Лесли Чартерис - Salvage for the Saint

But at this moment her thoughts were elsewhere than on the dog; and neither were they directly concerned with the departed.

More with what the departed had left behind.

Opposite Arabella sat a very large man who had somehow shoe-horned himself into a very small wrought-iron chair. He was large in as many dimensions as the chair was small, with florid features and an unruly mop of greying hair. He was wearing a rather crumpled blue suit and had an attaché case balanced precariously on his knees, with a stack of papers balanced still more precariously on top of the case.

This was Richard Brightly — Brightly Senior of Brightly, Brightly and Smallbody, Solicitors, and he had just told Arabella, twice, slowly, that Charles Tatenor had died broke.

“I’m sorry.” She blinked groggily. “Charles was what?”

“Broke.” Brightly riffled through the stack of papers. “Your husband was broke. You are broke. I’m sorry.”

“Broke? Don’t be ridiculous.” She reached impatiently for the papers. “What are those?”

Brightly held them out to her.

“Unpaid bills.”

Arabella jerked back her hand as if the papers were red hot. Her face had taken on an expression of mingled amazement and indignation which suggested that she was beginning to take the idea seriously. She opened her mouth a couple of times to say something, then gave up the struggle. Sensing its opportunity, the dog scampered up into her lap.

“Quite,” Brightly said. “But you see, my dear, there really is a butcher, a baker, a—”

“Wait a minute, now,” Arabella said in a bloodless voice. She put the dog down, less gently than before, and stared hard at the solicitor. “Are you saying just... broke? I mean, you don’t really mean broke-type broke?”

Brightly inclined his head apologetically.

“But...!” Arabella spluttered. She gestured around her. “Does this look broke to you?”

“It looks rented.”

“Rented? Rented?” she repeated unbelievingly; and then dully: “Rented.”

“I’m afraid so, my dear. Did Charles really never tell you? But this house, the cars, practically everyth—”

“Of course he told me,” she interrupted mechanically. “Charles told me everything... What the hell do you mean, rented?”

The dog risked another assault on her lap. She put it down with a brisk “Get lost, Phaideaux,” and addressed the solicitor again.

“Charles had income, though. I know he did.”

Brightly nodded.

“He paid his debts twice a year, because twice a year he managed to come up with a large sum of cash. From somewhere.”

“Somewhere?” She shook a murderous finger at the dog, which was preparing to launch itself at her again. “Where?”

“He’d never say, and I could never learn.”

“But... this is absolutely ridiculous—”

Perhaps fortunately, her frustration, bewilderment and anger were interrupted at that moment by the arrival of a filled tea-tray, closely followed by Mrs Cloonan.

“Do excuse me, Mr Brightly, won’t you, Sir,” she said as she moved in front of him to put the tea things down on a small wrought-iron table that matched the small chair. And then, sympathetically, “I do hope you’re having a nice visit.”

Brightly could see Arabella gritting her teeth as the housekeeper pottered about and prepared to pour the tea.

“That’s all right, Mrs Cloonan, I’ll see to that. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

As she turned to go, Arabella called her back in a tight voice.

“Oh, Mrs Cloonan.”

The housekeeper turned back by this time aware of the tension.

“Could you help me, please?” Arabella said with forced sweetness, having just intercepted the frenetic canine nuisance with a roughness which had produced a definite winded yelp. “Mr Brightly has just told me I have a lot of debts and no money, and I seem to be in danger of murdering the dog.”

Mrs Cloonan said “Oh, you poor thing!” and made clucking noises which likewise were not exclusively directed either to the dog or to its mistress but contrived to seem sympathetic to both. She swept the offending animal up to what, in less exalted literature than this, would be flatly — or perhaps not flatly — described as her ample bosom.

When she had gone, Brightly said reassuringly:

“Things aren’t entirely black, I’m glad to say. One thing you do own outright — the Phoenix. Though I’m afraid she’ll have to be sold to pay the debts.”

“The — Phoenix?” Arabella was lost.

“Still tied up down in Marseille, is she?”

“Marseille? Well, I suppose... well, as far as I...” Then, giving up and shrugging helplessly: “What’s the Phoenix?”

Brightly stared in astonishment.

“Good God, you don’t mean you... she’s your yacht, Mrs Tatenor.”

“My yacht?”

“Pretty near half a million worth, thank heaven. But it’s amazing — he never even told you about your own yacht?”

Arabella trailed the pink-nailed toes of one foot on the floor, propelling the wicker-work seat around in a series of meaningless little oscillating circles.

“Charles always told me everything,” she said weakly and vacantly.

Simon Templar made an early start next morning. There was some exploring he wanted to do in the neighbourhood of the Candecour’s incineration now that the publicity had died down and he could hope to find the area reasonably clear of ghoulish or inquisitive sightseers.

The weather was calmer than it had been on that memorable day when he had last set out in the Privateer on the course he now set. He had an almost dead-flat sea.

Soon the sweeping bight of Christchurch Bay was lying to his starboard exactly as when Tatenor’s boat had veered off towards the shore.

This morning the Saint had deliberately not shaved and had left his dark hair tousled after an early-morning dip in the sea. An old tweed flat cap he had unearthed in a local junk-shop made an odd but not impossible match with the muddy dungarees and moth-eaten sweater he had conjured from elsewhere: which was exactly the appearance of amiable eccentricity which he needed for the beach-combing project he had set himself.

It was near high water when he reached the shore at Hengistbury Head. He beached the Privateer near the quiet western end and began his search, not confining himself to the beach itself but also poking and rooting among the dunes which backed on to it. Occasionally he stuffed something into his battered canvas hold-all to keep up appearances for the odd few holidaymakers who watched him curiously from time to time. In this way he gradually acquired a collection of soggy driftwood, bits of glass, cigarette packets and other useless detritus for later quiet dumping.

He had been wise in his decision to begin at the western end of the beach, about half a mile along from the site of the explosion. Even then, it took him a good six and a half hours of searching — in a pattern of coverage that was a lot more systematic than it might have appeared — before he found what he was looking for.

A corner of glass which lay exposed and glinting in the sun brought him to the spot near a grassy dune; and it only took him a minute or so to dig all the equipment out, after checking that he was unobserved.

There was a swim-mask, flippers, weighted belt and compact backpack-and-breathing-pipe assembly.

In short, a complete scuba outfit.

Simon had uncovered it only to satisfy himself that it was indeed what he thought it was, and was still shiny enough to have been put there quite recently. It was. He buried it again and proceeded to the second stage of his expedition.