“Here we are chattering away as if we were at a tea party, with poor Hans lying here in such a terrible condition,” she said. “What can I do for him?”
“His breathing seems strong enough. Let him sleep it off. Or when you get home you can phone a doctor.” The Saint turned his head so as to see her again in the rear-view mirror. “Speaking of home, where is it?”
“I’m afraid it’s fifty kilometers out of Paris.”
Simon sighed.
“I asked for it. Fifty kilometers in any particular direction?”
She told him the way.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” she concluded.
“No... assuming that a girl with a house full of Leonardos has an equally good kitchen and wine cellar, or at least a decent bottle of scotch.”
She smiled.
“If your standards aren’t too terribly high I might be able to satisfy you.”
The Saint returned her smile.
“I’d be willing to bet on it. And for a start, you might try satisfying my curiosity about these bully boys who wanted to borrow you along with your car.”
Her green eyes, reflected in the mirror, were wide with surprise at his question.
“How would I know that?” she asked. “I didn’t invite them for a ride, I can tell you that.”
Simon navigated a difficult forking in the river of traffic, kept on his course south out of the city, and then turned his attention back to his one conscious passenger, who in the interim had been trying to revive the unconscious one.
“And I suppose you have no idea why they decided to kidnap you,” he said.
“Of course. They undoubtedly wanted my paintings. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
“I’m trying to keep an open mind,” he answered. “Maybe they were going to hold you for ransom. If these paintings have been kept as secret as you and LeGrand seem to think, it’s possible that what just happened wasn’t even connected with them... but you’d know what the chances of that are much better than I would.”
There was a bitter tone in her laugh.
“Who would pay any ransom for me?”
“Your father? Brother?”
“I have no family any more,” she told him curtly. “The paintings — and poor Hans here — are all I have in any way tied to the past.”
“Could they have expected you to pay your own way out?” Simon asked.
“No more than they might have expected anybody else in Paris to make it worth their trouble. I am not rich. I own this car and my clothes and such things...”
“Such as a few paintings worth several million dollars,” the Saint put in.
“But I have only a monthly income I inherited,” she continued. “Not enough to make anyone think of kidnapping me.”
“Then it must be the paintings they were after,” Simon said. “Paintings nobody is supposed to know about. Which is an interesting fact in itself. How is it that five such fantastically rare paintings have been lying around your house all this time without being heard of?”
“It’s even more interesting when you know the full story,” she replied. “I will tell you later. Now I think that Hans is waking up.”
The Saint caught glimpses of the revival of Mademoiselle Lambrini’s chauffeur. Most of his attention had to be focused on keeping Mademoiselle Lambrini’s Mercedes from destruction at the hands of homeward bound suburban drivers. But before the worst of the evening rush hour had swamped the roads of the city’s outskirts he had managed to get well along the N7 to the south, past the vicinity of Orly airfield land on the way to Fontainebleau.
“We turn soon,” Mademoiselle Lambrini said to him presently. “Follow the signs toward Barbizon.”
Hans was sitting up beside her now, still apparently too dazed to be sure of anything except the fact that his professional duties had been taken over by somebody else.
“I drive,” he said feebly.
“Bleiben Sie ruhig,” the woman told him. “Relax. You aren’t even awake yet. That is Mr Templar driving. Mr Templar, this is Hans Kraus. He has been with my family since I was a girl.”
“How do you do, Hans?” said the Saint cheerily. “Feeling better after your nap?”
Suddenly the chauffeur seemed to come entirely awake, as if for the first time he fully realized where he was and what had happened.
“A man!” he said excitedly. “He asked me for a match, und den ven I turned — I vas in der car — he pushed somet’ing over my face. I could not even shout, und everyt’ing vas coming very dark... I don’t know, then...”
“They used chloroform, or something like it,” Simon said.
“But vy? Vat happened?”
“There were two of them,” his mistress explained. “One wore your hat, and then when I walked up to the car they pulled me inside. If Mr Templar hadn’t come along... I don’t know.”
“Did you get a good look at the man?” Simon asked, tossing the words over his shoulder. “Was he French?”
Hans Kraus shook his head, rubbing his cheek with one hand.
“I don’t know. He did not speak to me. He looked... nothing special. But I think I vould know him.”
Mademoiselle Lambrini interrupted suddenly.
“Oh! You turn there... just ahead. To the left. And then go slowly. We are almost to the house.”
The Mercedes had been traveling through an area where the land seemed cultivated more for beauty than for agricultural production, and the countryside, mostly wooded, was divided into small estates, each with its house scarcely visible through tailored shrubs and trees.
Simon reduced speed.
“Nice neighborhood,” he said. “Have you lived here very long?”
“No.” She leaned forward and pointed past his shoulder. “Turn in there, where you see the stone wall.”
The Saint guided the car into the drive, which formed a U-shaped loop from the road to the two-storeyed brick house that dominated the acre of property from a shallow rise. The grounds were thickly shaded with trees. Between the house and the road, on sloping leaf-covered terrain, was an inoperative fountain watched over by a nude marble nymph, her hands carefully arranged in the sort of modest pose affected by marble nymphs when they watch over the fountains of the respectable well-to-do.
Simon stopped the black Mercedes at the front door of the house and helped his two passengers out on to the gravel drive. Hans Kraus was unsteady on his feet, but when Mademoiselle Lambrini tried to help support him he pulled himself up with a great effort at dignity and made his way with little assistance up the steps. He held the door open after his mistress unlocked it, and then swayed dizzily.
Simon caught his arm.
“All right?”
The man took a deep breath.
“Ja. Better. Thank you.”
“Off to bed with you,” Mademoiselle Lambrini said to him.
Kraus looked back through the trees in front of the house as the Saint closed the door.
“But Fräulein, they may have found out about this place. They may come here!”
“A lot you could do about it in your condition,” she said gently. “Go to your bed, mon vieux. You have taken care of me often enough. Let me take care of you.”
The white-haired man shrugged.
“As you vill, Fräulein. But be careful, please.” He gave Simon a distrustful look, bowed slightly, and moved slowly away down the entrance hall toward the door at its far end. He turned to speak once more. “Excuse me please.”
“Take care of yourself,” said the Saint casually.
“And I shall bring you some supper,” Mademoiselle Lambrini said.
She led the Saint out of the dim hall into the house’s large front living room. A large window looked south over the entrance drive, the marble nymph, and her dry fountain. The room itself was not as richly furnished as Simon had expected. What was there fitted harmoniously, was antique, and gave the impression of having been there for a long time — and of having cost someone plenty a good many years before. It was just that there was so little of it: a sofa, three chairs, a pair of small tables, an empty glass-fronted mahogany cabinet. Yet the room was very large, and the empty spaces where furniture had formerly stood were depressingly evident. The walls, too, were bare except for two etchings of hunting scenes.