecting anything but ways to get his hands on your paintings.”
“He’s not...?”
“No, he’s not. I don’t think he’d try keeping up the impersonation at this stage, but I thought you’d better know.” The Saint paused. “He’s not standing over you now, is he?”
“Of course not,” LeGrand said with surprise.
“If there’s anyone holding a gun on you, to make you tell me that nothing’s wrong, say ‘No, she’s feeling perfectly well now.’ “
LeGrand laughed.
“No need for codes. There’s only myself and my wife here.”
“Good. May we come to your house with the paintings in about a couple of hours?”
“Yes! The sooner the better.”
Simon went back to the table where Annabella and Hans were waiting to begin their aperitifs. He toasted them with a dry Martini.
“LeGrand is expecting us,” he said. “California or bust.”
Annabella smiled as she raised her glass.
“California or bust!”
An hour and a half later, replete with pineapple-garnished duck and Rausan Segla ‘59, and an ethereal epilog of orange soufflé, they left the restaurant for LeGrand’s home in the western suburbs of Paris.
The house, even seen in semi-darkness, was an impressive testimony to the success of art as being business. LeGrand’s establishment, in spaciously landscaped grounds, made Annabella Lambrini’s house seem like a cottage by comparison. As the Saint pulled his car up to the front door he noticed LeGrand’s Citroën in the porte cochere. There were no other cars. If there had been it might have given warning that LeGrand had received some unfriendly visitors since Simon had called him earlier in the evening. Of course, visitors of a really dedicated undesirability would not be very likely to have left their vehicle in plain view. There was a side road beyond LeGrand’s southern hedge where they might have parked inconspicuously.
“I’m still nervous,” Annabella said, fidgeting with her purse.
Simon let her out of the car. Hans chose to wait.
“It’s about time to stop being nervous and start celebrating — unless LeGrand’s changed his mind.”
Annabella looked stunned. Then she saw the Saint’s teasing grin in the light that fell over LeGrand’s front steps.
“Don’t joke,” she said. She looked over her shoulder. “Let’s hurry, please, before some of those horrible people come here.”
Simon rang the bell. Almost immediately LeGrand opened the door, extending a hand effusively to each of them over the threshold.
“I’m delighted to see you,” he said. “Come in, come in, please.”
“I think you are as anxious as I am,” Annabella said with a small smile. “Or do you always answer your door so promptly?”
They had stepped into a sumptuously carpeted and decorated entrance hall. LeGrand waved them toward an open door to the left.
“I am anxious,” he said. “I must admit it. I was watching from the window.”
He was as impeccably dressed as ever, even though his dark suit was more than a trifle wilted. The reception room into which he took them was as richly furnished with antiques as some state-supported seventeenth-century château.
Annabella looked around admiringly.
“But you have everything already,” she said. “Are you sure you want my poor paintings?”