16 The Saint Overboard Page 12

  It was five-past ten when he climbed up on to the pavement, and there was an uneasy emptiness moving vaguely about under his lower ribs. That watcher on the Falkenberg had made a difference of half an hour—half an hour in which, otherwise, he could have done all that he wanted to do. He realised that he had been incredibly careless not to have allowed for any obsta­cles such as the one which had delayed him, and it dawned on him that he only had Vogel's word for it that the Falkenberg would not sail before eleven. Loretta might be already on board, and they might be already preparing to follow him out to sea.

  And then, straight in front of him, as if it had materialised out of empty air, he saw the square dour visage of Steve Murdoch coming towards him. It brought him back to the urgent practical present with a jar that checked him in his stride; but Murdoch came on without a pause.

  "Not recognising me to-day, Saint?" Murdoch's grim harsh voice grated into his ears with a smug challenge that flexed the muscles of the Saint's wrists.

  Simon looked him up and down. He was wearing a suit of his own clothes again, and every inch of him up to his glittering eyes told the story of what he had done in the intervening hours.

  "I've only got one thing to say to you," said the Saint coldly. "And I can't say it here."

  "That cramps your style, I bet. You talk pretty well with your fists, Saint. But you can't have it your own way all the time. Where you goin' now?"

  "That's my business."

  The other nodded—a curt jerk of his head that left his jaw set in a more unbroken square than it had been before.

  "I bet it is. But it's my business too. Thought you'd get up early and pick up cards with Loretta again, did you? Well, you weren't early enough."

  "No?"

  "No. Take your eyes off my chin, Saint—it's ready for you this morning. Look at that gendarme down the road instead. Gazing in a shop window an' not takin' any notice of us now, ain't he? You're all right. But this ain't your boat now. You try to get tough with me again and he'll look at us quick enough. And when he comes up here, I'll have something to tell him about what you tried to do last night." Murdoch's own fists were quietly clubbed at his sides; and he was on his toes. There was vengeful unfriendliness and the bitter memory of another occa­sion gleaming out of his small unblinking eyes. "You turn round and go back the way you came from, Saint, unless you want to sit in a French precinct house and wait while they fetch over your dossier from Scotland Yard. And don't go near St Peter Port unless you want the same thing again. I said I was goin' to put you out, and you're out!"

  Simon took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and tapped a smoke thoughtfully on the edge of the packet. He put the ciga­rette in his mouth and slipped the package into the side pocket of his coat.

  "It's too bad you feel that way about it, Steve," he said slowly, and his right hand jolted forward from his side like a piston.

  For the second time in that young day Steve Murdoch felt the impact of the Saint's fist. And once again he never saw it com­ing. The blow only travelled about six inches, and it covered the distance so swiftly that even a man who had been watching them closely might not have seen it. It leapt straight from the edge of the Saint's side pocket to Murdoch's solar plexus, with the power of a pile-driver behind it; and Murdoch's face went grey as he doubled up.

  Simon caught him and lowered him tenderly to the ground. By the time the first interested spectator had formed the nucleus of a crowd, the Saint was fanning Murdoch with his handkerchief and feeling for his heart with every symptom of alarm. By the time the shop-gazing gendarme had joined the gathering, it was generally agreed among the spectators that the Breton sun must have been at least a contributory cause to Murdoch's sudden collapse. Somebody spoke about an ambulance. Somebody else thought he could improve on the system of first aid which was being practised; and Simon handed the case over to him and faded quietly through the swelling congregation.

  He moved on towards the Hotel de la Mer, as quickly as he dared, but with anxiety tearing ahead of his footsteps. That chance encounter—if it was a chance encounter—had wasted more of his precious and dwindling margin of time.

  And then he stopped again, and plunged down in a shop door­way to tie up an imaginary shoelace. He had seen Kurt Vogel, smooth and immaculate in a white suit and a white-topped cap. turning into the entrance of the hotel. He was too late. And something inside him turned cold as he realised that there was nothing more that he could do about it—nothing that would not risk making Loretta's danger ten times greater by linking her with him. Murdoch had won after all, and Loretta would have to make the voyage unwarned.

