5
On a narrow street near the Odeon he found, unchanged as if the German occupation had only ended yesterday, a little stationery and book shop which in those days would have earned a spot promotion for any Gestapo officer who had uncovered its secrets. Simon Templar went in and stood browsing over the titles on the shelves, while the jangling of the vociferous little bell hung on the door he had opened died away into silence. He heard a shuffle of footsteps at the back of the shop, and a voice that he recognized said courteously, “ Bonjour, m’sieu.”
Without turning, the Saint said, in French, “Do you have, by chance, a copy of the poems of François Villon?”
There was an instant’s pause, and the dry voice said mechanically, “I regret, but today there is so little demand for those old books.”
“ ‘But where are the snows of yesteryear?’ ” Simon quoted sorrowfully.
Suddenly his elbow was seized in a wiry grip, and he was spun around to face the proprietor’s sparkling eyes.
“ Mon cher Saint! ”
“ Mon cher Antoine! ”
They fell into an embrace.
“It is so many years, my dear friend, since I have heard that password!”