Leslie Charteris - Señor Saint

“They’d be afraid of you tipping off the cops... But of course, if they were going that far, they could shut you up permanently.”

“And Sherman isn’t the fighting type. Even if he had a gun, he wouldn’t know how to use it.”

“How about your crew on the boat?”

“They’re only half in on the caper. We told them we were only trying to run in a batch of illegal slot machines, and hired them for a flat price. You can imagine what a cut they’d have wanted if we’d said anything about guns. They don’t think they’re taking much of a risk, and I’d hate to rely on them in a real jam.”

“But you’re paying them out of your share?”

“Call it part of the investment I mentioned. That’s why I couldn’t offer you better than a three-way split. When you work it out, you’ll really be getting closer to half of the net.”

He nodded.

“I’m afraid my lecture on the folly of being too generous isn’t going to do you much good when I get around to it, Doris.” The twist of his mouth was humorously speculative. “However, since you made the terms, I guess a little body-guarding isn’t too much help to ask in return for a cut like that.”

She stood up from the chair and moved towards him. She kept on coming towards him, slowly, until the tips of her breasts touched his chest.

“If that isn’t enough,” she said, “there might be a personal bonus... Sherman won’t be back for a long while yet. You’ve got time to think it over.”

Doris Inkler phoned him at nine o’clock, as he was stepping out of the shower, and asked him to join them in their suite for breakfast. A few minutes later he knocked on the door, and she opened it. She looked fresh and cool in a light cotton print, and her eyes were only warm and intimate for an instant, before she turned to introduce him to her husband.

“Doris has told me the deal,” Inkler said, shaking hands in the brisk business-like way which was so much a part of his act that it must have become a part of himself. “This caper is all her baby, so it’s okay with me. Glad to have you on our side.”

He looked a little tired and nervous.

“I didn’t get in till three this morning,” he explained. “These Mexicans don’t seem to care about bedtime. I guess they make up for it with their siestas. However, everything’s set.”

A waiter wheeled in a table set with three places.

“We ordered bacon and eggs for you,” Inkler said. “Hope that’s all right.”

“I’m starved,” Doris said. “While you were dining and wining with the brothers, you’d politely got rid of me.”

“I thought you’d get yourself something here,” Inkler said.

“I was too busy locating Mr Templar. And after that — too busy.”

She was pouring coffee as she said it, and she didn’t look at Simon.

“I’m sorry,” said the Saint. “I forgot all about that. I was too interested myself.”

The waiter was gone, and they ate.

“The Enriquez boys are calling for us at half past eleven,” Inkler said. “By that time they’ll have arranged for the cash. They’ll drive us to Veracruz. They’ve got a fishing boat there, and we’ll go out and look at the cargo. I sent a radio-telegram to our captain last night, telling him to meet us twenty miles out. I just hope it isn’t too rough.”

“How are you going to account for me?” Simon asked.

“That’s easy,” Doris said. “You’re Sherman’s partner, just arrived from the States. You were worried about him making no progress, and flew down unexpectedly to see whether you could help.”

“Your faith in me is almost embarrassing. How did you know I’d have the equipment to disguise myself, in case one of the brothers happened to remember seeing me at another table last night?”

“If you hadn’t, we could have lent it to you. But I couldn’t imagine the Saint being without it. I expect you have another name with you, too.”

“Tombs,” said the Saint. “Sebastian Tombs.”

He still had a sentimental attachment to the absurd alias that he had used so often, but he felt reasonably confident that the Enriquez brothers would not have heard of it.

“Have you got a gun?” Inkler asked.

Simon patted his left side, under the arm.

“I can take care of Manuel and Pablo, and maybe some of their friends, if they try any funny business,” he said. “But whether I can take care of the whole Mexican gendarmerie is another matter. Even if everything goes according to plan, it may not be long before they find out that your packing cases aren’t all full of artillery. Then they might have the cops looking for us on some phony charge — as well as Jalisco’s bully boys. I don’t think Mexico will be the ideal vacation spot for us after this. What were your plans for after you got the dough?”

Inkler looked at his wife, leaving her to answer.

“I’ve found out that there’s a night plane from here to Havana that stops at Veracruz at two o’clock in the morning,” she said. “It should be just right for us. I’ll make the reservations while you’re getting disguised, if that suits you.”

The Saint seldom used an elaborate disguise, and in this case he did not have to conceal his identity from anyone who knew him but only from two men who might possibly have recalled him from having casually noticed him the night before. With plenty of grey combed into his dark hair, and the addition of a neat grey moustache and tinted glasses, he was sure that the Enriquez brothers would see nothing familiar about him. Even the Inklers, when he first met them again, looked at him blankly.

The Enriquez brothers arrived with un-Mexican punctuality. Simon was introduced to them, in the lobby, and they accepted Inkler’s explanation of his presence with no signs of suspicion.

Outside, they had two matching light yellow Cadillacs. Chauffeurs opened the doors simultaneously as they came out. Manuel Enriquez ushered them into one of the cars, and Simon, always considerate of his own comfort on a long trip, quietly slipped into the front seat. Manuel followed the Inklers into the back. Pablo waved to them and turned away.

“He goes in the other car,” Manuel explained. “He has the money.”

He said it with a smile, almost passing it off as a joke, so that the implication was inoffensive. But it left no doubt, if there had ever been any, that the Enriquez brothers were not babes in the woods. Nor, Simon believed, were their chauffeurs. The one beside him, whom he was able to study at more length, had the shoulders of a prize-fighter and a face that had not led a sheltered life.

On the other hand, these evidences of sensible caution did not necessarily mean that there was a double-cross in prospect, and the Saint saw no reason why he should not let himself at least enjoy the trip. Manuel was a good host in his way, even if he made Simon think of a hospitable alligator, pointing out the landmarks along the way and making agreeable small talk about Mexican customs and conditions, without any reference to politics. Nor was there any mention of the object of their journey — but, after all, there was no more at that moment to discuss.

They had lunch at Puebla, and then rolled on down the long serpentine road to the coast. After a while the Saint went to sleep.

It was early evening when they reached Veracruz, and drove through the hot noisy streets out to the comparative tranquillity of the Mocambo.

“We will stay here tonight,” Manuel said. “While they take in our bags we will get something to eat. It may be late before we can have dinner.”

After sandwiches and cold beer they got into Manuel’s car again. A short drive took them to the Club Nautico. As they got out, Simon observed that Pablo’s twin Cadillac was no longer behind them.