Лесли Чартерис - Salvage for the Saint

“You speak my kinda language, blue-eyes,” he Bogarted. “We must be using the same scriptwriter.”

“Well, he’s good and he’s cheap, isn’t he?” she Bacalled huskily. “And why should you have all the best lines?... But coming back to the Gallic leech” — she had reverted to the blended tones of Oxford and New England — “of course, you could hardly have missed him. You’ve probably heard his name too. Fournier. Maurice Fournier. Mean anything to you?”

“The name — no. But that phizog. That does ring some sort of bell.”

He had already racked his brain repeatedly in a vain struggle to recall where he had seen that unprepossessing face before. Almost the first out-of-key phenomenon to catch his attention among the varied manifestations of boating and boat-watching humanity in and around Cowes that week had been the short thick-set shaven-headed man who seemed to have no higher or more engrossing purpose in life than that of keeping himself glued limpet-like to a point approximately three inches from the elbow of Charles Tatenor.

Tatenor himself lived on the island. Squarely built, greying, fiftyish, he was a sophisticate of British sporting circles, and the faster and more expensive the sport the better he liked it. Powerboat racing fitted very well; Tatenor’s was one of the leading names around the world, and even if Simon Templar had his own ideas about who was going to win the two-hundred-mile race along the coast to Penzance, it was certain that Tatenor was the favourite in most people’s books.

Which fact made it all the more surprising to everybody else that he had suddenly decided to ditch his experienced navigator Taffy Hughes in favour of this newcomer who not only seemed to have difficulty telling the sharp end from the blunt end of a boat but gave every appearance of turning pale green as soon as he came within spitting distance of the ocean — incidentally an appropriate expression, as Fournier spat frequently.

Hughes — Simon had commiserated with him over a drink — was as mystified as anyone. Tatenor had simply told him that Fournier was an old friend from way back, and that for old times’ sake he had agreed to his friend’s joining him in the race. But in explaining this to Hughes, Tatenor had worn a face of acetic sourness that seemed at variance, in Hughes’s alcoholically emphasised opinion, with the professed friendly spirit behind the gesture. And from his own observation the Saint had to agree that Tatenor’s way of eyeing his long-lost chum was anything but chummy.

But where Tatenor went Fournier went. When Tatenor went aboard his boat, though it might only be to work on the engines, Fournier went along. When Tatenor drank in the Royal Yachtsmen’s Club — usually without Arabella in attendance — Fournier drank too. And when Tatenor went home to his extravagant hillside home above Egypt Point, just outside the town, that dogged French shadow went with him. It was as if the two men were joined by an invisible chain.

A part of the Saint’s mind was working again at the puzzle of trying to match the Frenchman’s fishy features against something obscurely out of focus in his memory; and he wondered if some circumstantial detail might give him the clue he needed.

“Just how long has Fournier been on the scene?” he asked Arabella.

“Six days,” she told him. “He just turned up at the house one night. Our place is just along the road from here. Well, when this Fournier thing showed up that evening” — she wrinkled her nose in distaste — “Charles was obviously more than a tiny bit flabbergasted, and none too delighted either. It was over twelve years since they’d met. Anyway, he stayed to dinner — Mrs Cloonan’s a miracle-worker, she can always cope with a guest at the drop of a hat — and next morning there he was again at breakfast. That’s when Charles told me Fournier’d be staying till after the race, and then the two of them’d be going off on business together for a few days. And ever since, Fournier’s hardly let Charles out of his sight. Except today.”

“What happened today?”

“Charles gave him the slip for a few hours, after the scrutineers had finished their main stint this afternoon. Charles took the boat out on his own, and he didn’t come back till the evening.”

The Saint digested the information thoughtfully.

“I suppose he didn’t say where he’d been?”

“No. Just ‘out in the boat’. I could see Fournier was livid when he’d discovered Charles had gone, but he calmed down later.”

“When he saw that Charles had come back?”

“That’s the way I read it.”

“Hmmm. Any idea what this joint business of theirs might be?”

“To do with his investments or something like that, I guess. I didn’t ask.” She shrugged. “I enjoy helping to spend Charles’s money, but I’ve never quizzed him about how he makes it. I only know he doesn’t actually have to do much... But Simon, now that you’re on the case — and you are on the case, aren’t you?” She broke off and eyed him hopefully, and then went straight on without waiting for an answer: “—now that you’re on the case there’s something I should tell you. Charles and I, we’re getting a divorce soon.”

“I shan’t pretend to be surprised,” Simon told her quietly. “I’ve seen the two of you together, and you don’t exactly radiate marital harmony and contentment, if I may say so. But I suppose this has nothing directly to do with Fournier’s intrusion into the household?”

“I’m not citing him as co-respondent, if that’s what you mean!” She laughed, but this time it was a rather more brittle laughter. “No, there are plenty enough contenders for that honour already. And save your sympathy, Simon,” she added quickly. “I’m at least half to blame. I guess the whole thing was a mistake from the start.”

“How long has it been?” he asked gently.

“Four years.”

“And he’s — twice your age?”

“He was, then. But that’s not really the problem. I liked him okay. But I liked his money too, in about equal degree.”

Simon expostulated mildly.

“Oh, come on. Aren’t you being a bit hard on yourself? You’re making yourself sound like a cold-hearted little gold-digger, while I’m sure you’re not.”

“Well... maybe not so cold-hearted.” She looked at him for what seemed a long time; one pair of blue eyes candidly searching another. “But as I’ve told you, I have expensive tastes. I like money and I like men with a lot of it. Charles fitted the bill. It wasn’t enough though.”

She smiled wryly, and for a little while her eyes were clouded with an unreadable wistfulness. Then the Saint said:

“What about his reasons for getting in tow with you?”

She laughed the brittle laugh again.

“They were as shallow as mine. Basically, he wanted, if you’ll forgive me, an attractive wife, something reasonably decorative to be seen on his arm at Brands Hatch and Le Mans and Cowes. But Charles’ll always be a womaniser, anyhow. So, all things considered, I’m for getting out of the game and cutting my losses.”

“Or is it taking your winnings?” Simon suggested mildly.

“Ouch,” she winced. “I guess I asked for that. But yes, I’ll admit that as far as money’s concerned, I do want to get out with something to the good. Though whether you call it winnings or earnings is debatable. Now, to return to Fournier. First, there’s something about him I don’t like. But it’s more than personal dislike. He’s got some sort of hold over Charles. It’s as if Charles were knuckling under, and I don’t know why. Maybe Fournier’s blackmailing him — something in his past. And Charles’s past is something I know practically nothing about. He’s never talked about it, certainly not in any detail. Anyhow he’s certainly rattled. And I’m concerned. First in a human, or even if you like in a wifely way. I really don’t want anything bad to happen to him. And secondly, and you may think this is the bigger component in my concern, I have a financial stake in Charles and I want to look alter it.”