“If you please, m’sieu, is something wrong?”
“We shall see,” said Simon. “Open the bottle.”
At the pop of the cork everyone in the room except the Saint, who had long ago learned to control such easily anticipated reflexes, gave an undignified jump. The waiter’s forehead was glistening with perspiration. He splashed a little of the Bollinger into a glass and offered it to the Saint. The Saint offered it to Smolenko, who gestured toward Ivan, who yielded to Igor. Simon handed the glass to the waiter.
“You taste it.”
“Moi, m’sieu?” the man asked, astounded.
“Oui. Vous”
“Merci, m’sieu.”
The waiter took a sip and managed a sickly smile.
“All of it,” said Simon, touching the base of the glass with a fingertip.
The waiter drained it, then stood trying to preserve some semblance of nonchalance as four pairs of eyes studied his every twitch.
“That is all,” the Saint told him at last. “You may go now.”
When Ivan opened the door, the waiter hurried out with relief. Simon filled the glasses as Igor gave the tray and the bottom of the bottle a close inspection.
“Cheers.”
Smolenko raised her glass grudgingly.
“This is generous of you.”
“You’re very kind, but I’m not paying for it.”
“Who is?”
“The Kremlin, of course. We’re on an expense account, aren’t we?”
Smolenko glared at him.
“Your file is quite correct. You are nothing but a mercenary adventurer.”
“And one who likes staying alive. While we’re dawdling merrily here, evil wheels are turning in this city. Your rather spectacularly defective electronic equipment is purchased from Paris. Klaus said he was hired here, by a man who knew the number of your compartment. If they were confident enough not to be watching the train when it arrived, they’ll be suspicious when Klaus fails to report — so all in all our best course is to trace them before they trace us.”
“I am ahead of you,” Smolenko said. “Someone will be here soon.”
“Who?”
“One of our best people. And now I take a shower and change clothes.”
“Remember, we’re not in Moscow. You won’t need much to maintain your body temperature.”
The desk called twenty minutes later, and Igor said da, hung up, called to Smolenko in Russian, and said to the Saint, who emerged from his bedroom straightening his tie: “Blagot here.”
Smolenko came from her room and joined them, wearing a most plainly cut brown dress and cumbersomely heeled shoes which in the Western nations would rarely have been inflicted on any woman under sixty-five.
“I must admit,” Simon said, “that for a female with the whole sartorial deck stacked against her, you manage to look amazingly beautiful.”
“I suggest you stay in your room,” she said.
“I suggest that as Colonel Smolenko, I’d better be here to greet our trusted friend. And I also suggest that you fill me in on who he is.”
“He is Blagot, a member of our Paris apparatus. I shall let him know who I am. We need no masquerade for him.”
“You’ve met him?”
“No. Nobody here has seen me.”
“Your naïveté is most affecting. Weren’t you listening to what I said a few minutes ago? Your assassination was planned by someone who knew your entire programme. The higher a man is in your organization the more possible it is that he could be behind the whole thing. Now if you seriously want to relieve me of my starring role in this farce, I’ll slip quietly away down the fire escape and leave you to your fate.”
There was a respectfully soft rap at the door.
“Stay,” Smolenko said to the Saint.
“Then let me handle this. Ivan, open the door.”
Ivan hesitated, looking toward Smolenko for confirmation. She nodded, and the bodyguard released the latch.
“Come in,” Simon said in French.
A rather short thick man, reminiscent of a greasy sausage in a black suit, entered the room and looked obsequiously and searchingly from face to face. But his personal appearance and mannerisms were completely overshadowed for the Saint by the adornment and contents of his right hand. The signet ring he wore, and the briefcase he carried, could have been identical twins of those Simon had seen exploded in Dr. Mueller’s laboratory.
The mere fact that he had the items with him was no proof of murderous intentions. The ring and briefcase were standard equipment. Colonel Smolenko of all people would be aware of that. The teaser was in the question whether or not there was some as yet unknown but highly interested party lurking somewhere within a few hundred yards ready to send a signal which would override the neutralizing power of the ring and blast Suite 502 to kingdom come.
“Colonel Smolenko?” the newcomer asked.
“Comrade Blagot,” said Simon.
Blagot threw his fist up in the communist salute.
“On behalf of us all, welcome, comrade.”
“Thank you,” the Saint responded, pretending a slight difficulty with French pronunciation which ordinarily did not mar his fluent use of the tongue. “My secretary, Comrade Malakov. Our security men...”
Blagot made his obeisances to each.
“And now,” Simon continued, “how goes it?”
“The situation grows worse by the hour, Colonel. Another of our men died yesterday — in Liverpool, England.”
“An explosion?”
“Yes. But the cause...”
Blagot shrugged and distended his thick lips.
“I do not consider that an adequate answer,” Simon snapped with sudden harshness.
“Defective equipment, perhaps...” began Blagot.
The Saint moved threateningly toward him.
“If that remark is meant seriously, it indicates that the most defective equipment is in your brain, my friend.”
Blagot backed away a few paces, looking openly frightened.
“Some have talked of defective equipment, comrade, but I do not believe it. Naturally, the answer must be that British or American agents are planting bombs in the luggage of our people. That much is clear already.”
“One thing is clear to me already,” the Saint said, “and that is that the handling of this affair by your department borders on total incompetence. For example, if you had even the smallest grasp of the true situation you would not have brought one of those briefcases here.”
“But Colonel Smolenko, I have made certain that it is empty of any harmful devices.”
“It contains its own explosive charge, does it not?”
“Naturally, but the ring...”
“The ring is useless against the saboteurs,” Simon said. “Give that to me.”
Blagot set down the leather case and pulled off the ring, which the Saint put on his own finger. Then Simon took the briefcase to a table by the window and worked over it for a moment with a letter opener.
“What are you doing?” Smolenko demanded harshly, and then in reaction to Blagot’s astonished stare she moderated her tone and asked with much more respect, “Do you need help, Colonel? You frighten us.”
“I have finished already,” Simon said. “I have simply broken the connection between the firing device and the explosive. Now we can speak without fear of violent interruption.”
He turned suddenly on Blagot, peering at him with intense eyes that were all blue ice.
“Comrade, tell me. Who in our organization knew the details of my trip to Paris?”
“Me. And of course Claude Molière.”
“Ah, yes. I have read his file. Nobody else?”