Henri Pichot was apparently the local boy made good. His uncle Gaston had brought him up at Ingare; Philippe had spotted his potential and paid for him to study law in Paris. Having recently qualified, he was now waiting to join a practice and in the meantime was working for one of Philippe’s companies.
Philippe ran a number of companies and they made him a lot of money. He enjoyed talking about both, to the barely concealed boredom of Mimette.
After the meal came the formal adjournment to the salon, where Mrs. Charles brought coffee and her husband served balloon glasses of brandy. Yves Florian took Simon by the arm and offered a cigar.
“If you don’t mind, I’m trying to give up at least one vice every twenty years,” Simon declined. “In that way I should achieve perfect purity by the time I’m a hundred.”
“I’m afraid I have been neglecting you. Mimette is always badgering me about the business. Even at meal times I get no peace.”
Yves looked across at his daughter and smiled fondly. There was clearly a very strong bond between them.
“Please don’t feel guilty,” said the Saint. “If I’m to stay for another day or two, there will be plenty of time for us to talk.”
“I hope so. Because of the association with Ingare, your name has always caught my attention. I have followed your career, and I shall insist on boring you by asking you for the details that were not reported.”
“I should be delighted to tell you all, but if I do it may be I who turns out to be the bore.”
“I doubt it. I want particularly to hear about that affair of the Sons of France, ten years ago. You should have been given the Légion d’Honneur for that.”
The Saint laughed.
“I don’t think it would have been politic at the time.”
“I suppose you are right,” Yves said sadly. “There were too many powerful people involved. Fortunately most, if not all, came into the open during the occupation and have since been dealt with.”
As he spoke he seemed to glance towards Philippe. His words came through an unfortunate break in other conversations, and an uncomfortable stillness descended on the room.
It was Mimette who broke the silence. She made a play of looking at her watch and then stood up.
“Now, Papa, this is no time to start reminiscing about the war,” she said firmly. “It’s getting late, and as some of us have to make an early start in the morning I think we should make it an early night.”
Her father nodded, and the others who had been seated also rose.
“If you will excuse us,” he said, “we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”
They walked out of the salon together.
“I could do with some fresh air,” Philippe announced. “Come for a stroll in the garden, Henri. We can finish our discussion there.”
Pichot wished the Saint a good night. Philippe merely turned his back on the company and walked unsteadily into the garden.
Gaston and Norbert both bade the Saint their bonnes nuits, and Simon could think of nothing else to do but follow the example of the majority and wander back to his room.
He did not feel in the least tired, and his mind was too active to be ready for sleep. He took off his coat and tie but otherwise made no move to undress. He felt too restless even to lie on the bed, and slowly paced the room while he sorted over the clues that he had collected.
It was nearly eleven, but the night was still very warm. He opened the double doors and walked out on to the balcony. He surveyed the cloudless star-sprinkled sky for a long while and then lowered his gaze to roam over the valley. He followed the slope of the hill up to the château where the white of the castle walls stood out starkly against the blackness of the land. He thought again about the third man he had seen by the tower, and as he did so a faint light caught his eye. It was no bigger or brighter than the flare of a match and was just as quickly extinguished. It had appeared in one of the ground-floor windows of the tower, and as he watched it burned again. This time it did not go out but moved slowly from side to side, creating a rhythmic pendulum of luminance. It looked like some kind of signal.
III
How Henri Pichot conducted an Experiment, and Professor Norbert explained a Name
1
A half-moon added to the starlight of a cloudless sky revealed the garden and the walls clearly enough for the Saint’s feline night vision. The light in the tower was stationary now, a faint flicker no more powerful than the glow of a candle but as bright as a beacon as far as he was concerned. It attracted him like a moth, and the thought of ignoring it never entered his head. His restlessness of a few minutes before was gone, submerged in the exhilarating prospect of direct action.
For a moment he considered returning to the dining-room and entering the garden that way, but he dismissed the idea almost immediately. It would be unwise to be found wandering through the château while his hosts and others slept, and there was also the risk of running into Philippe and Henri returning from their nocturnal stroll. But what would have been imprudent a few hours earlier was now a practical alternative.
The balcony on which he stood was directly above the one on the floor below, and he estimated that once he was hanging at full stretch he would have to drop no more than four or five feet to reach it. He would then be on a level with the top of the wall that ran from the château to the tower, and the ten feet of brickwork separating the two was covered with a dense growth of ivy. The catwalk that had provided a beat for the castle’s sentries was now only a couple of feet wide, but looked solid enough to serve his purpose.
The Saint went back into his room and took a dark blue pull-over from his case to hide the whiteness of his shirt. He retrieved his throwing knife from beneath the pillow and strapped it on to his forearm as casually as another man might strap on a watch. He could perform tricks with that slender steel blade that would have guaranteed him a job in any circus, and he could draw and throw it faster than most men can produce a gun from a holster. He did not expect to have to demonstrate his skill that night but he believed in being prepared, and the gentle pressure of the leather sheath against his skin was quietly reassuring.
Back on the balcony he wasted no time reconsidering the course of action he had decided upon but swung a leg over the top of the balustrade and wedged his foot between two of the uprights. He repeated the manoeuvre so that he was balanced on the outside of the balcony facing towards the château and then carefully slid his hands down the supports until he was almost touching his toes. Calmly he stepped backwards into space with his fingers taking the strain of the deadweight of his body. Gently he began to rock his legs by kicking from the knees. With his face pressed against the deep base of the balcony he was unable to see the target he was aiming for and steadily increased the arc of his swing. As he swung in for the third time he released his hold. His momentum took him neatly over the edge, and he landed on his toes in the centre of the balcony below.
Fortunately the room it belonged to was in darkness, but he remained motionless in his crouch as he listened for any indication that he had been seen. Even when confident that he had not been observed, he kept below the height of the capstone until he reached the corner where it joined the château.