admitting new customers on a froth of salt-water argot. He greeted the Saint and Pat with his largest smile.
“Ahoy, mates! Enjoying the trip?”
“That is hardly an accurate description of our emotions at the moment,” Simon said. “We’re after a little information about an incident that occurred a few moments ago.”
“I keep an accurate log, sir. Fire away.”
“Did you see Mrs Verity come out of the club?”
“Aye, that I did, not more than fifteen minutes ago. Fact is, I’d just sounded four bells when she went ashore.”
“Why didn’t you stop her?” Simon asked sharply. “You knew we were waiting for her.”
“Why, shiver my timbers, sir, I supposed she’d already seen you. It’s hardly my place to stop the passengers.”
“Hmm. I see.”
“Did you miss her, sir?”
“We did, but somebody else didn’t. They got her dead center.”
The Admiral blinked, and seemed to examine the remark for some time. A puzzled frown formed on his round face.
“Blow me down, sir, but your message isn’t clear.”
“She’s dead.”
The Admiral’s jaw dropped.
“No! Why, she was smiling pretty as pretty when she passed me, sir. Give me a dollar, too. If I’d known she was going to scuttle herself, I’d have made her heave to.”
Simon gave him a long speculative stare.
“That’s an interesting deduction, chum,” he murmured. “When did I say that she killed herself?”
The man blinked.
“Why, what else, sir? Surely nobody would harm a fine lady like Mrs Verity. Tell me, sir, what did happen?”
“She was shot.” The Saint pointed. “On the other side of the building, down towards the beach. Did you notice anyone wandering about outside?”
The Admiral thought, chin in gloved hand.
“No, sir. Only Mrs. Verity. She went off that way, and I sup posed she was going to her car.”
“But you didn’t see her drive out.”
“I didn’t notice, sir. There were other passengers arriving and leaving at the same time, and I was pretty busy.”
“But you noticed that no one else was wandering around.”
“That’s just my impression, sir. Of course, there’s the back way out to the promenade deck too.”
The Saint’s cigarette glowed brightly again to a measured draw.
“I see. Well, thanks …”
He took Patricia back into the club and located the bar. They sat on high stools and ordered bourbon. Around them continued the formless undertones of the joint, the clink of chips, the rattle of dice, the whir of wheels, the discreet drone of croupiers, the tinkle of ice and glass, a low-key background broken from time to time by the crash of a cocktail mixer or a burst of high excited laughter. For the other guests of the Quarterdeck Club, life went on unaware of the visit of Death; and if the employees had heard anything of it, their faces were trained to inscrutability.
“Do you think I’m nuts?” Simon asked presently. “Do you think it was suicide?”
“It doesn’t seem possible,” Patricia said thoughtfully. “I keep thinking of the dress she was wearing.”
Simon regarded her.
“That,” he said, with some asperity, “would naturally be the key to the whole thing. Was she correctly dressed for a murder?”
“You idiot,” said his lady, in exasperation. “That was a Mainbocher, an original! No pretty girl in her right mind would ruin an expensive dress like that by putting a bullet through it. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”
“But we didn’t see it, darling,” Simon reminded her gently. “Not with our own eyes.”
He put down his glass and found the silent-moving Esteban at his elbow again.
“The sheriff is here, Mr Templar. You will please come this way?”
It could have been suspected, from his appearance, that Sheriff Newt Haskins had spent all his life in black alpaca. One must admit that his first article of apparel was probably three-cornered, but he wore the tropical-weight black as if he had never changed his clothes since
“Ahoy, mates! Enjoying the trip?”
“That is hardly an accurate description of our emotions at the moment,” Simon said. “We’re after a little information about an incident that occurred a few moments ago.”
“I keep an accurate log, sir. Fire away.”
“Did you see Mrs Verity come out of the club?”
“Aye, that I did, not more than fifteen minutes ago. Fact is, I’d just sounded four bells when she went ashore.”
“Why didn’t you stop her?” Simon asked sharply. “You knew we were waiting for her.”
“Why, shiver my timbers, sir, I supposed she’d already seen you. It’s hardly my place to stop the passengers.”
“Hmm. I see.”
“Did you miss her, sir?”
“We did, but somebody else didn’t. They got her dead center.”
The Admiral blinked, and seemed to examine the remark for some time. A puzzled frown formed on his round face.
“Blow me down, sir, but your message isn’t clear.”
“She’s dead.”
The Admiral’s jaw dropped.
“No! Why, she was smiling pretty as pretty when she passed me, sir. Give me a dollar, too. If I’d known she was going to scuttle herself, I’d have made her heave to.”
Simon gave him a long speculative stare.
“That’s an interesting deduction, chum,” he murmured. “When did I say that she killed herself?”
The man blinked.
“Why, what else, sir? Surely nobody would harm a fine lady like Mrs Verity. Tell me, sir, what did happen?”
“She was shot.” The Saint pointed. “On the other side of the building, down towards the beach. Did you notice anyone wandering about outside?”
The Admiral thought, chin in gloved hand.
“No, sir. Only Mrs. Verity. She went off that way, and I sup posed she was going to her car.”
“But you didn’t see her drive out.”
“I didn’t notice, sir. There were other passengers arriving and leaving at the same time, and I was pretty busy.”
“But you noticed that no one else was wandering around.”
“That’s just my impression, sir. Of course, there’s the back way out to the promenade deck too.”
The Saint’s cigarette glowed brightly again to a measured draw.
“I see. Well, thanks …”
He took Patricia back into the club and located the bar. They sat on high stools and ordered bourbon. Around them continued the formless undertones of the joint, the clink of chips, the rattle of dice, the whir of wheels, the discreet drone of croupiers, the tinkle of ice and glass, a low-key background broken from time to time by the crash of a cocktail mixer or a burst of high excited laughter. For the other guests of the Quarterdeck Club, life went on unaware of the visit of Death; and if the employees had heard anything of it, their faces were trained to inscrutability.
“Do you think I’m nuts?” Simon asked presently. “Do you think it was suicide?”
“It doesn’t seem possible,” Patricia said thoughtfully. “I keep thinking of the dress she was wearing.”
Simon regarded her.
“That,” he said, with some asperity, “would naturally be the key to the whole thing. Was she correctly dressed for a murder?”
“You idiot,” said his lady, in exasperation. “That was a Mainbocher, an original! No pretty girl in her right mind would ruin an expensive dress like that by putting a bullet through it. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”
“But we didn’t see it, darling,” Simon reminded her gently. “Not with our own eyes.”
He put down his glass and found the silent-moving Esteban at his elbow again.
“The sheriff is here, Mr Templar. You will please come this way?”
It could have been suspected, from his appearance, that Sheriff Newt Haskins had spent all his life in black alpaca. One must admit that his first article of apparel was probably three-cornered, but he wore the tropical-weight black as if he had never changed his clothes since
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