The Saint smiled.
“I see you know my real name,” he murmured. “I thought you would. You only had to ask a few questions at the hotel. It was a little harder for me to get yours, but your fingerprints on that guidebook were a big help.”
The man’s face had turned red at first, but now the blood was draining out of it, leaving it gray.
“My name ees Olivant. Zis is an outrage!”
“It’s going to be a worse one,” said the Saint cheerfully, “if we don’t get that medal. I’m sure it’s either in your pocket or in this house somewhere. Now, will you hand it over, or shall I shoot you in the stomach and look for it myself?”
Orival licked his lips.
“Eet is in my safe,” he said at last “Be’ind zat picture.”
“Go and get it.”
Orival dragged his steps to the painting and lifted it off the wall. Behind it was a small steel door. He manipulated the dial, and the door opened. He reached in.
He should not have been so conventional as to turn around with a gun in his hand. Simon was expecting it, and ducked. Orival’s one shot went wild, but the Saint’s did not.