  V. HOW SIMON TEMPLAR WALKED IN A GARDEN,

  AND ORACE ALSO HAD HIS TURN

  IT was half-past four when the Corsair came skimming up over the blue swell past St Martin's Point, with her sails trimmed to coax the last ounce of power from the mild south-westerly breeze which had held steadily on her quarter all the way from the Pierres des Portes. In those five and a half hours since they had cleared the rocks and shoals that fringe the Côtes du Nôrd, Simon Templar had never taken his hands from the wheel: his eyes had been reduced to emotionless chips of blue stone, me­chanical units of co-operation with his hands, ceaselessly watch-ing the curves of the canvas overhead for the first hint of a flut­ter that would signify a single breath of the wind going by un­used. During those hours he almost surrendered his loyalty to the artistic grace of sail, and yearned for the drumming engines of the Falkenberg, which had overtaken them in the first hour and left a white trail of foam hissing away to the horizon.

  He hardly knew himself what was in his mind. With all the gallant thrust of the Corsair through the green seas under him, he was as helpless as if he had been marooned on an iceberg at the South Pole. Everything that might be meant to happen on the Falkenberg could still happen while he was out of reach. Vogel could say "She decided not to come," or "There was an accident"; with all the crew of the Falkenberg partnering in the racket, it would be almost impossible to prove.

  The Saint stared at the slowly rising coastline with a darken­ing of satirical self-mockery in his gaze. Did he want proof? There had been many days when he was his own judge and jury: it was quicker, and it left fewer loopholes. And yet ...

  It wasn't quite so simple as that. Revenge was an unthinkable triviality, a remote shadow of tragedy that cut grim lines be­tween his lowered brows. More than any revenge he wanted to see Loretta again, to see the untiring mischief in her grey eyes and hear the smiling huskiness of her voice, to feel the touch of her hand again, or ... More than any boodle that might lie at the end of the adventure. . . . Why? He didn't know. Something had happened to him in the few hours that he had known her—something, he realised with a twist of devastating candour, that had happened more than once in his life before, and might well happen again.

  The breeze slackened as they drew up the channel, and he started the auxiliary. As they chugged past the sombre ugliness of Castle Cornet and rounded the point of the Castle Breakwater, he had a glimpse of the white aero-foil lines of the Falk­enberg already lying snug within the harbour, and felt an odd indefinable pressure inside his chest.

  He sat side-saddle on the edge of the cockpit and lighted a cigarette while Orace finished the work of tidying up. The Falk­enberg had probably been at her berth for three hours by then, and apart from a jerseyed seaman who was lethargically washing off the remains of salt spray from her varnish, and who had scarcely looked at the Corsair as she came past, there was noth­ing to be observed on board. Most likely Vogel and his party were on shore; but Loretta ... He shrugged, with the steel brightening in his eyes. Presently he would know—many an­swers.

  "Wot nex', sir?"

  Orace stood beside him, as stoical as a whiskered gargoyle; and the Saint moved his cigarette in the faintest gesture of direc­tion.

  "You watch that boat. Don't let them know you're doing it —you'd better go below and fix yourself behind one of the port­holes most of the ti
me. But watch it. If a girl comes off it, or a box or a bundle or anything that might contain a girl, you get on your way and stick to her like a fly-paper. Otherwise—you stay watching that ship till I come back or your moustache grows down to your knees. Got it?"

  "Yessir."

  Orace went below, unquestioningly, to his vigil; and the Saint stood up and settled his belt. There was action and contact, still, to take his mind away from things on which it did not wish to dwell: he felt a kind of tense elation at the knowledge that the fight was on, one way or the other.

  He went ashore with a spring in his step, and a gun in his pocket that helped him to a smile of dry self-derision when he remembered it. It seemed a ridiculously melodramatic precaution in that peaceful port, with the blue afternoon sky arching over the unrippled harbour and the gay colour-splashes of idle holi­day-makers promenading on the breakwaters; but he couldn't laugh himself out of it. Before the end of the adventure he was to know how wise and necessary it was.

