Saint Overboard (The Saint Series) by Charteris Leslie

Author:Charteris, Leslie [Charteris, Leslie]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2014-03-17T16:00:00+00:00

3

Simon Templar nodded with matter-of-fact cheeriness. And he wanted to shout and dance. “I was just going to look you up,” he said.

“And we were wondering where you were. We inquired on the Corsair, but your man told us you’d gone ashore. You had a good crossing?”

“Perfect.”

“We were thinking of dining on shore, for a change. By the way, I must introduce you.” Vogel turned to the others. “This is my friend Mr Tombs—Miss Page…”

Simon took her hand. For the first time in that encounter he dared to look her full in the face, and smile. But even that could only be for the brief conventional moment.

“…and Mr Arnheim.”

“How do you do?”

There was a dark swollen bruise under Arnheim’s fleshy chin, and the Saint estimated its painfulness with invisible satisfaction as he shook hands.

“Of course—you helped us to try and catch our robber, didn’t you, Mr Tombs?”

“I don’t think I did very much to help you,” said the Saint deprecatingly.

“But you were very patient with our disturbing attempts,” said Vogel genially. “We couldn’t have met more fortunately—in every way. And now, naturally, you’ll join us for dinner?”

The great hook of his nose curved at the Saint like a poised scimitar, the heavy black

brows arched over it with the merest hint of challenge.

“I’d like to,” said the Saint easily. And as they started to stroll on, “What about the Professor?”

“He refuses to be tempted. He will be working on the bathystol for half the night—you couldn’t drag him away from it on the eve of a descent.”

They had dinner at the Old Government House. To Simon Templar the evening became fantastic, almost frighteningly unreal. Not once did he catch Vogel or Arnheim watching him, not once did he catch the subtle edge of an innuendo thrust in to prick a guilty ear, and yet he knew, by pure reason, that they were watching. The brand of his fist on Arnheim’s chin caught his eyes every time they turned that way. Did Arnheim guess—did he even know?—whose knuckles had hung that pocket earthquake on his jaw? Did Vogel know? There was no answer to be read in the smooth colourless face or the black unwinking eyes.

What did they know of Loretta, and what were their plans for her? If Murdoch had been identified while they had him on the Falkenberg she must have been condemned already, and it seemed too much to hope that Murdoch had not been seen by the sleuth who had observed his blatant arrival at the Hotel de la Mer the day before. How much had Loretta suffered already?…He could only guess at the answers.

It was an uncanny feeling to be eating and drinking on terms of almost saccharine cordiality with two men who might even then be plotting his funeral—and whose own funerals he himself would plot without compunction in certain circumstances—with, every warning of antagonism, utterly suppressed on both sides. If he had not had last night’s experience of Vogel’s methods to acclimatise him, he would

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