At that moment the outboard loomed up through the mist and coughed itself to silence. Dropping the fender to water level once again, so that there should be no doubt left in any interested minds about the origin of whatever noise had been heard from that quarter, he adjusted it under the gunwale of his dinghy and made it fast to the stanchion from which he had slipped it. The other boat was gliding up under its own momentum while he did so, and he was able to make a swift summary of its occupants.
There were three of them. Two, in rough seamen’s jerseys, sat in the stern sheets, one of them holding the tiller and the other rewinding the starter lanyard. The third man was sitting on one of the thwarts forward, but as the boat slid nearer he rose to his feet.
Simon Templar studied him with an interest that never appeared more than casual.
From his position in the boat, his well-cut reefer jacket and white trousers, and the way he stood up, he was obviously the leader of the party. A tallish well-built man with one hand resting rather limply in his coat pocket—a typical wealthy yachtsman going about his own mysterious business. And yet, to the Saint, who had in his time walked out alive from the bright twisted places where men who keep one hand in a side pocket are a phenomenon that commands lightning alertness, there was something in the well-groomed impassivity of him as he rose there to his full height that touched the night with a new tingling chill that was nevertheless a kind of unlawful ecstasy. For a couple of seconds the Saint saw his face as the dinghy hissed under the lee of the Corsair, a long swarthy black-browed face with a great eagle’s beak of a nose.
Then the beam of a powerful flashlight blazed from the man’s free hand, blotting out his face behind its dazzling attack. For a moment it dwelt on Simon’s straightening figure, and he knew that in that moment the dryness of his hair and his pyjamas were methodically noted and reduced to their apparent place in the scheme of things. Then the light swept on, surveyed the lines of the ketch from stern to bow, rested for another moment on the name lettered there, and went flickering over the surrounding water.
“Lost something?” Simon inquired genially, and the light came back to him.
“Not exactly.” The voice was clear and dispassionate, almost lackadaisical in its complete emptiness of expression. “Have you seen anyone swimming around here?”
“A few unemployed fish,” murmured the Saint pleasantly.
“Or are you looking for the latest Channel swimmer? They usually hit the beach further east, towards Calais.”
There was a barely perceptible pause before the man chuckled, but even then, to the Saint’s abnormally sensitive ears, there was no natural good humour in the sound. It was simply an efficient adaptation to circumstances, a suave get-out from a situation that bristled with question marks.
“No—nothing like that. Just one of our party took on a silly bet. I expect he’s gone back.”
And with that, for Simon Templar, a flag somewhere among the ghostly armadas of adventure was irrevocably nailed to the mast. The mystery had crept out of the night and caught him. For the tall hook nosed man’s reply presumed that he hadn’t heard any of the other sounds associated with the swimmer, and, presuming that, it stepped carefully into the pitfall of its own surpassing smoothness. More—it attempted deliberately to lead him astray. A swim on a foggy night that included gun-play and the peculiar kind of shout that had awakened him belonged to a species of silly bet which the Saint had still to meet, and he couldn’t help being struck by the fact that it disposed so adequately of the obvious theory of an ordinary harbour theft, and the hue and cry which should have arisen from such an explanation. Even without the glaring error of sex in the last sentence, that would have been almost enough.
He stood and watched the search party vanishing on their way into the fog, the flashlight in the hook nosed man’s hand blinking through the mist until it was lost to sight, and then he turned and slid down the companion into the saloon, switching on the lights as he did so. He heard the girl follow him down, but he drew the curtains over the portholes before he turned to look at her.
2
She had pulled off the green bathing cap, and her hair had tumbled to her shoulders in a soft disorder of chestnut rippled with spun gold. Her red mouth seemed to be of the quality that triumphs even over salt water, and the purely perfunctory covering of her attenuated bathing costume left room for no deception about the perfection of her slender sun-gilt figure. Her steady grey eyes held a tentative gleam of mischief, soberly checked at that moment and yet incorrigibly seeking for natural expression, which for one fleeting instant worked unpardonable magic on his breathing.
“A bit wet in the water tonight, isn’t it?” he remarked coolly.
“Just a little.”
He pulled open a drawer and selected a couple of towels. As an afterthought, he detached a bathrobe from its hook and dropped that also on the couch.
“D’you prefer brandy or hot coffee?”
“Thanks.” The impulse of mischief in her eyes was only a wraith of itself, masked down by a colder intentness. “But I think I’d better be getting back—to collect my bet. It was awfully good of you to—understand so quickly—and—and help me.”
She held out her hand, in a quick gesture of final friendliness, with a smile which ought to have left the Saint gaping dreamily after her until she was lost again in the night.
“Oh, yes.” Simon took the hand, but he didn’t complete the action by letting go of it immediately as he should have done. He put one foot up on the couch and rested his forearm on his knee, and the quiet light of amusement that twinkled in his sea-blue eyes was suddenly very gay and disturbing. “Of course, I did hear something about a bet—”
“It—it was rather a stupid one, I suppose.” She took her hand away, and her voice steadied itself and became clearer. “We were just talking about how easy it would be to get away with anything on a foggy night, and somehow or other it got around to my saying that I could swim to Dinard and back without them finding me. They’d nearly caught me when you pulled me on board. I don’t know if that was allowed for in the bet, but—”
“And the shooting?”
