“You can’t tell me the Germans haven’t spotted that one,” Simon objected.
Max maintained his opinion.
“It may seem strange, but they don’t appear to have. After all, the exit on to the river is well hidden by shrubs and rocks, and anyway the Germans haven’t been there very long. Given time they may find it, but they haven’t yet. One of my men has been quite far into the drain. He found a manhole but did not dare go any farther. He was brave, but not brave enough, which is as bad as being a coward.”
“So that leaves me to be the hero who opens up that manhole and sees what’s on the other side. It could be that your man wasn’t so much afraid as just being sensible. You expect me to be both brave and foolhardy. Well, I’m a gambler and I might take the risk. But I’ll have to decide that myself if and when I get there.”
Max nodded approvingly.
“Good! I at least assessed your own courage correctly.”
He pointed again to the map.
“I have worked out where this manhole comes up. It comes out, as would be expected, in the middle of some agricultural land, which is the most important part of the valley to drain. There are a number of wooden sheds in that area where the farmers keep their tools and the like. Probably one of these sheds hides the entrance to the manhole to cover it against corrosion by the weather or being blocked and covered with earth. If it doesn’t, the ground will almost certainly have been ploughed up all around it, and it will be in the middle of a wheat field or long grass.”
“And you really will take care of all my widows?”
“I hope that will not be necessary. I think you will be quite safe. For one thing, I doubt very much that the Germans have even dreamed about the possibility of the drain’s being where it is. After all, only country people know that agricultural fields are often drained by underground pipes. To most people a field is just a field and they never think what goes on underneath it. For another, no one would expect to have such a large drain in that place unless they knew about the possibility of flooding in that particular area because of the hills.”
“But surely they must have seen the end which opens on to the river? One thing you must say for the Germans is that they may be a bit plodding and often thick-headed, but they’re always thorough.”
Max shook his head vigorously.
“No, it is highly unlikely, otherwise my man would never have got as far as he did. As I have told you, the exit is concealed by rocks and is overgrown with bushes. The farmers never had any reason to keep that end of the drain exposed. Flood waters coming down the pipe would spill out over anything or sweep it out of their way. A few bushes and rocks would make no difference once the waters had got that far, and if they did, the peasants could always clear them away.”
“Do tell me some more cosy reasons why the drain is so absolutely safe for me to go into?” Simon smiled.
Max smiled back at him.
“The best reason is that it won’t be you who goes through it first, it will be one of my men.”
“And then his widow gets a pension, I suppose,” said the Saint. “No, thank you. You’re just trying to get out of this on the cheap — one widow to take care of instead of four. But I never employ stunt men. If anyone goes through that manhole first, it’ll be little me.”
Frankie and Leopold had been listening all this time in silence, Leopold with visible impatience, but leaving Annellatt to do all the exposition. But now Frankie leaned forward eagerly in the chair she had taken.
“Now you know all we can tell you, Simon, you are still with us?”
Simon had already made up his mind. He was, after all, a gambler at heart, albeit one who never took more chances than he had to. But your born gambler has to take some chances, and they are usually big ones. A toss of a coin with death was the sort of hazard that appealed most strongly to the Saint.
“I’m with you,” he said calmly. “But I’d hate to break up a beautiful comradeship. If Max doesn’t accept it, I’d be a bad risk.”
Max Annellatt spread his hands generously.
“I have accepted,” he said. “I too do not want a bad risk. Now I think we should all go to my country place. Would you go back to your hotel, please, Simon — pay your bill and collect your things and come back here?”
“Certainly,” Simon replied. “But I like sleeping raw, and all I really need is a glass of salt water to bung my false teeth into.”
Frankie giggled.
“I don’t imagine you have any falsies,” she said.
The Saint grinned at her.
“I shall have to give you some lessons in American slang,” he murmured. “But the same to you, and thanks for the compliment. I wish I could say thanks for the memory. Perhaps I shall one day.”
The girl looked mischievously pleased. In spite of his youth, Leopold appeared about to have a stroke.
“Why pay for a room if you’re not using it?” Max argued practically. “Besides, it would be better if you seemed to make a normal departure, instead of just disappearing. Tell the hotel you are driving to Italy, which is the opposite direction from where we shall be going.”
“You seem to have forgotten,” Simon remarked, “about the Gestapo boyos lurking outside.”
“There is another way out of this building,” Max told him, “through the former stables, which are now garages, on to a different street, which the Gestapo should not have discovered yet. And I will lend you a car.”
“Well, what about the car I came here in?” Simon objected. “It belongs to a friend of mine, and he’s rather attached to it.”
“So much the better, if the papers are not in your name. He can report it stolen, and in due course the police will return it to him.”
The Saint drew a long decisive breath.
“Okay, Maximilian,” he said. “Let’s get the show on the road.”
With a brief wave of temporary farewell to Frankie and Leopold, he followed Max out of the room.
Max led him down a different stairway, which nevertheless brought them to another angle of the central courtyard. The place was probably a warren of such private staircases, designed in a more spacious age so that guests and servants could move about without unnecessarily encountering each other. And it was only to be expected that a man like Max Annellatt would have provided himself with at least as many bolt-holes as a prudent rabbit.
After making sure that the courtyard was deserted, Annellatt beckoned the Saint out and led him across to the back, where another door admitted them to a dimly lit grey-walled passage which zigzagged past a few other unpainted doors and a couple of square black caves stacked with unidentifiable shrouded relics, to bring them into an equally dim-lit architectural cavern where the damp air still seemed to incorporate ineradicable nuances of its former equine occupants.
In one of the converted stalls, Max introduced him to a gleaming Mercedes-Benz 540 supercharged coupé and handed him a key.
“Do you know how to drive it?”
“I could hardly miss,” said the Saint. “As I recall it, the gear box is synchro-mesh, and semi-automatic between third and fourth. To be very exact, the engine is actually 5401 cc—”
“Good,” Annellatt said approvingly. He went over to a large sliding door across from the stall, unbolted it and hauled it aside. It opened on to a dark rain-washed alley, where he indicated a turn to the right. “That will bring you back to the street in front of the building, but if you turn left there you will not have to pass the entrance again and anyone who is watching it, and you will be going towards the Mariahilferstrasse. Will you remember the rest of the way?”