Leslie Charteris - The Saint in Miami

"Pat, old darling," he said, "you and Peter are going ashore. Hoppy and I are going to pay a call on Comrade March."

She looked at him with troubled blue eyes.

"Why can't we all go?"

"Because we're too big a party for an expedition like this. And because somebody ought to be back at Gilbeck's to hold the fort in case anything turns up there. And lastly because if anything goes wrong, Hoppy and I might need an alibi. Get going, kids."

The Meteor delicately nosed the bank. Peter Quentin jumped out on to the rocks and helped Patricia to follow him. He looked back unwillingly.

"March's place is called Landmark Island," he said. "It's right next to where his yacht's anchored. The yacht is a big grey thing with one funnel, and it's called the March Hare. If you're not home in two hours we'll come look for you."

Simon waved his hand as the Meteor drifted away in the current Scarcely waiting till they were clear, he stole a notch or two out of the throttle and turned the sleek speedster away in a wide arc. A big passenger ship was crawling up the channel behind him, looming doubly large beside the speeding cars on the Causeway. It's whistle howled piercingly as they crossed under its bow; and the Saint smiled.

"Bellow your head off, brother," he said softly. "Maybe you're lucky you didn't sail two hours ago."

They headed down the bay at a moderate and inconspicuous pace that hardly raised the voice of the engine above a mutter; and Mr. Uniatz sat up on the narrow strip of deck behind the Saint and tried to bring the conversation back to fundamentals,

"Boss," he said, "do we bump dis guy March?"

"That remains to be seen," Simon told him. "Meanwhile you can take the sack off that sailor."

Mr Uniatz clung with the pride of parenthood to his original idea.

"He's better in de sack, boss, when we t'row him in. I got it weighted down wit' some old iron I find in de garage."

"Take him out of the sack," Simon ordered. "You can throw the sack and the old iron in, but make sure he doesn't go with them."

He switched off the engine as Hoppy began moodily to obey. Ahead of them loomed the grey hull of the March Hare. Besides the riding lights, other subdued lights burned on her, illuminating her deck and superstructure with a friendly glow, and at the same time vouching for the fact that there were still people on board who might not be quite so friendly. But to Simon Templar that was merely an interesting detail.

The delight of his own audacity crept warmingly through his veins as the speedboat drifted silently towards the anchored yacht. The Meteor heeled slightly as Hoppy lowered the weighted sack into the bay.

"Now whadda we do?" asked Mr Uniatz hoarsely. "He ain't got nut'n on but his unnerwear."

Simon caught the anchor chain and made fast to it, steadying the Meteor with deft but heroic strength to ease her against the hull without a sound that might have attracted the attention of the crew. The moon was over the March Hare's stem, and it was dark at the bow. His job began to look almost easy.

''I'm going on board," he said. "You wait here. When I let down a rope to you, pass up the body."

He stretched his muscles experimentally, and felt under the cuff of his left sleeve to make sure that the ivory-hilted throwing knife which had pulled him out of so many tight corners nested there snugly in the sheath strapped to his forearm. Over his head, the anchor chain slanted steeply up to the March Hare's flaring prow. He gripped the Meteor's foredeck with soft-shod feet and jumped for the chain, and hung there above the rippling tide as the speedboat floated under him to the length or the painter. Then he went swarming up the chain with the soundless agility of a monkey.

He reached the hawsehole, and swung both legs up to it Manoeuvering himself gingerly, he was able to get the fingers of one hand over the edge of the deck planking near the bow. With a quick muscular twist he sent the other hand up to join it, and chinned himself cautiously.

With his eyes on a level with his hands, he discerned a deck hand in white ducks leaning over the rail on the opposite side of the bow. Simon lowered himself again, and began to work his way aft with infinite patience, suspended from the edge of the deck by nothing but the grasp of his bent fingers.

When he was almost amidships he chinned himself again. This time the forward end of the deckhouse secured him from the danger of being caught at a disadvantage if the man in white had happened to rum round, and there was no one else to be seen from that angle. He freed one hand and reached up for the lowest bar of the rail. In a few seconds more he was standing on the deck and melting into the nearest pool of shadow.

From the stem of the yacht, soft voices and the tinkle of ice in glasses mingled with the faint music of a low-tuned radio. Motionless against the side of the deckhouse, Simon listened for an envious moment, and discovered that his throat was parched from the salt air and the neat whisky he had swallowed. The melodious sounds of tiny icebergs in cold fluid were almost more than his resolution could resist; but he knew that those amenities had to wait He started back towards the bow with the flowing stealth of a cat.

The seaman at the rail had not moved, and did not move as Simon crept up to him on noiseless rubber soles. The Saint studdied his position scientifically, and tapped him on the shoulder.

The man spun round with a hiccup of startlement With his mouth hanging open, he had time to glimpse the sheen of a shaded deck light on crisp black hair, the chiselled leanness of devil-may-care lines of cheekbone and jaw, a pair of mocking blue eyes and a reckless mouth that completed the picture of a younger and streamlined reincarnation of the privateers who once knew those coasts as the Spanish Main. It was a face which by no stretch of imagination could have belonged to any ally of his, and the seaman knew it intuitively; but his reactions were much too slow. As he reached defensively for a belaying pin socketed in the rail near by, a fist that seemed to be travelling with the weight and velocity of a power-diving aeroplane struck him accurately on the point of the chin, which he had carefully placed in the exact position where Simon had planned for him to put it.

Simon caught him neatly as he fell.

An open hatch just forward of the deckhouse gave him a view down a narrow companion into a lighted alleyway. Simon hitched the unconscious man on to his shoulder and carried him down.

The alley contained four doors labelled with neatly stencilled letters. The inscription on one door said STORES. Open, it revealed a dark locker which exhaled an odour of paint and tar. It took exactly three minutes to truss the victim, gag him with his own socks and handkerchief, and tuck him away inside. After which Simon examined the other resources of that very conveniently located storeroom.

He returned to the deck with a length of rope and a stout piece of wood slotted at each end, known to seafaring persons as a bosun's chair. He moved along the rail until he was directly over the Meteor, rigged the chair, and lowered it over the side.

A jacketed steward came out on deck amidships, carrying a tray, and turned aft. Simon crouched like a statue by the rail and watched him go. The steward had not even glanced in that direction when he emerged; but there was some slight difficulty in judging how long he would be gone, and on the return trip he could hardly help noticing Simon's operations at the bow.

Hoppy gave a couple of tugs at the rope to signal that the cargo was ready to load.

There was still no sign of the steward returning.

"Well," said the Saint, to his guardian angel, "We've got to take a chance some time."