  The cross-Channel steamer from Weymouth was standing out on the continuation of her voyage to Jersey, and Simon threaded his way to the New Jetty through the stream of disembarked passengers and spectators, and eventually secured a porter. In­quiries were made. Yes, the steamer had landed some cargo con­signed to him. Simon gazed with grim satisfaction at the two new and innocent-looking trunks labelled with his name, and spread a ten-shilling note into the porter's hand.

  "Will you get 'em to that boat over there? The Corsair.

  There's a man on board to take delivery. And don't mistake him for a walrus and try to harpoon him, because he's touchy about that."

  He went back down the pier to the esplanade, fitting a fresh cigarette into his mouth as he went. Those two trunks which he had collected and sent on equipped him for any submarine emer­gencies, and the promptness of their arrival attested the fact that Roger Conway's long retirement in the bonds of respectable if not holy matrimony had dulled none of his old gifts as the perfect lieutenant. There remained the matter of Peter Quentin's contribution; and the Saint moved on to the post office and found it already waiting for him, in the shape of a telegram:

  Latitude fortynine fortyone fiftysix north longitude two twentythree fortyfive west Roger and I will be at the Royal before you are others will catch first airplane when you give the word also Hoppy wants to know why he was left out if you've already made a corner in the heroine we are going home I have decided to charge you with the cost of this wire so have much pleasure in signing myself comma at your expense comma yours till Hitler dedicates a synagogue dash

  PETER

  Simon tucked the sheet away in his pocket, and the first wholly spontaneous smile of that day relaxed the iron set of his mouth as he ranged out into the street again. If he had been asked to offer odds on the tone of that telegram before he opened it, he would have laid a thousand to one to any takers that he could have made an accurate forecast; and at that moment he was very glad to have been right. It was a tribute to the spell which still bound the crew of hell-bent buccaneers which he had once commanded, a token of the spirit of their old brother­hood which no passage of time or outside associations could alter, which sent him on his way to the Royal Hotel with a quickened stride and a sudden feeling of invincible faith.

  He found them in the bar, entertaining a couple of damsels in beach pyjamas who could be seen at a glance to be endowed with that certain something which proved that Peter and Roger had kept their speed and initiative unimpaired in more directions than one. Beyond the first casual inspection with which any newcomer would have been greeted, they took no notice of him; but as he approached the counter, Roger Conway decided that an­other round of drinks was due, and came up beside him.

  "Four sherries, please," he said; and as the barmaid set up the glasses, he added: "And by the way—before I forget—would you get a bottle of Scotch and a siphon sent up to my room some time this evening? Number fifteen."

  Simon took a pull at the beer with which he had been served, and compared his watch with the clock.

  "Is that clock right?" he inquired, and the barmaid looked up at it.

  "Yes, I think so."

  The Saint nodded, pretending to make an adjustment on his wrist.

  "That's good—I've got an appointment at seven, and I thought I had half an hour to wait."

  He opened a packet of cigarettes while Roger teetered back to his party with the four glasses of sherry adroitly distributed between his fingers, and soon afterwards asked for a lavatory. He went out, leaving a freshly ordered glass of beer untouched on the bar; and the man who had taken the place next to him, who had been specifically warned against the dangers of letting his attentions become too conspicuous stood and gazed at that reas­suring item of still life for a considerable time before being trou­bled with the first doubts of bis own wisdom. And long before those qualms became really pressing, the Saint was reclining gracefully on Roger Conway's bed, blowing smoke-rings at the ceiling and waiting for the others to keep the appointment.

  They came punctually at seven; and, having closed and locked the door, eyed him solemnly.

  "He looks debauched," Peter said at length.

  "And sickly," agreed Roger.

  "Too many hectic moments with the heroine," theorised Peter.