Her fine brows came together for a moment.
“That was just part of the make-believe. We were pre-tending that I’d come out to rob the ship—”
“And the shouting?”
“That was part of it, too. I suppose it all sounds very idiotic—”
The Saint smiled. He slipped a cigarette out of a packet on the shelf close by and tapped it.
“Oh, not a bit. I like these games myself—they do help to pass away the long evenings.
Who did the shooting?”
“The man who spoke to you from the dinghy.”
“I suppose he didn’t shoot himself by mistake? It was a most realistic job of yelling.” Simon’s voice expressed nothing but gentle interest and approval; his smile was deceptively lazy. And then he left the cigarette in his mouth and stretched out his hand again. “By the way, that’s a jolly-looking gadget.”
There was a curious kind of thick rubber pouch strapped on the belt of her swim suit, and he had touched it before she could draw back.
“It’s just one of those waterproof carriers for cigarettes and a vanity case. Haven’t you seen them before?”
“No.” He took his foot down again from the couch, rather deliberately. “May I look?”
The note of casual, politely apologetic inquisitiveness was perfectly done. They might have been carrying on an idle conversation on the beach in broad sunlight, but she stepped back before he could touch the case again.
“I—I think I’d better be getting back. Really. The others will be starting to worry about me.”
He nodded.
“Perhaps they will,” he admitted. “But you can’t possibly go swimming about in this mess. You don’t know what a risk you’re taking. It’s a hundred to one you’d miss your boat, and it’s cold work splashing around in circles. I’ll run you back.”
“Please don’t bother. Honestly, the water isn’t so cold—”
“But you are.” His smiling eyes took on the slight shiver of her brown body. “And it’s no trouble.”
He passed her with an easy stride, and he was on the companion when she caught his arm.
“Please! Besides, the bet doesn’t—”
“Damn the bet, darling. You’re too young and good-looking to be washed up stiff on the beach. Besides, you’ve broken the rules already by coming on board. I’ll take you over, and you can just swim across if you like.”
“I won’t go with you. Please don’t make it difficult.” “You won’t go without me.”
He sat down on the companion, filling the narrow exit with his broad shoulders. She bit her lip.
“It’s sweet of you,” she said hesitantly. “But I couldn’t give you any more trouble. I’m not going.”
“Then you ought to use those towels and decide about the brandy and/or coffee,” said the Saint amiably. “Of course, it may compromise you a bit, but I’m broad-minded. And if this is going to be Romance, may I start by saying that your mouth is the loveliest—”
“No, no! I’m not going to let you row me back.”
“Then I take it you’ve made up your mind to stay. That’s what I was talking about. And while we’re on the subject, don’t you know that it’s immoral for anyone to have legs like yours? They put the wickedest ideas—”
“Please.” There was a beginning of reluctant anger creeping into her gaze. “It’s been nice of you to help me. Don’t spoil it now.”
Simon Templar inhaled deeply from his cigarette and said nothing.
Her grey eyes darkened with a scrap of half-incredulous fear that clashed absurdly with the careless good humour of his unvarying smile. Then, as if she was putting the ridiculous idea away, she came forward resolutely and tried to pass him.
One of his long arms reached out effortlessly and closed the remainder of the passage. She fought against it, half playfully at first, and then with all her lithe young strength, but it was as immovable as a bar of iron. In a sudden flash of panic savagery she beat at his chest and shoulders with her fists, but it was like hitting pads of toughened rubber. He laughed softly, without resentment, and she became aware that his other hand had been carefully exploring the form of the curious little pouch on her belt while she fought.
She fell back quickly, staring at him.
“I thought it clunked,” he murmured, “when I pulled you in. And yet you don’t look as if you had a cast-iron vanity.”
Her breath was coming faster now, and he knew that it was not only from her exertions.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Will you let me out?”
“No.”
He liked her spirit. The trace of mischief in her eyes was gone altogether, by this time, frozen into a sparkle of dangerous exasperation.
“Have you thought,” she asked slowly, “what would happen if I screamed?”
“I suppose it couldn’t help being pretty musical, as screams go. Your ordinary speaking voice—”
“I could rouse half the harbour.”
He nodded, without shifting his strategic position on the companion. “It looks like being a noisy night.”
“If you don’t let me go at once—”
Simon Templar extended his legs luxuriously and blew smoke-rings.
“Sister,” he said, “have you stopped to consider what would happen if I screamed?” “What?”
