Leslie Charteris - The Saint on the Spanish Main

In this case, however, the odds against the conventionally satisfying outcome looked more forbidding as he learned more about them.

He took April to dinner at Bluebeard’s Castle, where he was staying, because he had decided the first time he saw it that the view from the hillside terrace of the hotel over the landlocked harbor and the town of Charlotte Amalie could only be enjoyed to the full in the right kind of company, and the Saint also liked a seasoning of romance with his stories, which was another ancient and delightful tradition that he had no desire to violate. But almost two hours later, while they were enjoying the view to the full over coffee and cigarettes and Benedictine, he had to admit that the rest of what he had learned seemed to have closed up possible loopholes rather than opened any.

“My captain’s been ordered not to take me anywhere near the Narrows before Monday, and he’s too scared of losing his license to play games. Rawl’s crew is under the same orders from the Governor of the British islands,” she told him. “But I can’t even take you over for a look.”

“You wouldn’t have to go along,” he said. “Since you showed me the chart, I could go straight to the spot from memory. Why couldn’t I hire another boat and go there tomorrow? By the same token, what’s to stop Rawl doing the same — or anyone else, for that matter?”

“Because the place has been guarded ever since this hassle started. My lawyer got the American Governor to send a Coast Guard cutter to anchor over there to protect my interests, and as soon as it got there a boatload of police from Tortola came out and tied up alongside to watch out for the British claim. The treasure couldn’t be safer until the official hunting season opens at dawn on Monday.”

It was then Saturday night.

“At least we’ve still got about thirty hours to develop an inspiration,” he said finally. “Suppose we adjourn to your hotel now, where I hear they have dancing under the stars, and see if we dream up something there.”

But when he finally left her that night, considerably later, they had still not dreamed up anything that was strictly related to the problem that had brought them together. Not that either of them felt that the time had been altogether wasted...

“Call me when you wake up in the morning,” he said, “and we’ll start again.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I’ve promised to go to Caneel Bay for the day with my attorney and his wife, and they’ve been so sweet to me that I’ve got to do it. Besides, he’s trying to come up with a last-minute inspiration too. But I’ll call you as soon as I get back.”

And that was another conventional obstruction, which at the moment he could have done without.

He was picking up his key at the desk of Bluebeard’s Castle when a large man heaved himself out of an armchair in the lounge with a prodigious yawn.

“What sort of an hour is this to come home?” boomed Jack Donohue. “If I’d had to wait for you much longer they were going to start charging me rent.”

“You’re lucky I got back at all,” said the Saint. “I might have been in hospital, or in jail. Weren’t you worried?”

“I could have been. They told me you’d had a gorgeous red-head to dinner, and then you’d gone off with her somewhere. But I knew she’d get wise to you fairly soon, and throw you out.”

They walked across to Simon’s room with a pitcher of ice, and he produced a bottle of Peter Dawson to go with it.

“Well, Jackson,” he said. “Besides bumming a free nightcap and insulting me, what’s on your mind?”

“Are you going to do that swimming and diving for me on Monday, or not?”

“Can’t you do it yourself?”

“Yes, I could do it, but it would look like hell in the picture. You’ve read the script. It calls for someone who looks svelte, meaning skinny and underfed, like you. And I’ve got to know whether I can count on you, tonight. If not, I’ve got to phone New York and have someone flown down tomorrow.”

Simon moved his head reluctantly, left to right.

“I’m sorry, chum. I’m sort of engaged for Monday.”

“Give the girl such a time tomorrow that she won’t miss you till Tuesday.”

“She’s tied up tomorrow.”

“Then to hell with her. Make her wait for you till Tuesday.”

“We have a shooting schedule for Monday, too, and it’s something I can’t change.”

“What a louse you turned out to be,” Donohue said morosely. “I should have made an actor of you when I met you in Hollywood. Then you’d have been pleading with me for a chance to work, instead of spurning me for some ginger dye job. Aren’t you getting a bit old to be chasing these dizzy dolls?”

The Saint grinned.

“Didn’t you know, Junior? When you get to be my age, you’ll really appreciate them. And they will appreciate you for your sophistication and all the money you’ll have. It’s a grand old formula. And talking of formulas—”

He broke off suddenly, his face transfigured in mid-speech by a beatific thought that had illuminated his brain like a revelation from heaven. For several seconds he rolled it rapturously around in his mind, assaying all its possibilities of perfection.

“Well?” Donohue said coldly.

“I’m thinking of your corny script. And I will double in those underwater shots for you.”

“Thank you.”

“On Tuesday.”

“Monday.”

“No, I’m booked even more solid on Monday now. Just switch your schedules for the two days. I’m sure you can do it.”

“All right, damn you,” Donohue said resignedly. “I expect you’ll sink like a stone on Tuesday, but all right. If that’s all it’s costing me, I’ll switch the schedule for you.”

“It isn’t quite all...”

The director groaned aloud.

“What else? You want real mermaids to fan you between takes?”

“I don’t want to strain your budget. But since you don’t have to worry about getting a professional swimmer tomorrow, and you’ll have nothing but time on your hands, you’re going to have to do something for me.”

The Narrows on Monday morning had the air of a maritime picnic ground rather than the site of a salvage operation. The US Coast Guard cutter would have been dwarfed by a destroyer, but she looked big enough to be the mother of the brood of other craft gathered around her. The police boat from Road Town and the pinnace that had brought the Governor of the British islands were tied up to one side of her, and April Mallory’s chartered cabin cruiser was tied up to the other side. Duncan Rawl’s launch was hove to only a few yards away.

It was a perfect day for a picnic or for salvage. The water was oily calm, silver blue and turquoise, as the sun took its first step up into a cloudless sky, and the variety of flags called for by the nations and services and personages represented gave the little group of boats a festive and holiday appearance.

“I’m only surprised that everything else in the Caribbean that’ll float isn’t here,” said the Saint.

“All of us tried our best to keep it quiet,” April said. “That was about the only thing everyone was agreed on, including the authorities. If it had got into the papers, it’d ’ve taken the American and British navies combined to keep the channel clear.”

The American Governor was on board the cutter, where he was playing host to the British Governor, and he had courteously invited April and the Saint aboard as soon as they came within hailing distance.

It had been nine o’clock the previous night before Simon had talked to her on the phone.

“I had to have dinner with them,” she said, “and now I’m full of sun and sleepy, and we’ve got to leave tomorrow before daylight. Don’t let’s try to meet tonight.”