The owner of the house sensed the meaning of Simon’s survey.
“I am selling this place,” she said. “I have already sold quite a few things from it, as you can see.”
“It does seem large for a single girl.”
“Yes,” she said very thoughtfully, as if considering whether or not to say something further. The decision was positive. “If I can truly be called single.”
Simon frowned slightly.
“You’re married or have been?”
“I am married, Monsieur Templar — to these.”
She was walking to a recessed bookcase of about her own height, next to the marble fireplace. Her fingers touched something on the left side of the bookcase, and then she easily slid the entire bookcase, shelves and back panel, aside into the wall. Behind it was a space like a wide shallow closet, containing something that resembled an irregularly shaped waist-high box covered with a green cloth.
Mademoiselle Lambrini pulled away the cloth, revealing the five paintings which stood there in a crude rack, or at least their frames, since only the front canvas was visible. At a glance the Saint recognized the style of Leonardo da Vinci. Even in the sunset light the colors had the luster of emeralds and rubies. It was the half-length portrait of a woman against a background of lakes and mountains.
One by one Mademoiselle Lambrini showed Simon the pictures and unnecessarily told him the names of the artists. Then she put the cloth back over them and slid the bookcase into place again in front of the secret compartment.
“They’re beautiful,” Simon said, “and I’m sure very valuable.”
“Very. They are worth at least eight million francs — a million and a half dollars.”
“And they’re yours,” Simon said, allowing a distinct note of doubt to come into his voice.
“Of course — until I sell them tomorrow.”
“Just a few lucky finds you picked up for a song at some little place on the Left Bank?”
She turned and glared at him coldly from near the marble fireplace.
“If you are going to make stupid remarks about them I shall be sorry I showed them to you. You gave me good reason to think I could trust you, Monsieur Templar, and...”
“Since we’re getting intimate enough to have quarrels, won’t you call me Simon? And I’ll call you...”
He stopped, questioningly.
“Annabella,” she said without relaxing.
“Anna the beautiful,” Simon translated. “Very appropriate... very true.”
She blushed slightly and tried to keep her lips from softening into the hint of a smile.
“You don’t need to flatter me, Monsieur Templar. You have already saved my life — and my paintings. That is enough for one day.”
“I’m just giving my natural honesty free rein,” the Saint said engagingly. “And you can’t blame me for feeling some curiosity too. I didn’t mean to insult you or your one-woman Louvre.”
She nodded, and this time she actually did smile, although a little tiredly.
“I apologize too. I am very nervous. This sale to Marcel LeGrand means everything to me — and I’m not accustomed to being kidnapped either, or almost kidnapped. The strain of trying to arrange this deal with LeGrand was enough before I found out today that someone else knows about these paintings and wants to steal them.”
“Do you know that for certain?” the Saint asked her.
“After what happened in Paris, it’s a reasonable assumption, isn’t it?” she replied. “I assure you I don’t know of any other reason why anybody should bother me. I have very little money and no rich relatives.”
“Maybe what seems very little money to you might seem a lot to other people,” Simon suggested.
She shook her head.
“No. I literally have just enough money to keep up appearances — though why I’m telling you all this I don’t know.”
She hesitated. Simon, lounging against the wall near the front window, looked at her across the darkening room.
“I must be a sort of rejuvenated Father Figure,” he surmised. “People always confess to me. Can’t help themselves. Luckily I’m entirely trustworthy except where money and women are concerned — so if you don’t have a bank account or a husband, both of us are safe.”
She laughed uncertainly.
“Well, I have neither. My father died just a few months ago, and he left me this house. It was heavily mortgaged, and almost all the proceeds from it will have to go to settle debts. In fact I have had to sell furniture in order to live these past weeks. I didn’t have the heart to sell the car. Hans is so fond of it, and he stays with me for nothing. He lives on his own savings.” She brightened. “Of course I’ve also known I would only have to hold out for a few more weeks, and then I would be rich — from selling the paintings.”
“Which brings us back to...”
But Simon did not have a chance to finish. Hans Kraus came running from the back rooms of the house, shouting at the top of his voice.
4
“Fräulein! Fräulein! Bitte schnell! Quickly!”
The Saint and Annabella Lambrini met the gray-haired chauffeur in the entrance hall.
“Hans!” she cried. “What is it?”
“A man! I haf seen a man from my vindow. T’rough der trees he valked! Und ven I go out after him, he ran to der front.”
Simon did not wait to hear any more of the story. He was already on his way out the front door of the house after only an instant’s glance to make certain he was not walking into an ambush. At first the most nearly human thing he saw in the golden twilight was the modest marble nymph. Then his keen eye caught a flash of color in motion far down among the trees near the main road. Although it was already obvious that he had little chance of catching up with the intruder, he went through the motions of chasing him just in case some miracle should occur that would make the effort worth while.
But when he reached the dry fountain and paused, the Saint heard the engine of a car roaring from first into second gear with a squeal of rubber on pavement. He could not see the car that was making the noise, but its sound told him that it was taking off in the general direction of Paris as fast as it could go.
Simon felt vaguely unhappy with himself. If the Mercedes had been followed while he was driving it, he should have noticed. He had in fact kept his eyes open for anybody tailing him on the way out from the city and had seen nothing that aroused his suspicions. But the roads had been crowded, and if the followers had held well back while Annabella Lambrini’s car was in the main traffic stream they would have been hard to spot. On the other hand, they might not have followed at all. Knowing as much as they appeared to, they would presumably have found out where she lived.
“Did you see anything?” she was calling to him.
He turned and strode back up the slope, where he was met by Annabella Lambrini and her chauffeur on the driveway.
“Just an art connoisseur dropping in to have a look at your collection,” he answered. “He’s shy, though. I never got near him.” He looked back down toward the road. “Too bad. I might have caught a ride back to Paris.”
The woman’s lovely green eyes were much wider when Simon turned back to meet them than they had been a few seconds before.