16 The Saint Overboard Page 11

  On the starboard side there was one double cabin. Vogel ad­mired this also. There were two fitted wardrobes for him to peer into, and also a large recessed cupboard for storing blankets and other dry gear, besides the usual lockers under the berths. As Vogel methodically opened each door in turn, to the accompa­niment of a tireless flow of approbation, the Saint felt himself growing so much older that it wouldn't have surprised him to look down and see a long white beard spreading over his shirt.

  "This is the most perfect thing I've ever seen." Vogel was positively purring by then: his waxen skin shone with a queer gloss, as if it had been polished. "You should have made this your profession—I should have been one of your first clients . . . And that door at the end?"

  Simon glanced up the alleyway.

  "The fo'c'sle? That's only Orace's quarters——"

  And at the same time he knew that he might just as well save his breath. Vogel had already declared himself, at the bathroom door and since then, as a sightseer who intended to see every sight there was; and it would have been asking a miracle for him to have allowed himself to be headed off on the threshold of the last door of all.

  The Saint shrugged.

  At any rate, the gloves would be off. The nibbling and niggling would be finished, and the issue would be joined in open battle; and the Saint liked to fight best that way. Behind that door lay the showdown. He knew it, as surely as if he could have seen through the partition, and he faced it without illusion. Even at that transcendental moment the irrepressible devil in him came to his aid, and he was capable of feeling a deep and unholy glee of anticipation at the thought of the conflicting emotions that would shortly be chasing each other across Vogel's up-ended universe.

  He opened the door and stood aside, with a sense of peace in the present and a sublime faith in the exciting future.

  Vogel went in.

  Perhaps after all, Simon reflected, his gun could stay where it was. A clean sharp blow with the edge of his hand across the back of the other's neck might achieve the same immediate effect with less commotion, and with less risk of letting him in for the expenses of a high-class funeral later. Of course, that would still leave the loyal mariner outside, but he would have had to be dealt with anyhow . . . And then what? The Saint's brain raced through a hectic sequence of results and possibilities . . .

  And then he heard Vogel's voice again, through a kind of giddy haze that swept over him at the sound of it.

  "Excellent . . . excellent . . . Why, I've seen a good many boats in which the owner's accommodation was not half so good. And this is all, is it?"

  If a choir of angels had suddenly materialised in front of him and started to sing a syncopated version of Christmas Day in the Workhouse, Simon Templar could hardly have had a more devastating reason to mistrust his ears. If the Corsair had sud­denly started to spin round and round like a top, his insides couldn't have suffered a more cataclysmic bouncing on their moorings. With a resolute effort he swallowed his stomach, which was trying to cake-walk up into his mouth, and looked into the fo'c'sle.

  Vogel was coming out; and his cordial smile was unchanged. If he had just suffered the crowning disappointment of his unfortu­nate evening, there was no sign of it on his face. And behind him, quite plainly visible to every corner, Orace's modest cabin was as naked of any other human occupancy as the icebound fastnesses of the North Pole.

  The Saint steadied his reeling brain, and took the cigarette from between his lips.

  "Yes, that's all," he answered mechanically. "You can't get much more into a fifty-footer."

  "And that?" Vogel pointed upwards.

  "Oh, just a hatchway on to the deck."

  Forestalling any persuasion, he caught the ladder rungs screwed to the bulkhead, drew himself up, and opened it. After all he had been through already, his heart was too exhausted to turn any more somersaults; but the daze deepened round him as he hoisted himself out on to the deck and found no unconscious body laid neatly out in the lee of the coaming. They had been through the ship from stern to stem, and that hatchway was the last most desperate door through which Murdoch's not inconsid­erable bulk could have been pushed away. If Orace hadn't dumped the man out there, he must have melted him and poured him down the sink, or ordered a fiery chariot from Heaven to take him away: the Saint was reaching a stage of blissful delir­ium in which any miracle would have seemed less fantastic than the facts.

