“Yes. Now. If you please.”
“But of course,” Molière said with a notable mixture of facial expressions. “One moment.”
He reached into one of the drawers of his desk and fumbled about as Simon turned and watched the display of rocking bodies which crammed the outer room. The Saint’s mind was running in top gear, and his every move was calculated.
“Here, Colonel. With my compliments.”
“Thank you,” Simon said, taking the little burnished steel rectangle. “Is it ready for use?”
“Oh, yes. It is loaded. Ten exposures. You can make a record of your travels.”
“And also test the possibility of faults in the mechanism.”
“Certainly.”
The Saint aimed the camera at Molière and pressed the tiny spring button in the hinge of the lid. Molière fidgeted and laughed.
“But, Colonel, is it wise? Photographs of me and my shop in your camera?”
“I shall not lose it.”
He took a picture of Smolenko, then he turned in his chair and made two shots of the dancing crowd beyond the window. He turned back and clicked the device again in Molière’s direction. Molière blanched.
“The light here is poor,” he said.
“An espionage camera which will not make photographs in ordinary room light?” Simon asked incredulously. “That would be inexcusable. Let us try it out here.”
Molière looked relieved until he discovered that “out there” meant the main room of his shop. Simon snapped Blagot, who seemed to have no fear of the camera and was obviously quite happy to let his comrade, Molière, remain the center of the testy Colonel Smolenko’s attention. The genuine Smolenko appeared bored and vaguely disgusted at the inexplicable antics of her impersonator.
“Anti-capitalist propaganda,” said Simon cheerfully, taking a frame of the dancers. “Fantastique.”
“I have some other equipment to show you,” offered Molière nervously. “Very interesting.”
“Not as interesting as this bizarre spectacle, surely. Just one moment. When I have finished the roll.”
Turning for his next shot, the Saint muttered to Igor in English, pushing him firmly in the direction of the back of the shop.
“Watch that door. Stop Molière if he tries to get away.”
The choreomaniacs were reaching heights of rhythmic abandon rarely seen north of Nigeria. It was quite understandable that a travelling Russian should want to preserve a few images of such exotic native customs with which to regale the folks back home. But Comrade Molière did not seem to sympathize with the desire. His dislike of the whole business became more and more obvious as Simon counted off his photographs.
“Almost finished now. Eight... nine...”
The Saint did not exactly see Molière run for the rear of the shop. Like a startled bird, the terrified man was halfway out of sight before anyone saw him move. Simon watched with calm approval, locking the shutter mechanism of the camera.
“What is happening?” Smolenko asked. “This has gone far enough. You play with us.”
“Apparently our comrade doesn’t feel like playing. But don’t worry. He won’t get away. Igor’s covering the back entrance.”
Smolenko looked with a puzzled expression over the Saint’s shoulder.
“Igor?”
Simon turned. Igor was standing there, beaming complacently.
“Igor covering you, comrade. Not so stupid as you think.”
“You pinheaded baboon — he’s getting away!”
The Saint shoved the man aside and raced toward the back door.
“Halt!” Igor cried, going for his pistol.
Smolenko’s hand darted toward the guard’s wrist, but Simon had already halted. Molière was bouncing out of sight down the alley in an old Renault. The Saint turned on Igor.
“Get Ivan to help you, and catch that man. I don’t care if it takes you the rest of your life... find Molière!”
“I demand to know what is going on,” Smolenko said.
“Okay, I’ll show you. Watch.”
Simon brought out the lighter.
“You see, this has a delayed action adjustment on it. You can press the shutter release button and the shutter won’t actually open for ten seconds. I’ll set it on delayed action. I’ve taken nine pictures. This will be the tenth and last.”
He walked several yards along the alley to a waist-high garbage pail. Setting the delayed-action switch and pressing the shutter button, he dropped the miniature camera into the metal pail and came quickly away.
“Stay over here, now, and in just about three seconds...”
There was a loud, muffled boom, and the walls of the pail bulged fatly outward as the lid took off for housetop level. The Saint’s and Smolenko’s eyes, along with Igor’s and Ivan’s, followed the trajectory of the metal disk until it clattered back to the cobblestones of the alley.
“There but for the grace of God go I,” Simon said soberly.
“Igor,” Smolenko said, her eyes full of fire, her voice like a saber blade slashing air, “go and find that man.”
She slipped into Russian, but it was clear from her tone if nothing else that Comrade Molière could not look forward to a very happy life in the near future, and that that future might not be very extensive.
Smolenko confronted the Saint as Ivan and Igor pounded away on the double.
“Now,” she said. “How do you know this?”
She jerked her head toward the bulging garbage can. Her voice was dangerous, but the Saint was not easily awed.
“I saw the device demonstrated in Berlin, by a gentleman working with Western intelligence: A lighter exactly like that one, exploding on the tenth frame.”
“So,” she said, “it is your people behind this.”
“No. They were merely trying to understand the workings of your equipment — the equipment, I mean, which has developed such a nasty habit of blowing up in your agents’ faces of late. I already explained to you on the train about the British fear of pointless bloodshed among their agents and yours.”
“Very humane. And I am supposed to believe your stories?”
“How many times do I have to save your life before you begin to have a little faith in me?”
“Faith is stupidity.”
“I think it would also be slightly stupid to wait here until some cop who heard the explosion comes looking for what made it.”
She looked at him as he hurried her away from the music shop. When she finally spoke again, her voice was more subdued.
“I thank you. For saving my life.”
“I suppose you’re welcome. I haven’t decided yet.”
They continued on for several minutes through a tangle of back streets.
“I’ll say one thing for you,” Simon remarked. “You’re probably the first woman I’ve ever met who can keep up with my pace when I’m evading the law.”
“I walk three miles every morning.”
“If you’d like to compete,” Simon said, “we could try wrestling.”
Smolenko smiled, and it was the first time the Saint had seen in her expression the vestiges of the child which linger in the faces of most really beautiful women.
“I might injure you,” she said.
“I shudder to think what I might do to you.”
She looked away and slowed her steps as they passed the display window of a parfumerie.
“These goods are very expensive, I suppose,” she said with elaborate casualness.
“I’m surprised you’d notice.”
“Mr. Templar, your insinuations to the contrary, I am not quite a total automaton. I notice the colors of fabrics. I enjoy nice smells. If I were a man I should use shaving lotions, which are pleasant and effective. Since I am a woman I use perfume, on some suitable occasions, and I wear dresses and often stockings. I even have experienced a love life, it may astonish you to learn. We have no need of false inhibitions in the socialist state.”