Free Send for the Saint by Leslie Charteris, Peter Bloxsom Page A

aircraft.
    “Now you believe who is real?” he demanded, stabbing the air with his finger. “/ arrive — he runs!”
    “You do seem to be ahead on points,” Simon admitted. “But it’s still anybody’s game.”
    Suddenly Patroclos flicked his fingers.
    “Of course. The police. They must warn Interpol. Wherever he lands he must be caught!”
    “We needn’t trouble Interpol,” said the Saint.
    Patroclos Two looked impatient.
    “So? What is your suggestion?”
    “That plane was practically out of gas when we got here. It’s hardly had time to refuel.”
    Patroclos Two’s eyes widened with realisation.
    “You mean — he cannot be going far?”
    “It should be easy to check on whatever other airports there are within range,” said the Saint. “Probably he would have to land somewhere in Greece — or else he crashes!”
    11
“Look,” expostulated Ariadne One, “for the fourth time, all I know is that I work for Diogenes Patroclos — the Patroclos. He must be genuine.”
    “She’s lying” said Ariadne Two tersely.
    “I’m not!” Ariadne One protested indignantly.
    “Then why pretend to be me?”
    “Why should I pretend to be you?”
    “What’s your full name?”
    “Ariadne Kyriakides.”
    “I’m Ariadne Kyriakides.”
    “You’re lying!”
    “Girls, girls!” the Saint interrupted. “Now, Ariadne One — that’s you — how long have you been working for the man you know as Patroclos ?”
    “Five years.”
    “Ariadne Two?”
    “Five years.”
    “Well, the fake can’t have been going that long,” said the Saint slowly. “So one of you must be lying. Can either of you prove you’ve been working for him that long?”
    Ariadne One replied at once.
    “Yes. You can check with the Bannerman Bureau in London.”
    “But / was employed through Bannermans!” put in Ariadne Two indignantly.
    The Saint sighed.
    “So unless Bannermans carry photos of the girls they find work for — which they won’t — we’re up against a brick wall.”
    The telephone in Patroclos’ outer office, where the three were talking, rang at that moment, and Ariadne One answered it.
    “Yes… This is Mr Patroclos’ personal secretary … Yes.”
    As she listened, her eyes widened with horror. “Yes, I will tell him.”
    She put down the phone and turned
“The plane crashed. Into the sea, near Andros.”
    She was on her way to the inner office, where Patroclos Two had been rooting through papers left by his other half, but he met her at the door.
    “I heard that,” he said. “Did anyone survive?”
    “The plane was smashed to pieces and sank at once. They say that no one could have been alive,”
    “And they may never even find a body,” Patroclos said. “It would have been interesting to see this man who looked so much like me. That telephone call just before he left — he must have had an accomplice at the airport who warned him when we arrived.”
    Patroclos had a grim expression which boded ill for the traitor when he was discovered. He looked at the Saint.
    “So … it is over.”
    Ariadne One gave a sudden choking cry and slumped down at the desk, burying her face in her arms. After a while she looked up, red-eyed.
    “I had to go on pretending,” she said with unsteady quiet in her voice, “while there was still hope.”
    “Then he was the fake?” said Ariadne Two.
    “Yes.” She nodded sadly. “I didn’t know at first. I … I’ve only been with him a year, but he had been playing the part for some while before that. Then he offered me a lot of money to play along … and he persuaded me to change my name.”
    “And do you realise,” snapped Patroclos, “what trouble you have caused me?”
    “I … I’m sorry, Mr Patroclos. But you see, he was my boss. He was the man who employed me, and my loyalty was to him. And when he took me on, I thought he was you …”
    Patroclos looked at the Saint.
    “Satisfied, Templar?”
    “Hm, well, there are still a couple of things I don’t