Лесли Чартерис - Salvage for the Saint

And Simon Templar was looking at maybe eight million dollars’ worth of it at current values.

It was not the first gold he had seen in bulk, and if the fates gave him half a chance it would not be the last. There had even been a time, years before, when he had gazed upon another underwater hoard of gold, and had played his part in bringing it to the surface, and finally in consigning its possessor to the deep in its place. But that was another adventure, one that had passed into memory with so much else; and this was a new sea, and there were new villains to do battle with, and a new heroine, and the gold of here and now.

He lifted one of the ingots to test its underwater weight, and then he let it fall back.

It was not easy to heave a deep sigh from within the respiratory encumbrances of a scuba-diving mask, mouthpiece and other paraphernalia. But the Saint, who could do many things that were not easy, managed to heave one, in spirit at least. The sigh that he heaved was profoundly heartfelt, the sigh of a man deliciously tantalised, a sigh of high aspiration and rich romantic yearning. To be confronted with such a splendiferous superabundance of boodle, which moreover must have been long given up for lost by its rightful owners, and to have no immediately available means of appropriating it for his own use, was almost more than a red-blooded freelance buccaneer could bear. Even such a seasoned practitioner of free-booting as himself, with all his experience of mouthwatering loot in every conceivable form and denomination, could hardly be blase about such a prodigious heap of solid swag as that.

His mind reviewed the situation objectively, once again, as he shifted a few of the ingots to check his estimate of their depth in the cargo hold, and their number.

Up above, Descartes would be waiting — waiting and wondering, with the automatic on his knee and Arabella beside him. Obviously the Saint had to go back to the dinghy, and just as obviously his prudent policy of saving their skins for as long as possible would dictate that he tell Descartes about the gold, even if not all about it...

He spent only a short while longer inside the boat; then, leaving the hatch open, he glided back and upwards through the lightening green, to break surface beside the dinghy. As he climbed aboard, blinking at the glare of the sun and pushing back his face-mask, Descartes leaned forward eagerly, with the automatic held loosely in his hand.

“Anything?”

Simon slipped out of the tanks, and took off his flippers expressionlessly.

“Well?” Arabella insisted.

Simon towelled calmly, as if he had just returned from a purely recreational swim.

“Well?” Descartes demanded. “Is it down there?”

In reply the Saint picked up an orange marker-buoy and dropped it overboard, throwing its anchor after it.

Descartes’ eyes widened with delighted realisation.

“Yes? Is it really there? The gold is there?”

“I’d say a good four, maybe five million dollars’ worth.” The Saint halved his own estimate with a straight face. “It’s certainly going to mean a fortune for somebody.”

“Magnifique!”

Simon looked steadily at him.

“We’re in luck, aren’t we, partner.”

Descartes hesitated; and then a broad and cunning smile, rich with gold of its own, spread across his face.

“Well done — partner,” he agreed.

The Saint was under no illusions about that, of course. He was quite sure that Descartes was going along with the implications of partnership for one reason only, which was a simple and practical one. The gold was still at the bottom of the sea, and the physical task of bringing it up remained. Whatever system they might manage to rig for getting it aboard, a diver would be needed. It might take a dozen dives or more; but somebody would have to go down there. And that somebody was certainly not going to be Jacques Descartes.

And once again, it suited the Saint to be useful.

He stood up and stretched.

“Well,” he said, “why don’t we go and fetch the Phoenix — and get to work?”

There was no dissent to that suggestion; and as he started up the dinghy and turned it around to head back the way they had come, he told them briefly about the sunken boat.

“One of those coastguard shells must have hit it,” he said. “The boat must have been sinking as he came around the headland here.”

“The luck of the man!” Descartes exclaimed. “He could have done it no better if he had planned it. To finish with such a cache which only he could find again!”

The Saint nodded.

“It was perfect. And the gold he left there was even earning a dividend, in a way.”

“A dividend? How do you mean?” Arabella’s brow creased.

“The value of gold fluctuates,” Simon said. “But it’s usually risen in the long run, and by more than the cost of living. So in real terms the gold he kept was an appreciating asset, year by year.”

Descartes leaned over with narrowed eyes, and tugged reflectively at his moustache.

“Then how does it happen, Monsieur Templar,” he said with a slow intentness of curiosity, “that the gold was worth five million dollars eleven years ago, and is now, according to your estimate, worth less?”

“That’s easy,” said the Saint, without batting an eyelid. “Our Karl was spending it. Maybe he was greedy. Or maybe he took a risk in the beginning, and cashed a big slice of it in, right away. Maybe he’s got a few million stashed away in numbered Swiss bank accounts that we’ll never know about. Maybe he did keep it all as gold, but moved some elsewhere. Maybe he was nervous about keeping all his golden eggs in one basket. Maybe—”

The Saint’s glibly assured string of “maybes” stopped in mid-air, not because his fertile brain had run out of postulated reasons why the quality of gold eventually brought up might be less by a hefty margin than Descartes might like, but because, as they approached the headland, they had just caught sight of the Phoenix coming around it towards them.

“Enrico, the fool! What is that suspicious idiot doing?” Descartes shouted.

He glared, jumped up off-centre in the dinghy, and again very nearly capsized it. For a moment he teetered comically, and then he sat heavily down.

The Phoenix was perhaps three or four hundred yards away and making good speed as she came towards them. Descartes had gone as red as the proverbial lobster at the thought that Bernadotti had taken it upon himself to bring the Phoenix around the point ahead of time, or had had Finnegan do it, in defiance of his instructions; but to Simon it seemed a fairly unimportant piece of self-assertion. Within seconds, he had adjusted his mind to the minor change of plan, and it was in that adaptive frame of mind that he throttled back the engine of the dinghy and began a leisurely turn to retrace their tracks towards the orange marker, which was presumably the yacht’s destination also, now that it was within sight. As he did so, he let his mind dwell on the practical task ahead. He had already assessed the number of gold bars — weighing exactly one kilogram each on dry land — that lay down there in the cargo hold under the sea; and now he occupied himself for a few seconds with some mental arithmetic.

There had been many moments in his adventure-crammed life when he had smelt danger ahead of time — when some seventh sense had tipped him off while there was yet a tissue-thin margin of milliseconds remaining — before the ground fell away as a sheer cliff-edge, or the bomb burst, or someone squeezed a trigger behind him or opened a trap-door to oblivion in front of him. But there were also times when, since he was human too, that early-warning system simply failed to operate — or operated only in the very last scintilla of time, when there was no space for considered action or decision, but only the autonomic “flight or fight” reaction of instinct to a threat too sudden to allow the intervention of anything as slow as thought.