Leslie Charteris - The Saint in Miami

He took a fresh grip on the rope and began to haul. The burden swung free at first, then bumped dully against the side as it came higher. The Saint threw all the supple power of his back and shoulders into the task of speeding its ascent, while he breathed a prayer that no member of the crew had been in a position to notice the thud and scrape of its contact. After what seemed like a year the lolling head of the body came in sight above the edge of the deck.

And then the Saint's tautly vigilant ears caught the scuff of the steward's returning footsteps.

Holding tightly to the rope, Simon stepped rapidly backwards until the deckhouse concealed him. There he fastened the rope to a handy stanchion with a couple of quick half-hitches.

The steward's footsteps pattered along the deck, slackened hesitantly, and shuffled to a dubious stop. The Saint held his breath. If the steward raised an alarm from where he stood, he might as well take a running dive over the side and hope for the best… But the steward's nerves where under phlegmatically good control. His footsteps picked up again, approaching stolidly, as he came on forward to investigate for himself.

Which was an unfortunate error of judgment on his part.

He came past the corner of the deckhouse into Simon's field of vision and stood still, looking down movelessly at the lifeless head of the boy dangling against the bottom of the rail. And Simon stepped up behind him like a phantom and enclosed his neck in the crook of an arm that was no more ghostly than a steel hawser…

The steward became gradually limp, carrying his perplexity with him into the land of dreams; and Simon picked him up and transported him over the same route that he had taken with the deck hand. He also treated him in exactly the same way, binding and gagging him and pouring him into the store locker with his still sleeping fellow crewman. The only distinction he made was to remove the steward's trim white jacket first. The Saint's humanitarian instincts made him reflect that the atmosphere of the store room might grow warmer later with its increasing population; and furthermore another use for that article of clothing was beginning to suggest itself to him.

It was a little short in the sleeves, but otherwise it fitted him fairly well, he decided as he shrugged himself into it on his way back to the deck.

He had an instant of alarm when he returned towards the dangling body and saw a ham-sized hand groping with very lifelike activity above the level of the deck. A moment later he had identified it. He grasped it, and assisted the perspiring Mr Uniatz to heave himself over the rail.

"I ought to push you back into the drink," he said severely. "I thought I told you to wait in the boat."

"De stiff stops goin' up," explained Hoppy, "so I t'ought dey mighta gotcha. Anyhow, dey ain't no more drink. I finish de udder bottle while I'm waitin'." He became aware of the uniform jacket which was now buttoned tightly over the Saint's torso, and stared at it with dawning comprehension. "I get it, boss," he said. "We're gonna raid de bar an' get some more."

He beamed at the prospect like an ecstatic votary at the gates of Paradise. Simon Templar had long been aware of the fact that Mr Uniatz's nebulous notions of an ideal after life were composed of something like floating out through eternity in an illimitable sea of celestial alcohol; but for once the condition of his own palate left him without the heart to crush the manifestations of that dream.

"I've heard you bring up a lot of worse ideas, Hoppy," he admitted. "But first of all we'd better finish lugging in the stiff, before somebody else comes along."

A brisk exploration along the starboard side disclosed that the door from which the steward had emerged gave into an alley athwartships from which a lounge opened forward, a dining saloon aft, and a broad stairway descended to the accommodations provided for the owner and his guests. Simon stood at the head of the staircase and listened. No sound came from below. While he stood there, Hoppy Uniatz caught up with him, with the body draped over one herculean shoulder.

Simon beckoned him on.

"We'll take him below," he said in a low voice. "Stay far enough behind me so that if anything blows up you'll be in the clear."

He stepped quietly down to the bottom and inspected the broad alleyway in which he found himself. He felt no particular anxiety at that point. Randolph March would have no reason to suspect that his yacht was in the hands of a boarding party. From the sounds Simon had heard on deck, Mr March was probably engrossed in a pleasant tete-a-tete which would effectively distract his attention from all such ideas. And all the crew who had not gone ashore were probably asleep, except the watchman who had already been disposed of, and the steward detailed to attend to Mr March's alcoholic requirements, who had encountered a similar doom but who could at a suitable moment be interestingly replaced…

The elements of the idea took firmer hold on his imagination as he tiptoed over the carpet. His shoes sank two inches into the resilient pile. He reached the door of a stateroom, listened for a moment, and opened it A pencil flashlight from his hip pocket discovered sycamore panelling and the silken covers or a double bed.

"This'll do, Hoppy," he said, and stood aside while Mr Uniatz brought his burden in.

He closed the door and switched on the lights.

"Put him in the bed and tuck him in," he said. "He deserves a bit of comfort now."

Hairbrushes and other personal toilet gadgets on the dressing-table suggested that the cabin might be in current occupation. Simon looked through a couple of drawers, and found a suit of rainbow silk pyjamas. He threw them on the bed as Hoppy pulled down the covers.

"Fix him up nicely," he said. "He's a guest of the management…" Another thought crossed his mind, and he went on speaking more to himself than to any audience. "Maybe he's been here before. And I wonder what he was then…"

He stood guard by the door while Hoppy carried out his commission, kindling a cigarette and keeping one ear alertly cocked for any sound of human movement in the alleyway outside. But there was none. So far, the adventure couldn't have gone more smoothly if it had been mounted on roller bearings. He began to feel a glutinous and godless exhilaration rising within him. There was no longer any doubt in his head that this was going to be one of his better evenings…

Hoppy Uniatz finished his task, and turned towards him with file air of a man who, having accomplished a worthy but tiresome duty, feels himself entitled to return to more important and more satisfying projects.

"Now, boss," said Mr Uniatz, "do we take de bar?"

The Saint nibbed his hands gently together.

"You are a single-minded man devoted to the life of action, Hoppy," he remarked. "But there are times when the wisdom of the ages speaks through your rosebud lips. I think we will take the bar.

The steward had come out on to the deck from the central alleyway. Returning to the head of the stairway, Simon considered the dining saloon which faced him. It seemed the most likely turning point in the trail; and he was not mistaken. When he went in, he found a very artistic glass and chromium bar set back in an alcove half the width of the deckhouse, the other half probably being taken up by the galley.

"Dis is it," said Mr Uniatz complacently. "What kind of Scotch have dey got?"

"Control yourself," said the Saint sternly. "It's that selfish attitude of yours, Hoppy, which is so discouraging to anyone who is trying to improve your character. Let us try to think first of others, as the good books tell us. We were obliged to remove Mr March's steward. Mr March, by this time, is probably getting quite impatient for his next round of drinks. Clearly it's our duty to substitute our services for this incapacitated factotum and see that he gets his gargle."