  He stretched down a hand and helped Vogel to follow him out. They stood together under the dimly luminous canopy of the masthead light, and Vogel extended his cigarette-case. There were only the ordinary shadows on the deck, and the one seaman sat patiently smoking his pipe in the cockpit of the speed tender tied up astern.

  "I'm afraid my enthusiasm ran away with me," said Vogel. "I should never have asked you to show me round at this hour. But I assure you it's been worth it to me—in every way."

  He laid the faintest and most innocent emphasis on the last three words.

  Simon leaned on the mast, with one arm curled round it, as if it had been a giant's lance. The stub of his old cigarette fizzed into the water.

  "It's been no trouble at all," he murmured courteously. "What about one for the road?"

  "Many thanks. But I've kept you up too late already."

  "You haven't."

  "Then I'll leave before I do." Vogel waved a hand to his mar­ine chauffeur. "Ivaloff!" He smiled, and held out his hand. "We'll look out for you, then, at St Peter Port?"

  "I'll be there by tea-time, if we have any wind."

  The Saint sauntered aft beside his guest. Beyond all doubt, the stars in their courses fought for him. If he could have given vent to his feelings, he would have serenaded them with crazy carols. He thought about the munificent rewards which might suitably be heaped on the inspired head of Orace, when that incompara­ble henchman could be made to reveal the secrets of his wizardry.

  His right hand trailed idly along the boom. And suddenly his whole body prickled with an almost hysterical effervescence, as if the two halves of some supernal seidlitz powder had been incon­tinently fused under his belt.

  "Goodnight," said Vogel. "And many thanks."

  "Au revoir," responded the Saint dreamily.

  He watched the other step down into the tender and touch the starter. The seaman cast off; and the speedboat drew away, swung round in a wide arc, and went creaming away up the dark estuary.

  Simon stood there until the blaze of its spotlight had faded into a brilliant blur, and then he put his hands on the companion rail and slid down below. First of all he poured himself out a large drink, and proceeded to absorb it with profound delibera­tion. Then he grasped Orace firmly by the front of his shirt and drew him forward.

  "You god-damned old son of a walrus," he said, with his voice torn between wrath and laughter. "Men have been shot for less."

  "I couldn't think of nothink else, sir, sudding like," said Orace humbly.

  "But it makes the ship look so untidy." Orace scratched his head.

  "Yessir. But it was a bit untidy ter start wiv. Jremember the mains'l started to tear comin' dahn from St Helier? Well, when yer went orf to-night I thought I might swell do somefink abaht it. I sewed a patch on it while yer was awy, but I 'adn't 'ad time ter furl it agyne when yer came back. So when yer chucked that detective bloke at me——"

  "You took him along to the hatch——"

  "An" dreckly I sore yer go below, I 'auled 'im aht an' laid 'im on the boom an' folded the mains'l over 'im. I couldn't think of nothink else, sir," said Orace, clinging to his original defence.

  Words failed the Saint for a while. And then, with a slow help-less grin dragging at his mouth, he brought up his fist and pushed Orace's chin back.

  "Go up and fetch him in again, you old humbug," he said. "And don't play any more tricks like that on me, or I'll wring your blessed neck."

  He threw himself down on the settee and began to think again. Murdoch still remained to be dealt with: and the
Saint feared that he might not have been made any more amenable to reason by the sock on the jaw which had unfortunately been obliged to interrupt their conversation. Not that Murdoch could have been called an unduly sympathetic listener before that . . . Probably it made very little difference; but the original problem remained. There was also the question arising in his mind of whether Or­ace's manoeuvres with the mainsail had passed unnoticed by the seaman who had stayed in the speedboat—which would be even more difficult to determine. And the Saint's attention was busily divided between these two salient queries when he looked up and discovered that Orace had returned to the saloon and was gaping at him with a peculiarly fish-like expression in his eyes.

