Leslie Charteris - The Saint in Miami

"I'm only taking the laws of probability and gravitation for granted," he said. "We come here and find one screwy situation. Within twelve hours and practically spitting distance, we run into another screwy situation. It's just a good natural bet that they could raise their hats to each other."

"You mean that the kid who was washed ashore with the lifebelt was part of some deep dark plot that Gilbeck is mixed up in somehow," said Peter Quentin.

"That's what I was thinking," said the Saint

Patricia Holm stared out at the roving lights that wavered over their bow. She had had even more years than Peter Quentin in which to learn that those wild surmises of the Saint were usually as direct and accurate as if some sixth sense perceived them, as simple and positive as optical vision was to ordinary human beings.

She said: "Why did you want Peter to check up on this fellow March? What has he got to do with anything?"

"What did Peter find out?" countered the Saint

"Not much," Peter said moodily. "And I know a lot of more amusing ways of wasting an afternoon and evening in this town… I found out that he owns one of the islands in Biscayne Bay with one of these cute little shacks like Gilbeck's on it, about the size of the Roney Plaza, with three swimming pools and a private landing field. He also has a yacht in the Bay — a little runabout of two or three hundred tons with twin Diesels and everything else you can think of except torpedo tubes… As you suspected, he's the celebrated Randolph March who inherited all those patent-medicine millions when he was twentyone. Half a dozen show girls have retired in luxury on the proceeds of divorcing him, but he didn't even notice it The ones he doesn't bother to marry do just about as well. It's rumoured that he likes a sprinkle of marijuana in his cigarettes, and the night club owners hang out flags when he's here."

"Is that all?"

"Well," Peter admitted reluctantly, "I did hear something else. Some broker chappie — I ran him down and scraped an acquaintance with him in a bar — said that March had a big load of money in something called the Foreign Investment Pool."

The Saint smiled.

"In which Lawrence Gilbeck also has plenty of shekels," he said, "as I found out by looking through some of the papers in his desk."

"But that's nothing," Peter protested. "It's just an ordinary investment. If they both had their money in General Motors—"

"They didn't," said the Saint. "They had it in a Foreign Investment Pool.'"

The Meteor canted up the side of a long roller, and above the sound of the engine a deep glug floated forward as Mr Uniatz throatily inhaled the last swallow from his bottle. It was followed by a splash as he regretfully tossed the empty bottle far out over the side.

"You still haven't told us why you were interested in March," said Patricia.

"Because he phoned Gilbeck twice today," said the Saint simply.

Peter clutched his brow.

"Naturally," he said, "that hangs him. Anyone who phones anybody else is always mixed up in some dirty business.

"Twice," said the Saint calmly. The houseboy took the first call, and told March that Gilbeck was away. March left word to have Gilbeck call him when he got back. Two hours later he phoned again. I took the call. He was very careful to make sure I got his name."

"A sinister symptom," Peter agreed, wagging his head gravely. "Only the most double-dyed villains worry about having their names spelt right"

"You ass," said the Saint disapassionately, "he'd already left his name once. He'd already been told that Gilbeck was away. So why should he go through the routine again?"

"You tell us," said Peter. "This is making me seasick."

Simon drew at his cigarette again.

"Maybe he knew Gilbeck wasn't there, all the time. Maybe he just wanted to impress on that dumb Filipino that Randolph March was trying to get hold of Gilbeck and hadn't seen him."

"But why?" asked Patricia desperately.

"Look at it this way," said the Saint. "Lawrence Gilbeck and Justine left unexpectedly this morning, without saying where they were going or when they'd be back. Now suppose Gilbeck was mixed up with Comrade March in some fruity skulduggery, and Comrade March found it necessary to the welfare of several million dollars to get him out of the way. Comrade March would naturally have an alibi to prove he hadn't been anywhere near Gilbeck on the day Gilbeck disappeared, and a little artistic touch like that telephone routine wouldn't do the alibi any harm."

Peter searched weakly for the second bottle which he had thoughtfully provided.

"I give it up," he said, "You ought to write mystery stories and earn an honest living."

"And still," said Patricia, "we're waiting to know why all this should have anything to do with that ship being sunk."

The Saint gazed ahead, and the clean-cut buccaneering lines of his face were carved out of the dark in a mask of bronze by the dim glow of the instrument panel. He knew as well as they did that there were many other possible explanations; that he was building a complete edifice of speculation on a mere pin point of foundation. But much better than they ever could, he knew that that ghostly tingle in his scalp was more to be trusted than any formal logic. And there was one other thing which had come out of Peter's report, which seemed to tie all the loose fragments of fact together like a nebulous cord.

He pointed.

"That ship," he said, "was some sort of Foreign Investment — to somebody."

Red and green dots that marked a floating village of motley craft rushed up to meet them. A trim white fifty-footer, coldly ornate with shining brass, detached itself from the welter or boats, made a tight foaming turn, and cut across their bow. Simon reversed the propellers and topped the Meteor with the smoothness of hydraulic brakes.

The fifty-footer was earmarked with the official dignity of the Law. A spotlight snapped on, washed the Meteor in its glare, and revealed a lanky man in a cardigan jacket and a black slouch hat standing in the bow.

The man put a megaphone to his lips and shouted: "You better get the hell on in — there's too many boats out here now."

"Why don't you go on in yourself and make room for us?" asked the Saint pleasantly.

"On account of my name's Sheriff Haskin," came the answer. "Better do what I tell you, son."

The simple statement held its own implications for Hoppy Uniatz. It conflicted with all his conditioned reflexes to be using a sacked-up cadaver for a footrest, and to have a policeman, even a policeman as incongruously uniformed as the man on the cruiser, dallying with him at such short range. The only natural method of handling such a situation presented itself to him automatically.

"Boss," he volunteered raucously, leaning forward on the Saint's ear, "I brung my Betsy. I can give him de woiks, an' we can get away easy."

"Put it away," snarled the Saint. He was troubled by a feeling that the spotlight on the police boat was holding them just a little too long. To face it out, he looked straight into the light and shouted amiably: "What happened?"

"A tanker blew up."

Sheriff Haskins yelled the answer back through his megaphone, and waved his free hand. Water boiled at the cruiser's stem, and she began to edge nearer. Thirty feet from the Meteor she reversed again. Haskins stood silent for a time, leaning across the rail and steadying himself against the police boat's roll. Simon had a physical sensation of the sheriff's scrutiny behind the shield of the adhesive spotlight

He was prepared for the question when the sheriff asked: "Haven't I seen you before?"

"You might have," he said cheerfully. "I drove around town for awhile this afternoon. We're staying with Lawrence Gilbeck at Miami Beach, but we only got here today."