Simon Templar knew that he had to make his final assessment of the situation, but from whichever angle he considered it the scales were always tipped in the lawyer’s favour. He and Mimette were standing near the altar, while Norbert was towards the other end of the tomb, a few feet from Henri. The way Henri gripped his automatic told the Saint that he was not accustomed to handling firearms, but with only a dozen feet between them he could hardly miss even a moving target. To attempt to tackle him without any diversion would merely hasten the end for both himself and Mimette.
Simon put his left arm across Mimette and pressed her back so that his body partly shielded her. He moved smoothly, easily, intent on making his action look like a chivalrous gesture rather than a threat, but combining it with a step of his own that brought him half a pace closer to the casket.
“Stay where you are,” rasped Henri. “Professor, I said open the tomb.”
Pichot raised his gun, and his finger looked tight on the trigger. The Saint braced himself for the spring that he had to make even though he knew it would almost certainly be useless. And at that instant something seemed to snap inside the professor.
“No!” he shouted, and launched himself towards Pichot like an infuriated elf.
Henri had been concentrating on the Saint and Mimette and had to turn sideways to meet the unexpected attack. Norbert was blundering and clumsy, but his hands were already clawing at the gun when Henri fired.
Norbert screamed and fell, still clinging to the sleeve of Henri’s coat, but the lawyer kicked viciously at his chest as he went down and the hold was broken. Henri swung around to face the Saint again, but the Saint was no longer there.
He did not try to reach Henri. Even with the advantage of the distraction Norbert had caused, he could not have covered the ground fast enough. But the casket he could reach in one stride. Pushing Mimette away, he leapt towards the altar as Henri turned.
He picked up the heavy casket with both hands and in the same continuous flowing movement sent it hurtling through the air.
Pichot fired, but it was a wild reflex action, and the bullet scraped the top of the tomb and ricocheted harmlessly away. He had no time for another shot. The casket smashed into the side of his head and he went down without a sound. The automatic spun from his hand, and the Saint dived for it and caught it before it reached the floor.
Simon rolled over and up to his feet, but when he saw Henri’s face he knew he would not need the gun.
4
The edge of the casket had opened a gash from Henri’s cheekbone to his chin as it smashed into the side of his face and most probably broke his jaw. He lay on his back, his arms flung out, and only the rasp of irregular breathing showed that he remained to be counted among the living.
Simon retrieved and pocketed the automatic as he stepped over him, and knelt beside the professor. Norbert was moaning faintly, lying on his side and clutching at the top of his leg. Unceremonious pulling down of his trousers revealed that the slug had passed through the fleshy inside of his thigh but managed to miss both bone and artery. It was a fairly tidy wound and not dangerous providing the bleeding was stopped soon.
Mimette came over, and the Saint stood up and greeted her with a grim smile.
“He’ll live, they both will,” he said tersely as he untied her hands.
She gazed down at Henri and shuddered.
“I’ve known him all my life. I still can hardly believe he did such things. The family was always so good to him.”
“Perhaps that was the trouble. To some people, kindness is an unforgivable insult,” Simon remarked cynically. “I’ll see to these two while you go and summon our amiable gendarme and call an ambulance.”
Mimette nodded and turned towards the tunnel, but he stopped her and pointed to the ladder.
“You’d better use the professor’s private entrance. It’ll be shorter.”
She saw the trap-door for the first time and her brow furrowed, but the Saint forestalled her questions.
“You’ll understand as soon as you get out. Just do it quickly.”
She hurried towards the far end of the room and Simon turned back to Norbert. He commandeered the professor’s large handkerchief and tore it into three equal strips which he knotted together, and bound the improvised bandage around Norbert’s leg, to hold pads of cloth ripped from the professor’s shirt-tails in place over the bullet’s entrance and larger exit hole, which staunched the worst of the bleeding.
The old man was returning to full awareness as the shock that had helped mask the pain was wearing off. He whimpered as the necessary pressure was applied to the dressing, and his face was pale and drawn as he looked up at the Saint.
“I’m sorry,” he began weakly. “I didn’t understand. I was a fool. I...”
Simon cut him short.
“Save it. It isn’t me you’re going to have to make your excuses to. As far as I’m concerned, we can call it quits. If you hadn’t gone for Henri when you did, I probably couldn’t have taken him.”
He took another look at the lawyer. Pichot was still unconscious and was likely to remain so for some time. The Saint had no idea how efficient the local ambulance service might be, but given the château’s isolation there was likely to be a considerable delay before they arrived. If the professor was going to get the prompt treatment he needed, a car might be a faster solution.
“This may hurt,” Simon warned, and before Norbert fully understood his meaning he found himself slung in a fireman’s lift across the Saint’s shoulders. He yelped at the sudden pain and all but fainted as he was carried to the ladder.
The opening was only a couple of feet wide, and the Saint had to shift his burden and carry it piggyback fashion until his head and shoulders were through the opening. As gently as possible he rolled Norbert on to the altar carpet that had previously concealed the trap-door, and was climbing the last few rungs when the door from the great hall opened.
Led by Sergeant Olivet and followed by three gendarmes, Mimette, Philippe, and Yves rushed down the chapel aisle towards him.
“That was quick,” Simon remarked as they reached him. “How did you get here — by one of Hitler’s leftover V-2’s?”
Olivet returned his smile.
“I was already here. Monsieur Florian called me.”
The Saint looked questioningly at Yves, who shook his head.
“He means Philippe.”
“Well, well, well,” Simon drawled. “Today is full of surprises.”
He watched Philippe thoughtfully while Olivet was directing the transport of Norbert to hospital. The industrialist was subdued and without a trace of the arrogance that had grated on the Saint ever since his arrival at Ingare. By contrast Yves looked tired but no longer defeated, and there was a new strength to the fingers that grasped Simon’s hand. Mimette had a look in her eyes that told him her private thanks would be worth the waiting for.
“I don’t know how we are ever going to repay you,” said Yves fervently.
“Right now I’ll settle for a drink,” Simon replied lightly.
He turned to Olivet, as the sergeant finished giving instructions to the two men who now had the professor seated in a chair formed by their interlocked arms. As they carried him from the chapel a vague sound of movement drifted up from the crypt.
“Your murderer awaits,” said the Saint with a flourish of his hand towards the opening in the floor. “I’m afraid he’s a bit damaged but I’ve left his neck intact for your official chopper.”
“Vous êtes trop gentil,” Oliver said, with saturnine gravity.
He drew his pistol and climbed down the ladder. Simon waited until the remaining gendarme had followed his leader into the crypt before suggesting that the drink he had already mentioned was long overdue.