  Simon Templar regarded the spectacle thoughtfully for one or two palpitating seconds. Orace's rounded eyes goggled back at him with the same trout-like intensity. The fringes of Orace's moustache waved in the draught of his breathing like the ciliated epithelium of a rabbit's oviduct. It became increasingly apparent to the Saint that Orace had something on his mind. "Are you laying an egg?" he inquired at length. "E's—e's gorn, sir!" said Orace weakly.

  4

  Simon got up slowly. Of all the spectacular things he had done that evening, he was inclined to estimate that restrained and dignified uprising as the supreme achievement. It was a crowning triumph of mind over matter for which he felt justly entitled to take off his hat to himself, afterwards, and when wearing a hat.

  "He's gorn, has he?" he repeated.

  "Yessir," said Orace hollowly.

  Simon moved him aside and went up on to the deck. The dis­ordered mainsail, draped sloppily away from the boom, offered its own pregnant testimony to the truth of Orace's conjecture. Simon strolled round it and prodded it with his toe. There was no deception. The lump that had been Steve Murdoch, which he had felt under his hand as he walked by with Vogel, hadn't sim­ply slipped off its insecure perch and buried itself under the folds of canvas. Murdoch had taken it on the hoof.

  " 'E must 've woke up while yer was talkin' to me an' 'opped overboard," said Orace gloomily.

  The Saint nodded. He scanned the surrounding circle of black shining water, his hands in his pockets, listening with abstracted concentration. He could hear dance music still coming from one of the casinos, a waif of melody riding over the liquid under­tones of the harbour; that was all. There was no sight or sound to tell him where Murdoch had gone.

  "You have the most penetrating inspirations, Orace," he mur­mured admiringly. "I suppose that's what must have happened. But we shan't get him back. It's nearly low tide, and he's had time to reach the shore by now. I hope he catches his death of cold."

  He smoked his cigarette down with remarkable serenity, while Orace fidgeted uncomfortably round him. Certainly the problem of what to do with Steve Murdoch was effectively disposed of. The problem of what Steve Murdoch would now be doing with himself took its place, and the question marks round the problem were even more complicated and more disturbing. But the doubt of how much Kurt Vogel knew stayed where it was—intensified, perhaps, by the other complication.

  "Do you think anyone saw you parking our friend up here?" he asked.

  Orace sucked his teeth.

  "I dunno, sir. I brought 'im aht soon's I sore yer go in an' lugged 'im along on me stummick. It didn't take arf a tick to lay 'im aht on the boom an' chuck the sile over 'im, an' the other bloke was lightin' 'is pipe an' lookin' the other way." Orace frowned puzzledly. "Yer don't think them thunderin' barstids came back an' took 'im orf, do yer?"

  "No, I don't think that. I watched them most of the way home, and they wouldn't have had time to get back here and do it. If they saw you, they may come back later. Or something. The point is—were you seen?"

  Simon's brow creased over the riddle. If the seaman had ob­served Orace's manoeuvres, he might have been clever enough to give no sign. He would have told Vogel on their way back. After which the sunshine would have come back into Vogel's ugly life, Simon reflected malevolently. And then ...

  Vogel would know that the Saint didn't know he knew. And the Saint wouldn't know whether Vogel knew, or whether Vogel was banking on the Saint knowing that Vogel didn't know he knew he knew. And Vogel would still have to wonder whether the Saint knew he knew he knew he didn't know. Or not. It was all somewhat involved. But the outstanding conclusion seemed to be that the Saint could still go to St Peter Port with the assur­ance that Vogel wouldn't know definitely whether the Saint knew he knew, and Vogel could issue walk-into-my-parlour in­vitations with the certainty that the Saint couldn't refuse them without admitting that he knew Vogel knew he knew Vogel knew. Or vice versa. Simon felt his head beginning to ache, and decided to give it a rest.

  "We'd better sleep on it," he said.

