Free The Saint Abroad: The Art Collectors/ the Persistent Patriots by Leslie Charteris Page B

should be better
than mine. You know the history of the paintings— who knows about them, who might have heard about them.”
    He could almost feel the distance between
him and Anna- bella widen.
    “As I told you,” she said almost
defiantly, “I have not had much contact with my father. I know very
little.”
    That was that. The Saint could do without the
whole truth as long as he cleared his fair profit, which he expected to earn
very soon now. He had a kind of permanent quiet faith that anything
he really needed to know would in evitably be revealed to him, and it
was possible that what he already knew about the present case was all
he would ever need to know: Beautiful and mysterious girl possesses
valu able paintings, two competing gangs of art thieves catch up with her at
the same time, but luckily the Saint is on hand to throw them all into
confusion and reap his own just reward.
    “Oh well,” he said to get off the subject, “maybe
they’re just frustrated amateur actors who
enjoy impersonating cops and art
experts and such. We’ll concentrate on getting the loot to LeGrand. It’s almost six, and I haven’t
eaten since breakfast. Let’s get
something to eat and give him a call at the same time. When I left him
this noon I told him to go home and I’d
contact him tonight.”
    “When did you see him?” she asked.
“You haven’t told me what happened.”
    “I’ll tell you all about it over a
glass of something restora tive. We’re not far from Barbizon, where the
Bas-Br é au does a canard à - l’ananas that would tempt Donald Duck to
be come a cannibal.”
    “I’ve lost my bearings complete,”
Annabella said. “I feel as if we’ve been traveling in circles.”
    “We have,” Simon told her. “At least, we did once.
It’s known amongst us professional
lawbreakers as shaking the tail—assuming
anybody tried to tail us. You’ll have to learn to do it if you’re planning to
continue with this adventurous life
you’ve been leading.”
    Annabella shook her head with a tired smile.
    “I just want to get it over with—and
carry off lots and lots of money.”
    Simon nodded and returned her smile without
speaking or taking his eyes from the road. He doubted whether it
would be that simple.
     
    10
    After he had ordered dinner, the Saint left
Annabella and Hans at the table and telephoned Marcel LeGrand at his home.
    “Simon!” the dealer exclaimed with
relief. “I haven’t heard from anyone!”
    “You’re lucky,” the Saint informed
him. “It seems that everybody you know except Professor Clarneau
and possibly me is
a crook. Inspector Mathieu isn’t inspecting anything but ways to get his hands on your paintings.”
    “He’s not … ?”
    “No, he’s not. I don’t think he’d try keeping up the im personation at this stage, but I thought you’d
better know.” The Saint paused. “He’s not standing over you
now, is he?”
    “Of course not,” LeGrand said with
surprise.
    “If there’s anyone holding a gun on
you, to make you tell me that nothing’s wrong, say ‘No, she’s
feeling perfectly well now.’ “
    LeGrand laughed.
    “No need for codes. There’s only myself
and my wife here.”
    “Good. May we come to your house with
the paintings in about a couple of hours?”
    “Yes! The sooner the better.”
    Simon went back to the table where Annabella and Hans were waiting to begin their aperitifs. He toasted
them with a dry Martini.
    “LeGrand is expecting us,” he said.
“California or bust.”
    Annabella smiled as she raised her glass.
    “California or bust!”
    An hour and a half later, replete with
pineapple-garnished duck and Rausan Segla ‘59, and an ethereal epilog of
orange souffl é , they left the restaurant
for LeGrand’s home in the western suburbs of Paris.
    The house, even seen in semi-darkness, was
an impressive testimony to the success of art as being business. LeGrand’s
establishment, in spaciously landscaped grounds, made Anna bella