The hall rang with the applause, and in the wings Simon smiled at Emma and nodded towards the exit.
“Let’s leave your father to enjoy his moment of glory alone.”
As they walked away from the Palais, Emma asked: “Why did you rush off from the airfield yesterday?”
“Being a loyal taxpayer and realising that our friend Willie was likely to have a good deal of government expense money in the villa, not to mention whatever the Russians had paid him in advance, I felt it my duty to ensure its safety.”
The girl stopped, looking at him accusingly.
“You mean you stole it?”
The Saint laughed.
“Let’s just say I believe in making sure that good deeds are properly rewarded and so now does Gaby. He’ll probably start up his own fleet of taxis with his share.”
A little farther west he steered her away from the Croisette, up the Rue Commandant Andre.
“Where are we going?”
“To Mere Besson’s, the best Provencal restaurant on this coast, for the best meal she can provide, courtesy of Sir William.”
Emma snuggled against his shoulder.
“I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you for what you did,” she said.
The Saint smiled and put an arm around her.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Between us, we’ll probably think of something.”
II
The Red Sabbath
Original Teleplay by John Kruse
Adapted by Graham Weaver
1
A fine drizzle blurred the sharp outlines of the sprawling pile of concrete and glass boxes that is Heathrow Airport. The midday sun was hidden by a low canopy of grey-black cloud. A brisk breeze lifted the litter of empty cigaret packets and assorted paper wrappings that are a feature of most British public places and skimmed them across the desolate expanse of runways and cargo yards.
The plane taxied slowly to a halt, shuddering slightly as the engine died. Simon Templar wiped the mist from the window, and grinned wryly as he surveyed the dismal scene.
“Oh to be in London, now that autumn’s here.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He turned to the middle-aged matron in the next seat who was trying to untangle her portly frame from the confines of her safety belt. She had spoken little during the flight from Nice, and he had been extremely grateful for her taciturnity. There was an aura surrounding such heavily powdered and perfumed dowagers which he found conducive to claustrophobia.
“I said it’s good to be back.”
The woman ceased her struggles and regarded him with an expression that was a mixture of amazement and concern.
“If you think that, young man, then I can only conclude that the Riviera sun has been too strong for your brain.”
He laughed and reached across and released the clasp of her seat belt. She spared him a final parting frown before heaving her bulk upright and pushing her way into the file of passengers inching their way along the aisle.
He was not surprised at her reaction. London is a city that is either loved or loathed; it brooks no indifference. It has been compared to hell and it has also been said that when a man is tired of London he is tired of life. Simon Templar placed himself squarely in the latter camp.
He could appreciate London because he was able to compare it with most of the other great cities of the world. It was true that he had seen more beautiful ones, admired the splendour of more ancient ones, relaxed in the serenity of more peaceful ones, and fought in more violent ones, but only in London did the individual characteristics that make other cities interesting merge together to form one unique entity.
It was the one spot on the globe that he truly regarded as home. It had been the scene of some of the most memorable episodes in his swashbuckling career, and in his more reflective moments he sometimes wondered if it would be the backdrop to his last.
Not, it should be stated, that he believed that day to be imminent. As he strolled leisurely into the arrival terminal he had no more nefarious intention in mind than a change of clothes and dinner with a friend about whose identity he was not in the least particular, as long as her eyes reflected the candlelight, her hair shone and curled, and her shape curved in the correct places and proportions.
At passport control, the man at the desk said nothing, but simply glanced at the Saint, then at the picture, flicked over the pages, and handed the book back with a look that said “I know who you are and so something must be wrong, but I can’t find it.”
He waited with the rest of the passengers until the baggage arrived. Most of them were returning from holiday; and if any recognised the tall tanned man in their midst they did not, in true British fashion, make the fact obvious, even though all but the most myopic must have seen those same clear blue eyes smiling at them from the front page of every French newspaper less than forty-eight hours before. He retrieved his suitcase and walked through to the customs hall. A British passport clearly states that Her Britannic Majesty requires all whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely, without let or hindrance. This does not however apply to the said Britannic Majesty’s customs officers, who, like the Ancient Mariner, stoppeth one in three. The Saint looked along the line of people ahead of him in the queue and was already resigned to his fate before he lifted his suitcase onto the counter.
He studied the list held before him and gravely considered each item.
“No. No. No. Certainly not. Also I’m afraid I’ve spent all my counterfeit coins, smoked the last of my opium, and all my meat and poultry is fully cooked.”
The officer gave him a look which placed him somewhere in the lower regions of the insect world.
“Open the case, please, sir.”
He opened the case and watched as the contents were riffled. The official searched with professional diligence, and only when he was convinced that every shirt had been creased did he close the lid and scrawl his mark across it.
“Thank you, sir.”
Only a well-trained British civil servant can make a statement of gratitude sound like an insult. The Saint bestowed his most dazzling smile upon him and moved on to merge with the procession flowing out to join the crowd of waiting friends and messengers in the main concourse.
He had not covered a dozen yards before he felt rather than heard the two men behind him. His instinct for danger was so finely honed by years of living on a knife’s edge that he sensed their approach even among the crash of people around him. He stopped so abruptly that the two men had to swerve to avoid cannoning into him. He turned on his heel.
“Okay, brothers, and what can I do for you?”
“Brothers” was an apt description, for the two men facing him could easily have shared the same parents. Both were tall and powerfully built, their expensively tailored light grey suits failing to hide the breadth of their shoulders or the slight bulge beneath their left arms. The only real difference was the colour of their hair, one blond, the other a jet black, but this dissimilarity had been reduced by the close-cropped style they both affected. Despite the overcast sky their eyes were hidden behind dark glasses.
The Saint put down his case and stood with his arms hanging loosely by his sides, as deceptively relaxed as a coiled snake.
The blond man spoke first.
“Mr. Templar?”
“Me? No, sorry. McFiggin’s the name.”
The dark-haired twin bent and read the tag on his suitcase. He nodded to his companion.
“Come with us, please.”
As he spoke, the man lifted the case and made a move towards the exit. The Saint’s hand flashed out, fingers of steel gripping his arm and staying him in mid-stride.