Андрей Л.Рюмин: 03 Enter the Saint

An estimated value of one million dollars' worth of jewelry was jay-walking over the Mediterranean in that yacht, and every single dollar of that value was an argument for Hilloran-and others. Audrey Perowne had described her scheme as a fool-proof machine. So it was-granted the trustworthiness of the various cogs and bearings. And that was the very snag upon which it was liable to take it into its head to seize.

The plot would have been excellent if its object had been monkey-nuts or hot dogs--things of no irresistible interest to anyone but an incorrigible collector. Jewels that were readily convertible into real live dollars were another matter. Even then, they might have been dealt with in comparative safety on dry land. But when they and their owners were more or less marooned in the open sea, far beyond the interference of the policeman at the street corner, with a crew like that of the Corsican Maid, each of those dollars became not only an argument but also a very unstable charge of high explosive.

Thus mused Dicky Tremayne while he dressed, while he breakfasted and while he strolled round the deck afterwards with Sir Esdras Levy and Mr. Matthew Sankin. And the question that was upper­most in his mind was how he could possibly stall off the impending explosion until eleven or twelve o'clock that night.

He avoided Audrey Perowne. He saw her at breakfast, greeted her curtly, and plunged im­mediately into a discussion with Mr. George Y. Ulrig on the future of the American South-a point of abstract speculation which interested Dicky Tre­mayne rather less than the future of the Patagonian paluka. Walking round the deck, he had to pass and repass the girl, who was holding court in a shady space under an awning. He did not meet her eye, and was glad that she did not challenge him. If she had, she could have made him feel intolerably foolish.

The madness of the night before was over, and he wondered what had weakened him into betraying himself. He watched her out of the tail of his eye each time he passed. She chattered volubly, joked, laughed delightfully at each of her guests' clumsy sallies. It was amazing-her impudent nerve, her unshakable self-possession. Who would have im­agined, he asked himself, that before the next dawn she was proposing that those same guests that she was then entertaining so charmingly should see her cold and masterful behind a loaded gun?

And so to lunch. Afterwards-It was hot. The sun, a globe of eye-aching fire, swung naked over the yard-arm in a burnished sky. It made the tar bubble between the planks of the open deck, and turned the scarcely rippling waters to a sheet of steel. With one consent, guests and their wives, replete, sought long chairs and the shade. Conversation suf­focated-died.

At three o'clock, Dicky went grimly to the ren­dezvous. He saw Hilloran entering as he arrived, and was glad that he had not to face the girl alone.

They sat down on either side of the table, with one measured exchange of inscrutable glances. Hilloran was smoking a cigar. Dicky lighted a cigarette.

"What have you done about that sailor?" asked Audrey.

"I let him out," said Hilloran. "He's quite all right now."

She took an armchair between them. "Then we'll get to business," she said. "I've got it all down to a time-table. We want as little fuss as possible, and there's going to be no need for any shooting. While we're at dinner, Hilloran, you'll go through all the cabins and clean them out. Do it thoroughly. No one will interrupt you. Then you'll go down to the galley and serve out-this."

She held up a tiny flash of a yellowish liquid. "Butyl," she said, "and it's strong. Don't overdo it. Two drops in each cup of coffee, with the last two good ones for Dicky and me. And there you are. It's too easy-and far less trouble than a gun holdup. By the time they come to, they'll be tied hand and foot. We drop anchor off the Corsican coast near Calvi at eleven, and put them ashore. That's all."

Dicky rose. "Very neat," he murmured. "You don't waste time."

"We haven't to do anything. It all rests with Hill­oran, and his job's easy enough."

Hilloran took the flask and slipped it into his pocket.

"You can leave it to me," he said; and that re­minder of the favourite expression of Dicky's friend, Roger Conway, would have made Dicky wince if his face hadn't been set so sternly.

"If that's everything," said Dicky, "I'll go. There's no point in anyone having a chance to notice that we're both absent together." It was a ridiculous excuse, but it was an excuse. She didn't try to stop him.

Hilloran watched the door close without making any move to follow. He was carefully framing a speech in his mind, but the opportunity to use it was taken from him.

"Do you trust Dicky?" asked the girl.

It was so exactly the point he had himself been hoping to lead up to that Hilloran could have gasped. As it was, some seconds passed before he could trust himself to answer. "It's funny you should say that now," he remarked. "Because I remember that when I suggested it, you gave me the air."

"I've changed my mind since last night. As I saw it-mind you, I couldn't see very well because it was so dark-but it seemed to me that the situation was quite different from the way you both described it. It seemed," said the girl bluntly, "as if Dicky were trying to throw you overboard, and the sailor was trying to stop him."

"That's the truth," said Hilloran blindly.

"Then why did you lie to save him?"

"Because I didn't think you'd believe me if I told the truth."

"Why did the sailor lie?"

"He'd take his tip from me. If I chose to say nothing, it wasn't worth his while to contradict me."

The girl's slender fingers drummed on the table.

"Why do you think Dicky should try to kill you?"

Hilloran had an inspiration. He couldn't stop to give thanks for the marvellous coincidence that had made the girl play straight into his hands. The thanksgiving could come later. The immediate thing was to leap for the heaven-sent opening. He took a sheet of paper from his pocket and leaned forward. "You remember me giving Dicky a letter yesterday evening before dinner?" he asked. "I opened it first and took a copy. Here it is. It looks innocent enough, but-"

"Did you test it for invisible ink?"

"I made every test I knew. Nothing showed up. But just read the letter. Almost every sentence in it might be a hint to anyone who knew how to take it."

The girl read, with a furrow deepening between her brows. When she looked up, she was frowning. "What's your idea?"

"What I told you before. I think Dicky Tremayne is one of the Saint's gang. An arrangement."

"That can't be right. I don't know much about the Saint, but I don't imagine he'd be the sort to send a man off on a job like this and leave his instructions to a letter delivered at the last minute. The least delay in the post, and he mightn't have received the letter at all."

"That's all very well, but-"

"Besides, whoever sent this letter, if it's what you think it is, must have guessed that it might be opened and read. Otherwise the instructions would have been written in plain language. Now, these people are clever. The hints may be good ones. They may just as probably be phoney. I wouldn't put it above them to use some kind of code that anyone might tumble to-and hide another code behind it. You think you've found the solution-in the hints, if you can interpret them-but I say that's too easy. It's probably a trap."

"Can you find any other code?"

"I'm not a code expert. But that doesn't say there isn't one."

Hilloran scowled. "I don't see that that makes any difference," he said. "I say that that letter's suspi­cious. If you agree with me, there's only one thing to be done."

"Certainly."

"He can go over the side, where he might have put me last night."