  "Do you think," suggested Roger, "that if we both jumped on him together——"

  They jumped, and there was a brief but hilarious tussle. At the end of which:

  "Do your nurses know you're out?" Simon demanded sternly. "And who told you two clowns to start chasing innocent girls to their doom before you've hardly unpacked? Presently I shall want you in a hurry for some real work, and you'll be prancing over the hillsides, picking daisies and sticking primroses in your hair—— Did you speak, Peter?"

  "How the hell could he speak," gasped Roger, "while you're grinding your knee into his neck? You big bully . . . Ouch! That's my arm you're breaking."

  The Saint picked himself off their panting bodies, sorted the smouldering remains of his cigarette out of the bedclothes, and lighted another.

  "You're out of training," he remarked. "I can see that I've only just thought of you in time to save you from being put in a vase."

  "I don't know whether we want to be thought of," said Peter, massaging his torso tenderly. "You always get so physical when you're thinking."

  "It only means he's got into another mess and wants us to get him out of it," said Roger. "Or have you found a million pounds and are you looking for some deserving orphans?"

  Simon grinned at them affectionately, and threw himself into a chair.

  "Well, as a matter of fact there may be several millions in it," he answered.

  There was a quiet dominance in his voice which carried them back to other times in their lives when the fun and horseplay had been just as easily set aside for the other things that had bound them together; and they sorted themselves out just as soberly and sat down, Roger on the bed and Peter in the other chair.

  "Tell us," said Roger.

  Simon told them.

  2

  "So that's the story. Now . . ."

  He sat up and looked at them through a haze of smoke, in one of those supreme pauses when he knew most clearly that he would not, could not, have changed his life for any other. It was like old times. It was like coming home. It was the freebooter coming back to the outlaw camp-fire where he belonged. He saw their faces across the room, Peter's rugged young-pugilist vital­ity, Roger's lean and rather grim intentness; and under the tur­bulent thoughts that were clouding the background of his mind he knew an enduring and inexplicable contentment.

  "As I see it, if all the evidence that's been collected since Ingerbeck's took on the case was worked up, there might be enough of it to put Vogel away. But that's not good enough for the underwriters, and it isn't good enough for Ingerbeck's. The underwriters can't show any dividends on gloating over Vogel sitting in prison for a few years. They want to recover some of the money they've lo
st on claims since he went into business. And Ingerbeck's want their commission on the same. And we want——"

  "Both," said Peter Quentin bluntly.

  The Saint gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment and did not answer directly. Presently he said: "The argument's fairly simple, isn't it? Boodle of that kind isn't exactly ready money. You can't take a sack of uncut diamonds or half a ton of bar gold into the nearest pawnshop and ask 'em how much they'll give you on it. It takes time and organisation to get rid of it. And it isn't so easy to cart around with you while your organisation's functioning—particularly the gold. You have to park it some­where. And for similar reasons you can't use the ordinary safe deposit or keep it in a sock."

  Roger nodded.

  "Meaning if we could find this parking-place——"

  The Saint spread out his hands.

  "Find it, or find out where it is. Join Vogel's crew and get the key. Follow him when he goes there to fetch some of the boodle out, or put some more in. Or something . . ." He smiled, and reached for his glass. "Anyway, you get the general idea."

  They had got the general idea; and for a minute or two they digested it in efficient silence. The magnitude of the situation which had been unfolded to them provoked none of the conventional explosions of incredulity or excitement: it was only on the same plane with what they had come to expect from the shame­less leader who sat there studying them with the old mocking light of irresistible daredevilry on his dark reckless face. And it is doubtful whether the morality of their attitude ever troubled them at all.

  "That seems quite clear," Peter said at last. "Except for the beautiful heroine."

  "She's only trying to get at Vogel from his soft side—if he has one. That's why she had to make that trip to-day. I ... wasn't in time to stop it. Don't know whether I could have stopped it anyway, but I might have tried. If she hasn't arrived here safely . . ." He left the thought in the air; but for an instant they saw a cold flame of steel in his eyes. And then there was only the glimmer of the scapegrace smile still on his lips. "But that's my own party," he said.