Free Salvage for the Saint by Leslie Charteris Page A

had to control herself sternly to keep from giggling out loud. His trousers were immaculate light-grey flannels, belted at the waist—which in his case meant somewhere on the re-entrant undersurface of that ballooning midriff. At least two of his chins were camouflaged by a startlingly debonair cravat, and the upper part of his pear-shaped torso was gift-wrapped absurdly in the type of blazer in which lean young men at Cambridge once used to look dashing.
    Arabella’s attention dwelt only briefly on these details of the fat man. She was too hungry to trouble herself about where, if anywhere, she might have seen him before, or someone who resembled him. She was impatient to catch the eye of the white-jacketed waiter, an apparently world-weary old retainer of a type still found in some French provincial hotels. He had a face like a cross between a pensioned-off clown and a tired bloodhound, and he seemed quietly determined, in the traditional manner of waiters, that his eye should not be caught. He pottered busily at a corner trolley with napkins and cutlery, or straightened a tablecloth here and there, giving the impression that such engrossing exertions could easily fill his entire day.
    Arabella toyed with the menu impatiently. She was about to call out when the fat man beat her to it.
    “Monsieur!”
    The voice was a rich bass, full of authority. He rapped imperiously on the table, snapped his fingers and assumed an expression of fierce chivalry, as the startled waiter came towards him.
    “The young lady is waiting to be served,” he told him in French. “S’il vous plait!”
    “Mais certainement.” The waiter turned to Arabella. “I am sorry you have been kept waiting.”
    “De rien,” Arabella said after nodding her thanks to the fat man. And she continued in rather hesitant French. “I should like to have, first, some hors d’oeuvres, and afterwards the filet mignon, medium, with a green salad.”
    The fat man watched with his head cocked slightly on one side.
    “Permit me to advise you, Madame,” he put in, in English. “I could not avoid to overhear your order. May I suggest, if you are considering a wine, the Chateau Durfort-Vivens? It is a fine Bordeaux wine, most reasonably priced.” The fat man hesitated. “Indeed, if you will permit a further liberty, I too will be feasting on le filet mignon de Charolais and I will be honoured if you will join me at the table and share with me a bottle of the Chateau Durfort-Vivens.”
    “Well, I don’t know …” Arabella looked appraisingly at the fat man. He was what Mrs Cloonan would undoubtedly have called “rather forward”, but he might well make an interesting dinner companion. She wavered. The baggy-featured waiter glanced from one to the other.
    Arabella made up her mind.
    “Why, yes, I should like that. Thank you.”
    The fat man beamed. After he had dispatched the waiter with a barrage of instructions, Arabella sat down at his table.
    “Well, well,” he said, as he un-Gallically tucked one corner of a napkin behind his cravat—making himself look like a vast nursery Tweedledum—“a remarkable coincidence, is it not, Madame Tatenor?”
    Arabella stared at him startled.
    “I beg your pardon. Do I know you?”
    The fat Frenchman spread his hands apologetically.
    “In truth, it is I who should beg yours. Perhaps I should have pretended not to recognise you, rather than place myself in the necessity for reminding you of what must be most distressing. Perhaps you did not notice? Quite understandable in the circumstances. You see, I was in the courtroom during the inquest on your unfortunate husband. It was a terrible tragedy, but terrible. And you are a widow so young.” He shrugged to convey the hopelessness of trying to put these things into words. “You have my deepest sympathies.”
    “Thank you. Now that you mention it, I think I do recall seeing you in court.”
    The fat man allowed himself a restrained smile, and twirled his