  He left Orace slapping down the mainsail into a neat roll with a condensed viciousness which suggested that Orace's thoughts were concerned with the way he would have liked to manhandle Murdoch if that unfortunate warrior had been available for manhandling, and went below. As he got into his pyjamas he realised that there was at least one certainty about Murdoch's future movements, which was that he would try to reach Loretta Page either that night or early in the morning with his story. He would be able to do it, too. There might be many places on the continent of Europe where anyone clothed only in a pair of trousers couldn't hope to get far without being arrested, but Dinard in the summer was not one of them; and presumably the man had parked his luggage somewhere before he set out on his pig-headed expedition. The Saint only hoped that their encounter that afternoon had taught Murdoch the necessity of making his approach with a discreet eye for possible watchers, but he was inclined to doubt it.

  He was awake at eight, a few moments before Grace brought in his orange juice; and by half-past nine he was dressed and breakfasted.

  "Have everything ready to sail as soon as I get back," he called into the galley, where Orace was washing up.

  He went out on deck, and as he stepped up into the brighten­ing sunlight, he glanced automatically up-river to where the Falkenberg lay at anchor. Something about the ship caught his eye; and after leisurely picking up a towel, as if that was all he had come out for, he went back to the saloon and searched for his field-glasses.

  His eyesight had served Mm well. There was a man sitting in the shade aft of the deckhouse with a pair of binoculars on his knee, and even while the Saint studied him he raised the glasses and seemed to be peering straight through the porthole from which the Saint was looking out.

  Simon drew back, with the chips of sapphire hardening in his blue eyes. His first thought was that he was now out of the doubtful class into the privileged circle of known menaces; but then he realised that this intense interest in his morning activi­ties need only be a part of Vogel's already proven thoroughness. But he also realised that if he set off hurriedly for the shore, the suspicion which already centred on him would rise to boiling point; and if somebody set off quickly to cover him at the Hotel de la Mer—that would be that.

  The Saint lighted a cigarette and moved restlessly round the cabin. Something had to be done. Somehow he had to reach Lo­retta, tell her—what? That she was suspected? She knew that. That Murdoch was suspected ? She might guess it. That she must not take that voyage with Vogel? She would go anyway. Simon's fist struck impatiently into the palm of his hand. It didn't mat­ter. He had to reach her—even if the entire crew of the Falk­enberg was lined up on the deck with binoculars trained on the Corsair, arid even if the Hotel de la Mer was surrounded by a cordon of their watchers.

  With a sudden decision he opened the door of the galley again.

  "Never mind the washing up, Orace," he said. "We're sailing now."

  Orace came out without comment, wiping his hands on the legs of his trousers. While Simon started the auxiliary, he swung out the davits and brought the dinghy up under the falls. While the engine was warming up, the Saint helped him to haul up the dinghy, and then sent him forward at once to get up the anchor.

  I
t was a quarter to ten when the nose of the Corsair turned down the estuary and began to push up the ripples towards the sea.

  "Let it hang," said the Saint, when Orace was still working at the anchor. "We'll want it again in a minute."

  Orace looked at him for a moment, and then straightened up and came aft, lowering himself into the cockpit.

  "Get ready to drop the dinghy again, and swing her out as soon as we're round the point," said the Saint.

  He turned and and gazed back at the Falkenberg. There was a midget figure standing up on her deck which might have been Kurt Vogel. Simon waved his arm, and the speck waved back. Then the Saint turned to the chart and concentrated on the tricky shoals on either side of the main channel. He brought the Corsair round the Pointe du Moulinet as close as he dared, and yelled to Orace to get up into the bows. Then he brought the control lever back into reverse.

  "Let go!"

  The anchor splashed down into the shallow water and Simon left the wheel and sprang to the dinghy. With Orace helping him, it was lowered in a moment; and Simon dropped between the thwarts and reached for the oars. It was quicker than fitting the outboard, for a short pull like that; but the boat seemed to weigh a ton, and his shirt was already hot with sweat when the last fierce heave on the oars sent the dinghy grinding up on to the sands of the Plage de l'Ecluse. He jumped out and dragged it well up on the beach, and made his way quickly between the early sunbathers to the Digue.