“You see, it isn’t as if this was your boat. If I’d swum out and invaded you at this hour, and you’d been wearing pyjamas instead of me, and more or less the same argument had taken place—well, I guess you could have screamed most effectively. But there’s a difference. This tub is mine, and you’re trespassing. Presumably you couldn’t put up a story that I kidnapped you, because then people would ask why you hadn’t screamed before. Besides, you’re wearing a wet bathing costume, which would want a whole lot more explaining. No—the only thing I can see to it is that you invited yourself. And the time is now moving on to half-past three in the morning. Taking it by and large, I can’t help feeling that you’d be answering a lot of embarrassing questions about why you took such a long time to get frightened. Besides which, this is a French port, with French authorities, and Frenchmen have such a wonderful grip on the facts of life. I am a very retiring sort of bloke,” said the Saint shyly, “and I don’t mind telling you that my modesty has been outraged. If you make another attempt to assault me—”
The grey eyes cut him with ice-cold lights.
“I didn’t think you were that sort of man.”
“Oh, but I am. Now why don’t you look at the scenery, darling? We could have quite a chat before you go home. I want to know what this gay game is that starts shooting in the night and sends you swimming through the fog. I want to know what makes you and Hooknose string along with the same crazy story, and what sort of a bet it is that makes you go bathing with a gun on your belt!”
The last fragment of his speech was not quite accurate. Even as he uttered it, her hand flashed to the waterproof pouch, and he looked down the muzzle of a tiny automatic that was still large enough to be an argument at point-blank range.
“You’re quite right about the gun,” she said, with a new glacial evenness in her voice. “And, as you say, Frenchmen have such a wonderful grip on the facts of life—haven’t they? Their juries are pretty easy on a woman who shoots her lover…Don’t you think you’d better change your mind?”
Simon considered this. She saw the chiselling of his handsome reckless face, the bantering lines of devil-may-care mouth and eyebrow, settle for a moment into quiet calculation, and then go back to the same irresponsible amusement.
“Anyway,” he remarked, “she does give the fellow his fun first. Stay the night and shoot me after breakfast, and I won’t complain.”
The magnificent unfaltering audacity of him left her for a moment without words. For the first time her eyes wavered, and he read in them something that might have been an unwilling regret.
“For the last time—”
“Will I let you go.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” said the Saint gently. “From the brief gander I had at Hooknose just a little while back, he looked like a man’s job to me. I know you’ve got what it takes, but these games can get pretty tough. Tough things are my job, and I hate being jockeyed out of a good fight.”
“I’m going now,” she said. “I mean it. Don’t think I’m afraid to shoot, because I’m ready for accidents. I’ll count five while you get out of the way.” The Saint looked at her for a second, and shook his head.
“Oh, well,” he said philosophically. “If you feel that way about it…”
He stood up unhurriedly. And as he stood up, one hand slid up the bulkhead with him and touched the light switch.
For the first instant the darkness in the cabin was absolute. In the sudden contrasting blackness that drenched down across her vision she lost even a silhouette of him in the opening above the companion. And then his fingers closed and tightened on her wrist like a steel tourniquet. She struggled and tripped against the couch, falling on the soft cushions, but he went down with her, and her hand went numb so that she had no power even to pull the trigger while he took the automatic away. She heard his quiet chuckle.
“I’m sorry, kid.”
As they had fallen, his lips were an inch from hers. He bent his head, so that his mouth touched them. She fought him wildly, but the kiss clung against all her fighting, and then suddenly she was passive and bewildering in his arms.
Simon got up and switched on the lights.
3
“I’m Loretta Page,” she said.
She sat wrapped in his great woolly bathrobe, sipping hot coffee and smoking one of his cigarettes. The Saint sat opposite her, with his feet up and his head tilted back on the bulkhead
.
“It’s a nice name,” he said.
“And you?”
“I have dozens. Simon Templar is the only real one. Some people call me the Saint.” She looked at him with a new intentness.
“Why?”
“Because I’m so very, very respectable.”
“I’ve read about you,” she said. “But I never heard anything like that before.” He smiled.
“Perhaps it isn’t true.”
“There was a Professor Vargan who—got killed, wasn’t there? And an attempt to blow up a royal train and start a war which went wrong.”
“I believe so.”
“I’ve heard of a revolution in South America that you had something to do with, and a plot to hijack a bullion shipment where you got in the way. Then they were looking for you in Germany about some crown jewels. I’ve heard that there’s a Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard who’d sell his soul to pin something on you, and another one in New York who thinks you’re one of the greatest things that ever happened. I’ve heard that there isn’t a racket running that doesn’t get cold shivers at the name of a certain freelance vigilante—”
“Loretta,” said the Saint, “you know far too much about this life of sin.”
“I ought to,” she said. “I’m a detective.”
The immobility of his face might have been carved in bronze, when the light-hearted mockery left it and only the buccaneer remained. In those subtle transformations she saw half his spell, and the power that must have made him what he was. There was a dance of alertness like the twinkle of a rapier blade, a veneer of flippant nonchalance cored with tempered steel, a fine humour of unscrupulousness that demoralised all conventional criterions.
And then his cigarette was back in his mouth and he was smiling at her through a haze of smoke, with blue eyes awake again and both wrists held out together.
“When arrested,” he said, “the notorious scoundrel said, ‘I never had a chance. My parents neglected me, and I was led astray by bad companions. The ruin of my life is due to Night Starvation. Where are the bracelets?’ ”
Saint Overboard (The Saint Series) Page 2
