“The only thing it needs is a canary,” he observed dryly.
“In the old days when servants were illiterate it was found convenient to identify rooms by colour rather than numbers or letters, sir,” Charles explained with the practised fluency of one used to providing the information.
The Saint crossed to the window and looked out while the servant ran his bath. Immediately in front of him was a curved balcony which jutted out over the remains of the castle wall that ran from the château to the tower. From the tower the rear wall ran almost to the other end of the house before meeting a huddle of one-level outbuildings that undoubtedly served for pressing and vatting the wine. Below them would be a series of cellars where the wine would be bottled and stored.
The servant returned from the adjoining bathroom and asked: “Can I help you undress, m’sieu?”
“No, thank you,” said the Saint. “But perhaps you would fetch my valise from the car.”
He handed over the car keys and waited until Charles had gone before starting to remove his shirt. It was not that he was bashful about undressing in front of a stranger, but he had no wish to excite comment, and the six-inch throwing knife strapped to his left forearm would certainly have done just that. After hiding the sheath under a pillow he hung up his clothes and walked through to the bathroom, which was an anachronistic conversion to ultra-modern plumbing.
It was full of steam, and he opened the window to let it out. The sight that greeted him made him step quickly back and stand very still.
On the track that led from the castle down towards the river was parked a black Citröen identical to the one he had seen beside the burning barn, and walking towards it from the tower were two men whose shapes he clearly recognised even at that distance.
2
In a movie, Simon Templar would have leapt from the window on to the balcony below, then swung like Errol Flynn across to the battlements, and after running along the crumbling catwalk would have dived like an avenging angel on to the two unsuspecting miscreants. In real life, the Saint stayed where he was and watched.
It was not that he lacked the athletic agility and strength to perform the required gymnastics. The main restraining factor was that he wanted to win the confidence of the Florian family, and such trust is not normally given to guests who leap stark naked from bathroom windows and jump on other men, however laudable their motives. There was also the equally practical consideration that they might well have gone away before he could reach them.
The men were climbing into their car when a third figure ran from the tower and pressed a package into the hands of the smaller of the other two. The combination of angle and distance prevented the Saint from getting anything more than a fleeting glimpse of the newcomer before he turned back and was again hidden by the tower.
The Citröen turned and accelerated away down the track. Simon did not waste time following its route but instead focused his attention on the tower. For several minutes he maintained his vigil but the third man did not re-appear. The Saint was disappointed but realised that his view of anyone leaving the tower by an outside door would have been screened by the walls.
When it was obvious that he was not likely to see any more, he lowered himself into the no longer scalding water and pondered every detail of what he had witnessed. There was a deduction to be made, but it only added to his collection of question marks.
The major-domo returned, and came as far as the bathroom door.
“I have brought your valise, m’sieu. Do you wish me to unpack it?”
“Non, merci,” Simon said. “I’d prefer to find what I want.”
“If you ring the bell when you are ready, m’sieu, I will come and show you to the principal salon.”
“Thank you.”
“A votre service.”
Service was a fine thing, Simon reflected, but he could soon have too much of it.
When he had completed his ablutions and dried himself, he returned to the bedroom and found his suitcase on a stool beside the bed. As he bent to unlock it he could not help looking out of the window at the panorama now suffused with the rosy tints of approaching sunset into which the Citröen had disappeared, and remembering how the third man had returned towards the tower and not been sighted again.
The inescapable conclusion was that he had come into the château. And was probably still inside. And very possibly had been all along.
An illuminating corollary was that there had been no attempt to hide the Citröen even though it could have been seen by anybody looking out of a window on the second or third storey. Which suggested that the accomplice was in a position to account for his actions if challenged, or that he knew the whereabouts of everyone else in the house.
“But how corny it would be,” Simon told his reflection in the mirror as he combed his hair, “to have the faithful old butler be the villain...”
To replace the garments which had suffered the dishevelment of his salvage efforts, he selected an extravagantly patterned shirt from Nassau, a pair of light blue slacks, and a featherweight jacket. The combination restored the image of a disarm-ingly relaxed vacationing tourist which, in essence, was exactly what he was.
He ignored the bell-pull that would have summoned the major-domo to show him to the drawing-room and quietly turned the door handle and slipped out into the deserted corridor. His action might be frowned upon by his hostess and would certainly scandalise the worthy Charles, but he had had enough of being shepherded for a while, and he felt like doing a little exploring on his own. He reasoned that if he was found anywhere he should not be, he had the perfect excuse of being lost in a strange house — which, he mused as he remembered the maze of passages, he probably would be.
He was able to retrace the route the servant had taken until he arrived at the right-angled turn-off of a narrow corridor which seemed to connect the east wing with the main body of the château. He had a feeling that if there was anything to be discovered during his wandering it would be in the older section of the house.
Inside the main building, the corridor abruptly became a much wider passage, lighted by a tall window at the far end. From the number of doors along either side, it appeared to bisect the building, giving access to both front and back rooms.
The Saint moved swiftly along it, making less noise than a stalking cat. He opened doors at random, but found nothing more exciting than bedrooms and an occasional cupboard or lumber room.
The end of the passage, by the tall window, proved to be also a landing for a spiral stone staircase leading both upwards and downwards. Judging that the upper floor would be no more exciting than the one he was on, he took the stairs down to the first floor, which turned out to be an equally barren hunting ground. The only room of any interest was a large well-stocked library that would have taken far too long to search.
The main problem, he conceded, as he found himself looking down another corridor leading to the balcony around the entrance hall, was that he had no idea what he was hoping to find. He was simply gambling on blind luck to produce something.
He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see that well over an hour had passed since he had left Mimette. He could not delay much longer, or Charles would be coming to look for him, whether summoned or not. He was considering whether to abandon his quest when he heard a door slam and the sound of footsteps coming along the balcony towards the corridor.