All the intensely individual interests which had been launched like homing missiles in the general direction o£ Vicky Kinian from such diverse silos as Washington, Tokyo, and the American Midwest, and Simon Templar could only speculate where else, had now converged upon a single city, and even two small parts of that city: a place of accommodation for the living and a place of accommodation for the dead, the Hotel Portal and the Cimetière Internationale. And some of the personages involved in Vicky Kinian’s treasure hunt were soon to find that the shortest route between the two locations was not necessarily a straight line.
The Saint, returning to the hotel from the cemetery after observing Vicky’s fascination with a memorial to German exiles, had not for a moment forgotten the mysterious disappearance in a Lisbon alley of a vital letter that he had not had time to read, and was continuously alert to the uncomfortable fact that he himself might be under somebody else’s watchful eye. But unless he had searched behind each potted plant in the Portal’s lobby like the folkloric old spinster looking under beds, he would have had no way of knowing that Curt Jaeger, ensconced in a low chair behind the additional cover of the largest newspaper he could buy, was watching every step he took towards the elevator with an ardour that should have wilted the foliage of his verdurous ambuscade.
The Saint had one objective in his own mind at the moment, and although it had some concern with the dead it was considerably less violent than the thoughts that were reaching their logical climax in Jaeger’s head at just the same time. Jaeger was a man of quick decision who believed in the tactical value of a minimum of delay and a maximum of force. He had done his homework. He knew what Simon Templar looked like and he knew his room number. Now it was only a matter of putting a simple but utterly deadly plan into effect.
When the elevator doors had closed behind the Saint, Jaeger got up from his chair, put aside his newspaper neatly folded on a nearby table, pressed one arm close against his ribs to feel the reassuring hardness of the thing that was concealed there, and followed the path his prey had taken across the Portal’s thick carpet.
The Saint, in the meantime, had reached his room on the sixth floor and was taking from a drawer a small wooden box which opened into an inexpensive (so that it would not arouse the evaluating instincts of Customs inspectors) traveller’s chess board. When the chessmen were put aside, only a twist of the box’s catch was necessary to reveal the false bottom where — in a bed of cotton — lay certain implements designed to circumvent the locksmith’s most cunning defences. The mechanism that held the door of the German memorial tombstone closed was a good one, but there was sure to be something in the Saint’s kit that would quickly overcame its resistance.
He did not know what he would find in that macabre oversized strongbox, but he admired the ingenuity of whoever had chosen it as an open-air bank vault and he was determined to get to it ahead of Vicky Kinian. She would spend some time pondering how to break into it, and in any case she would almost certainly wait until it was dark before she took any action. While she was being cannily cautious, the Saint would exercise qualities more natural to him and open the shrine while there was still a little daylight left.
He glanced out of the window of his room as he slipped the chess box into his jacket pocket. The sun had already disappeared and the street lights down in the street six floors below were beginning to win their competition with the fading glow in the sky above. Simon felt sure that if he hurried he could be back from the burying ground in time to invite Vicky Kinian out for a truce dinner and a pipe of peace before she even began to get up her nerve to leave the hotel.
There was, however, a slight preliminary delay.
Simon turned from the window, strode to the door of his room, and opened it to find himself looking straight at the open snout of a large black automatic. Just beyond the automatic, and balanced like a man who knew and was ready for the recoil of a large-calibre pistol, was Curt Jaeger.
“Step back and let me in,” he commanded in a low voice, “or I’ll shoot you on the spot.”
He was already on the threshold, and the Saint had no encouragement to doubt that his visitor would carry out the threat with the least reasonable provocation. Simon moved backward into his room as the other man, just slightly shorter than himself, stepped inside and closed and locked the door behind without taking the concentration of either his gun or his cold eyes off the Saint’s face.
“Why, you must be Curt Jaeger!” Simon said cordially. “I was wondering when you’d be dropping in to swap a few war stories.”
“So you know who I am,” Jaeger said, not allowing himself to betray any great surprise. “That will save tiresome questions.”
The Saint had stopped near the middle of the room. Jaeger, keeping a cautious distance, held the automatic aimed steadily at his chest.
“Not entirely,” Simon said. “You must have been on this treasure hunt for a long time, if your dossier reads anything like I think it does. I just haven’t figured why the big shots of the Third Reich would’ve shared their biggest secret with a punk bully-boy like you must have been in 1945.”
“They did not,” Jaeger replied. “All who knew the details died in Berlin or Nuremberg. I happened to be in Portugal at the end, and... But why should I be telling you anything?”
“Because you must be bursting to regale somebody with tales of your exploits after all these years — and because I think you’d love to rub my nose in your colossal brilliance before you rub me out. Unless of course you just dropped in to get my autograph or tell me to be out of town by sunrise.”
Jaeger’s slight nod indicated his appreciation of the Saint’s logic.
“I happened to be in Portugal and to catch up with your Major Kinian, who had killed one of our top agents and taken information from him that was known — until then-only at the highest levels. I was lucky enough to catch Kinian and be the only one to question him — and I have waited too long to use what I learned to let you rob me!”
The Saint was completely relaxed, his hands loose at his sides.
“Apparently you aren’t such a genius at asking questions if you waited this long and still haven’t found the goodies.”
“Kinian was wounded already, and I had to use rather heavy methods to get his cooperation. Unfortunately he died before he could finish talking, but he said enough to tell me that I only had to wait until his daughter was twenty-one, and watch her.”
“Only now you don’t have the exclusive on that,” said Simon.
“In a moment I shall,” Jaeger retorted with grim quietness. “Step back and open the window.”
“It seems cool enough in here to me already,” said the Saint. “In fact the atmosphere is downright chilly.”
“Your comfort is the last thing that interests me at the moment. Do as I tell you. Step backward to the window and open it.”
Simon still stood his ground.
“It’s getting dark in here, and while I don’t want to cast any aspersions on your marksmanship I’d hate you to mess me up with a lousy shot. The light switch is right beside you.”
The harsh line of Jaeger’s lips warped into the trace of a smile.
“Thank you for your kind advice, but I have no intention of giving a shooting exhibition on a floodlit stage. Just open the window.”
The Saint stepped slowly back to the tall window, which reached from knee level almost to the ceiling. Before he reached for the handle which would swing it open he spoke to Jaeger again. He felt sure that nothing he could say would have any effect on the other’s murderous intentions, but as long as he could stall them there was at least a chance that his luck might produce some kind of accident or interruption that would throw Jaeger off guard.