Saint Overboard (The Saint Series)

by Leslie Charteris

  “But it makes the ship look so untidy.”

  Orace scratched his head.

  “Yessir. But it was a bit untidy ter start wiv. Jremernber the mains’l started to tear comin’ dahn from St Helier?

  Well, when yer went orf tonight 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 helpless 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 band 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 Orace 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 him 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 h
is 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, and 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.

  It 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 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.

  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 today, 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.

  CHAPTER FIVE:

  HOW SIMON TEMPLAR WALKED IN A GARDEN AND ORACE ALSO HAD HIS TURN

  1

  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 Nord, Simon Templar had never taken his hands from the wheel; his eye
s had been reduced to emotionless chips of blue stone, mechanical units of cooperation with his hands, ceaselessly watching 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.