Андрей Л.Рюмин - 03 Enter the Saint

"The decision on points may have been framed against you," she said, "but you can get round that one. You can win on a knockout."

"Possibly-if that were the whole of it. But you're forgetting something else, aren't you?"

"What's that?"

"The Saint."

He saw the exaggerated shrug of kimono'd shoul­ders. "I should worry about him. I'll stake anything he isn't among the passengers. I've had the ship searched from end to end, so he isn't here as a stowaway. And I haven't taken many chances with the crew. What is he going to do?"

"I don't know. But if the people he's beaten before now had known what the Saint was going to do- they wouldn't have been beaten. We aren't the first people who've been perfectly certain they were safe. We aren't the only clever crooks in the world."

Then she said again: "I've told you-I don't quit."

"All right-"

"This is the biggest game I've ever played!" she said, with a kind of savage enthusiasm. "It's more- it's one of the biggest games that ever has been played. I've spent months preparing the ground. I've sat up night after night planning everything out to the smallest detail, down to the last item of our getaways. It's a perfect machine. I've only got to press the button, and it'll run from to-morrow night to safety-as smoothly as any human machine ever ran. And you ask me to give that up!"

A kind of madness came over Dicky Tremayne. He turned, and his hands fell on her shoulders, and he forced her round with unnecessary violence. "All right!" he snapped. "You insist on keeping up this pose that you think's so brave and clever. You're damned pleased with yourself about it. Now listen to what I think. You're just a spoilt, silly fool-"

"Take your hands off me!"

"When I've finished. You're just a spoilt, silly little fool that I've a good mind to spank here and now, as I'd spank any other child-"

The moonlight gleamed on something blue-black and metallic between them. "Will you let me go?" she asked dangerously.

"No. Go ahead and shoot. I say you ought to be slapped, and, by the Lord . . . Audrey, Audrey, why are you crying?"

"Damn you," she said, "I'm not crying."

"I can see your eyes."

"Some smoke-"

"You dropped your cigarette minutes ago."

His fierce grip had slackened. She moved swiftly, and flung off his hands. "I don't want to get senti­mental," she said shakily. "If I'm crying, it's my own business, and I've got my good reasons for it. You're quite right. I am a fool. I want that quarter of a million dollars, and I'm going to have it-in spite of Hilloran-in spite of you, too, if you want to take Hilloran's side-"

"I'm not taking Hilloran's side, I'm-"

"Whose side are you taking, then? There's only two sides to this."

The moment had passed. He had chanced his arm on a show of strength-and failed. He wasn't used to bullying a girl. And through the dispersal of that shell-burst of madness he was aware again of the weakness of his position. A barefaced bluffer like the Saint might still have carried it off, but Dicky Tre­mayne couldn't. He dared not go too far. He was tied hand and foot. It had been on the tip of his tongue to throw up the game then-to tell the truth, present his ultimatum, and damn the consequences. Prudence-perhaps too great a prudence-had stopped him. In that, in a way, he was like Hilloran. Hilloran was in the habit of obedience; Tremayne was in the habit of loyalty; neither of them could break his habit on the spur of the moment. "I'm taking your side," said Dicky. And he wondered, at the same time, whether he oughtn't to have given way to the impulse of that moment's loss of temper.

"Then what's the point of all this?" she demanded.

"I'm taking your side," said Dicky, "better than you know. But we won't go into that any more-not just now, anyway. Let it pass. Since you're so clever-what's your idea for dealing with the situa­tion?"

"Another cigarette."

He gave her one, lighted it, and turned to stare moodily over the sea. It was a hopeless dilemma. "I wonder," he thought bitterly, "why a man should cling so fanatically to his word of honour? It's sheer unnatural lunacy, that's what it is." He knew that was what it was. But he was on parole, and he would have no chance to take back his parole until the following night at the earliest.

"What do you think Hilloran'll do now?" she asked. "Will he try again to-night, or will he wait till to-morrow?"

The moment was very much past. It might never have been. Dicky tried to concentrate, but his brain seemed to have gone flabby. "I don't know," he said vaguely. "In his place, I'd probably try again to­night. Whether Hilloran has that type of mind is another matter. You know him better than I do."

"I don't think he has. He's had one chance to­night to make the stand against me, and he funked it. That's a setback, psychologically, that'll take him some time to get over. I'll bet he doesn't try again till to-morrow. He'll be glad to be able to do some thinking, and there's nothing to make him rush it."

"Will you have any better answer to-morrow than you have now?"

She smiled. "I shall have slept on it," she said carelessly. "That always helps. . . . Good-night, Dicky. I'm tired."

He stopped her. "Will you promise me one thing?"

"What is it?"

"Lock your door to-night. Don't open to anyone-on any excuse."

"Yes," she said. "I should do that, in any case. You'd better do the same."

He walked back with her to the cabin. Her hair stirred in the breeze, and the moon silvered it. She was beautiful. As they passed by a bulkhead light, he was observing the serenity of her proud lovely face. He found that he had not lost all his madness.

They reached the door. "Good-night, Dicky, "she said again.

"Good-night," he said. And then he said, in a strange strained voice: "I love you, Audrey. Good­night, my dear." He was gone before she could answer.

Chapter VII DICKY dreamed that he was sitting on Hilloran's chest, with his fingers round Hilloran's throat, bang­ing Hilloran's head on the deck. Every time Hill­oran's head hit the deck, it made a lot of noise. Dicky knew that this was absurd. He woke up lazily, and traced the noise to his cabin door. Opening one eye, he saw the morning sunlight streaming in through his porthole.

Yawning, he rolled out of the bunk, slipped his automatic from under the pillow, and went to open the door. It was a white-coated steward, bearing a cup of tea. Dicky thanked the man, took the cup, closed the door on him, locking it again.

He sat on the edge of the bunk, stirring the tea thoughtfully. He looked at it thoughtfully, smelt it thoughtfully, got up thoughtfully, and poured it thoughtfully out of the porthole. Then he lighted a cigarette. He went to his bath with the automatic in his dressing-gown pocket and his hand on the au­tomatic. He finished off with a cold shower, and returned to his cabin to dress, with similar caution, but feeling better.

The night before, he had fallen asleep almost at once. Dicky Tremayne had an almost Saintly faculty for carrying into practice the ancient adage that the evil of the day is sufficient thereto; and, since he reckoned that he would need all his wits about him on the morrow, he had slept. But now the morrow had arrived, he was thoughtful.

Not that the proposition in front of him appeared any more hopeful in the clear light of day. Such things have a useful knack of losing many of their terrors overnight, in the ordinary way-but this particular specimen didn't follow the rules.

It was true that Dicky had slept peacefully, and, apart from the perils that might have lurked in the cup of tea which he had not drunk, no attempt had been made to follow up the previous night's effort. That fact might have been used to argue that Hill­oran hadn't yet found his confidence. In a deter­mined counter-attack, such trifles as locked doors would not for long have stemmed his march; but the counter-attack had not been made. Yet this argu­ment gave Dicky little reassurance.