Лесли Чартерис - Salvage for the Saint

“I know that,” he said simply. “The fact is, you’ve stood up to it all magnificently. Perhaps I should have got around to saying this before now. Very few women, or men for that matter, would have come out of that bull-ring ordeal as creditably as you did.” The Saint put a finger under her chin, and kissed her lightly — with understanding rather than passion. “The fact is,” he added, “I’ve worked alone too long now to be in the habit of sharing all my thoughts or hypotheses.”

She searched his features reflectively.

“Well, try sharing some of them,” she suggested.

Simon grinned, having seen that coming.

“I’ll try to be less mysterious,” he agreed.

“Starting now?” Arabella persisted.

“Starting right now. Fire away.”

“Right. What do you think really happened on Charles’s boat. You said you thought there was another man on board.”

“Somebody,” he said slowly, “got ashore from that boat just before she hit the rocks and blew up. I found a scuba outfit buried near the beach, and someone out of the normal run of rail passengers, someone with a French accent and without luggage, caught a train to London from the local station. It may not be much to go on, but it looks as if Fournier, as we knew him, set up the explosion to make it appear that the two of them had died in the crash.”

“What about the two bodies they found in the wreckage?”

“That can be explained,” Simon said. “Remember one thing. There was no positive identification of the bodies. Fournier could have hidden another body aboard before the race. Most likely an already dead body.”

Arabella nodded keenly and thoughtfully.

“I see. And then, Tranchier would have knocked Charles out, jammed the helm at the right moment, and quietly vanished underwater, coming up on the beach while all eyes were on the blazing boat.”

“You have to admit,” said the Saint, “it sounds possible — in fact it sounds likely. Maybe Tranchier had got what he needed from Charles, namely the low-down on the gold and how to get it. And maybe he then got greedy. He had a bright idea. He would do a Charles, and keep all the remaining gold for himself. But to do that, and be able to enjoy it without constantly looking over his shoulder for Descartes and the others, he needed to convince them, as well as the rest of the world, that both he and Charles were no more.”

Simon paused to turn on a chart-light in the wheel-house.

“What doesn’t seem to have occurred to him,” he continued, “was that Descartes would be harder to shake off than that — that he’d turn his attentions to you, as the only other person who might have access to the gold — assuming, of course, that there’s some left and that it is still in the form of gold.”

Arabella toyed thoughtfully with one of the charts in the open drawer.

“And what do you think about that? Is there gold? Is it in Corsica?”

“In Corsica?” He shook his head. “No. I think there’s gold all right, but I think it’s off Corsica. Somewhere in the sea. And I think your Charles used to go back to that spot in this yacht twice a year for the express purpose of bringing up a bar or two to boost his bank balance — until the next time.”

Arabella pursed her lips in a long whistle of amazed appreciation.

“Why, that’s — that’s perfect. What a smart man he was! A secure private bank. Just bring the gold up a bit at a time, sell it discreetly someplace...”

Simon nodded agreement.

“The odd bar or two wouldn’t attract too much attention.”

“The only weakness,” she observed thoughtfully, “—the one point of vulnerability in his banking system — would appear to be Finnegan. Surely he must know about the gold?”

“Maybe,” the Saint said. “The good Captain’s still a bit of a question mark in my mind for the moment. But he certainly wasn’t near enough to have toppled that crate; nor was he driving the van; nor did he stab Lebec’s man in the Bidou Club. But somebody did.”

“Then who?” No sooner had she spoken the words than she answered her own question. “You mean Fournier!” Then she added: “And where does the Saint’s clairvoyance tell him Fournier is now?”

By way of a reply, Simon stepped outside on to the deck and pointed aft.

“See that speck on the horizon? It’s a smallish boat, some kind of power cruiser. It’s been following about ten miles behind us for at least the last couple of hours. I’d be willing to bet it’s been on our tail ever since we left Marseille. And if it isn’t Fournier,” said the Saint, looking hard at Arabella as he paused, “I’d lay ten to one it’s your friend Inspector Lebec.”

Jacques Descartes surveyed the limp piece of bacon on his fork as if mesmerised by it.

“It is a great institution, your English bacon and eggs, is it not?” he observed, entirely without conviction. “A breakfast which is yet adaptable for any mealtime.”

“That’s the best I could do,” Arabella said, sulkily defensive, “with what I found on board. And anyway, I don’t recall being hired as a cook — on my own yacht. You’re lucky to get anything at all.”

“Of course, Madame, of course,” Descartes said hurriedly. “I did not mean... it is an excellent repast — an excellent impromptu repast.”

He looked expectantly around the table, and after a slight delay some grudging grunts of assent were forthcoming from Bernadotti and Pancho.

Simon Templar, who had helped rinse the strips of bacon and spread them out to dry on a towel in the galley, after they had fallen into some washing-up water, thought it politic to change the subject.

“You were saying something to Mrs Tatenor,” he reminded Descartes. “About the bullion robbery.”

“Ah yes — yes.”

Descartes impaled another piece of bacon on his fork, dipped it into the congealing eggs on his plate, and conveyed it to his mouth with a valiantly repressed shudder. After minimal mastication he swallowed it with evident relief and made a visible effort to recover the mood of story-telling flamboyance which Arabella’s culinary offerings had interrupted.

“Picture if you will, Madame — a crystal clear night. The moon is a brilliant yellow cavaillon melon... Suddenly — there is the ship. Outwardly a small passenger vessel, but in secret also a bullion ship. So low she floats in the water — so heavy with gold! Then — a burst of shots in the air, we stop her, we climb aboard. Everyone — hands up! We open the cargo hold — and there — there it is, gleaming in the moonlight. Gold, Madame — so much gold! Gleaming bricks of gold. So many, one could build a house from them!”

Descartes glanced at the faces of his audience of four — two of whom were remembering the night with him as he spoke. He continued with rising animation.

“So much gold! And all is perfect. No violence, as it was with the pirates of old. We had done it better — the shots only for effect. And then...”

“Then — the champagne!” reminisced Bernadotti, his fork in his left hand and his automatic in his right where it had remained all through the evening.

“Yes!” Descartes beamed as he relived the excitement. “Some passengers are drinking champagne. We take it. We drink our own toast — to success!”

The Saint pushed his empty plate aside.

“And where’s friend Karl during all this revelry?” he asked.

“Karl? He is in our boat. At the wheel, waiting.” As he continued the story Descartes’ smile slowly faded. “You will understand — Karl was employed with the Paris bank, and so he was important to the planning of the robbery. But also, even then, he was a driver of fast boats.”